Tough. You’re never going to see him again. Ever.

The phone doesn’t ring. No text comes through. Your inbox remains desolate, forgotten. You wonder if the date happened at all. Was it all a dream? Did he die?  Has he been kidnapped? No. He just doesn’t want to see you. He lied. But why? What did you do? Cast your mind back. Anything sounding familiar?

You blew your horn
Nothing wrong with being proud of your achievements. Aeroplanes don’t guide themselves safely onto runways using lights secreted in bushels, true, but there’s a time and a place to trot out your résumé.

Everyone deserves their time to shine, but maybe a lower wattage is advisable on a first date. Ticking off a list of your personal and professional wins might seem like a good idea – success is sexy, after all – but nobody loves a show-off.

You overshared
Dating rules are terribly boring and generally for people who would struggle in social situations anyway, but if there’s one that’s worth adhering to, it’s retaining that ‘air of mystery’. Did you feel so comfortable that you were opening up about anything and everything? Does he really need to know you had a difficult relationship with your mother as a teenager or that your father was more at home in the pub than helping you with your long division? Uh-oh.

Have you put him off by leaving him nothing else to discover about you? You’ve shrunk your life from a gripping 26-episode box-set into a throwaway 25-minute pilot episode that has no hope of being commissioned. In fact, if you mentioned your parents even in passing then you’ve said too much. Don’t bother memorising his phone number; you’re not going to need it again.

You disappointed
Disappointed dates tend to behave in one of two ways. Either they’ll immediately let you know that you’re not what they were expecting – perhaps the colour will drain from their face or they’ll back away from you screaming – or they will very skilfully try to compensate for the fact you’re not quite up to scratch. The demonstrative type can be painful to deal with, but you know where you are with them – the compensators lull you in a false sense of ‘I may get some sex this evening’ security.

In an effort to let you down gently, the compensator will dig out his best acting skills and, to his credit but your eternal confusion, actually be nicer to you than a normal date would be. Did he listen really intently and seem hugely interested in everything you had to say? Even that 10-minute diatribe about your local supermarket running out of avocadoes? Hmm. Did he laugh loudly at your jokes? All of them? Even the ones you pilfered from the least funny person on Twitter? He’s a compensator. He’s trying to be nice. He’s decided that since you’re both here anyway and awkward silences make any date seem twice as long and five times as excruciating, he’s just going to go with it. He’s a good guy. But you are never going to see this guy naked. You should have feigned tiredness after drink three and made a dignified exit.

If none of the above rings a bell, consider this quick checklist of “never again” enablers: you drank too much; you tried to ‘do sexy’; you were late; you talked politics; you kept absent-mindedly tweaking your own nipples; you talked about your ex; you sympathised with an unpopular reality TV contestant; you admitted to watching reality TV; you lied about your height/age/job/inside leg measurement.

If you’re still none the wiser, console yourself with the default reason, the one I always run to when the phone falls silent: you were just too hot and fantastic for him and he knew he’d never be able to keep up with you, so is letting you go now, into the arms of the one who truly deserves you. There, all better now.

Whatever it is, you look up and see them, or it, if you think of them as a singular unit. They certainly do. They are your enemy, your nemesis – the beast that mocks your single status just by being. Yes, at the next table, you can see, in their natural state of togetherness, a couple.

They’re looking at a menu, you notice. They’re both doing exaggerated gestures as they slide their fingers up and down its pages, making glib suggestions and scrunching up their faces in mock disgust at the dishes they don’t like. One half of the couple, possibly the smuggest of the pair, will utter the standard line that comes in every Berlitz ‘Teach Yourself To Speak Couple’ phrasebook: “No, I don’t mind if you get the same as me. Go on, you like it. Honestly. You have it. Maybe I can get something else”.

You stare at them only a minute longer and then look away, back to the empty chair opposite you. Nobody cares what you’re going to order except the pub chef, poised to defrost those sacksful of frozen chicken burgers at a moment’s notice. You could order everything off the menu times 10 and sit eating it all like a Roman emperor but it doesn’t matter a jot. There’s no one to notice, to chastise, to care.

You can’t help but look back at them once their food has arrived. One ordered pasta, while the other opted for pizza. Of course. Naturally, as any couple worth its salt knows, to really hammer home your status as a duo to the outside world, you have to split your dinner in two, and share one half with your significant other. You watch, sickened, as they gamely try to divide their sloppy heaps of carbohydrate without spilling it on the table. You know how the rest of this works. Fast forward half an hour and they’ll be asking for a pudding “and two spoons, please”. Meanwhile, you tip-tappety-tap away on your phone, checking your messages or boiling your brain trying to come up with a snarky tweet. You can stand no more. You give them one last hateful glance – despite the fact they’re oblivious and don’t even know you’re alive – and leave, cursing them and their smug coupledom.

It’s hard not to romanticise relationships when you’re not in them. Every time you see someone clutching a bouquet of flowers or a bottle of champagne, striding eagerly home to their beloved, it’s not unusual to feel pangs, to long for what cannot be yours, at least not tonight.

When couples talk, they speak in a bizarre code, designed specially to bewilder those travelling solo. Nobody normal finishes each other’s sentences, but there is a whole couple’s dictionary rammed with pet names, in-jokes, shared experiences and ‘safe words’.

Even the way they describe each other is meant to exclude you. The references to their ‘other half’ as if you are somehow incomplete, disfigured or wretched for being 50% of nothing, or a ‘significant other’, which renders you alone, unimportant, with your string of drab one-night stands, failed dates and unpleasant, over-wet kisses on a garbage-strewn side street in Soho. But don’t take it to heart. Don’t fret too much over being an odd sock in a drawer full of paired-up cashmere.

It takes two to tango, yes, but when you have two people you have twice as much of everything. Twice as many moods, opinions, outbursts of anger, simpering uselessness, passive aggression, excessive control freakery. Two servings of happy, sure, but on occasion, a 100% increase in misery. Half One stays out all night, Half Two goes ballistic and gets all great dictator on Half One’s arse. Half Two forgets to text Half One to ask how his job interview went, Half Two gets a serving of sullen misery with his dinner that night. Half One wonders if those jeans still fit Half Two like they used to, Half Two is soon throwing heavy furniture at Half One’s head. If you’re half of a couple, there’s always going to be someone to throw stuff at you. Live alone, and you’re likely to remain free of flying hazards.

So go back to the pub – hurry! – and sit back down in your seat. Look again at the couple, sharing their plate of aorta-busting pub grub. They’re not smiling. Half One doesn’t want to share his pizza. If he had wanted pizza, he’d have ordered it. Half One wants to get his own dessert. And he didn’t want to come out for dinner, anyway. What’s wrong with staying at home once in a while? And Half One didn’t even say thank you for the flowers Half Two brought home the other night, and Half One could only watch as Half Two drank most of that champagne all to himself, and he doesn’t like the way Half Two answers the phone to his mother in a really obviously bored voice, and it wouldn’t kill him to come straight home from work once in a while.

Yes, single one, you may go back to your lonely flat with only a half-eaten bag of Bombay mix and a noisy fridge for company, or you may make your way home to your shared house with piles of half-dry laundry on every spare worktop. True, the sound of the TV echoes loudly around your bare walls and your phone doesn’t quiver with text alerts quite as often as it used to. Sure, the dates you go on have as much future potential as a poinsettia on New Year’s Eve, but you’re not alone. Or rather, you are, in the best way possible. Don’t despair of that empty seat across from you – kiss it, give thanks for it. Imagine what could be sitting there instead.

So you raise your glass in silent celebration – and then the realisation hits you. You’ve nobody to clink glasses with. Oh. Fuck. Neck it anyway.

Winter. Brrrr. Mulled wine and Christmas shopping, festive drinks, tinsel and coupledom. I’m not really thinking about what the festive period is going to be like without a significant other – it’s best not to – but I am wary of starting something at this time of year. Being alone in winter can be quite scary. I don’t want to over-compensate, or see romance where there is none, just so I won’t be flying solo during party season. Draping tinsel over a ‘maybe’ shouldn’t make it a ‘yes’. Shit-shining is not for me.

Nevertheless, here I am on the dating site allowing myself to be very cautiously wooed by our latest contestant. He’s neither brash nor particularly confident but he can’t seem to say a thing wrong. He’s sweet, intelligent, funny and, from his limited number of public pictures, handsome. He’s a current affairs journalist and we talk about pretty much anything, settling into a jocular tone very early on. I don’t ask him out for a drink because I sometimes worry that something so perfect electronically can turn out to be only a disappointment when flesh comes into play. If he asks me, however, I won’t say no. The games you play with yourself and others. How beautifully time-consuming and utterly pointless it all is. He does ask, and my hand is forced.  The date is a long time in the making: conflicting diaries and last-minute work commitments mean that the first meeting is delayed twice. By the time we do meet, we’re breaking into December. I am to meet him on a Tuesday night in a pub in Marylebone that’s brimming over with Christmas cheer and ambience.

I arrive first. He’s not here. The one available table is right in front of the door, so I can’t possibly miss his arrival. I gaze at the huge Christmas tree in the corner and then out of the window at the wintry night. There are snowflakes. Every time the door opens I look down or away to avoid looking too eager. It’s a terrible affectation, but I’m not going to change any time soon. Finally, the door opens and he walks through it. On first glance, I’m a little disappointed, I must admit. He has less hair than his pictures had me believe and he’s not the height he claims to be. I have no interest in starting a relationship with a giant, but it would be nice if my potential dates could be honest about their vital statistics. What else are they fibbing about, I wonder. Everything, I suppose. So why don’t I? Anyway.

My grumpiness melts away when it becomes clear that he’s very taken with me. Being fancied is quite an aphrodisiac, and confidence booster, and as he eagerly drinks in what I’m saying and looks at me appreciatively, I start to feel sexier, attractive. No, really. I can tell that he is shy, as well as geeky and very dedicated to his job. He’s much more of a serious soul than I am, but it’s of little import; I’m going through a phase where I’m finding earnest men very hot. I’m on my best behaviour, but being as mischievous as I dare, so it’s going well. The silences are scarce. After a couple of hours, I’ve warmed to him massively, but it is a weeknight and I have a considerable tube journey home ahead of me, so I call things to a halt. As we part outside the pub, we shake hands and he says he’d like to do it again.  I reply that I would too. He looks only at my mouth as I speak. On the way home, I am approached by a beautiful drunk girl brandishing some mistletoe and asking for a snog. I succumb to a kiss on the cheek, feeling optimistic and festive. If I breathed out hard enough now, I’d exhale streamers.

I don’t hear anything for a day or two. I don’t know why I feel the need to break my personal rules and text – I’m not really sure where that next move will take me, after all, and we’re so hugely different – but he fancies me and sometimes that’s enough. He’s pleased to hear from me and wants to meet. Again, schedules get in the way, but we do finally settle on a Saturday night, my first weekend date for a while, in a pub I’ve taken a lot of suitors to before. It’s not a gay venue, but it’s near places that are. If things look promising, we can progress. It’s good to think ahead.

He gets there before me. I spot him as I walk in. He stands against the wall and studies me as I come toward him, smiling, his eyes twinkling with, well, I don’t know. Lust? Desire? Yes, I think so. He is not as coy this time. He attempts to ply me with drinks, although there is no need, and repeatedly touches my arm, staring into my eyes and making me feel self-conscious, but not uncomfortable. I suggest we move on. We walk down the street close to one another, not quite touching but near enough for anyone passing us to know that while we’re mere acquaintances at the moment, the chances are we’re likely to be more than that before the night is out.

When we arrive at the next bar, we get drinks but don’t seem that interested in supping them. Instead we play a game of dare where we stand as closely to each other as we can get away with without touching. I’m aware this is not usually his style; I’m corrupting the teacher’s pet. He may have increased his confidence levels since the first date, but I know the first move is not his to make, so as he reaches out his hand to lift up his drink, I put myself in its way. He doesn’t touch the drink again.

When we have finished kissing, he looks at me in wonderment.
“Who are you?” he asks, laughing. “Who just does that? You’ve got, well, gumption.”
“No. It’s what anyone would’ve done,” I reply. I don’t really know who I am any more, at this moment. I ask him to come home with me. He’s ambivalent.
“I just wanted to get to know you first,” he says.
“That’s fine. I understand.” I don’t suggest it again.
But he doesn’t let go of my hand until we’re out of the taxi and I need him to release it so I can unlock my front door.

We are in touch almost daily after our second date. He’s clever, sharp and sexily serious and I feel a rush of, well, something when I get texts from him, although there are misgivings in there too. Will I ever get to be the real version of myself? Do I want to be? He asks if I will go out with him for dinner and I accept. I have been keeping my options open, and have been on two extremely chaste dates with another man. I don’t feel the need to share this information with my current date. I’m not sure which way it’s going to go.

We arrive at the restaurant at the same time. He is, as ever, conservatively dressed. He looks ordinary and geeky and cute as he very gallantly waits for me to sit down before taking his own seat.   Over dinner we talk about his work (I don’t really ever want to talk about mine) and his impending work travels and, of course, his plans for Christmas. It’s not feeling as natural as before but my default setting is ‘overthink’, so I resolve not to worry about it. We discuss the dates we’re departing London for our festive breaks and he’s throwing up possible days to fit in a pre-Christmas drink, flicking through his diary as we wait for the bill. He’s organising, but I don’t mind so much. That’s who he is. He’d never be domineering or controlling in a million years, I realise – he’s too sweet. And then I get a strange feeling I can’t explain. A sense of doom. I dismiss it, but “too sweet” stays in my head.  This paradise is all mine to ruin. I wonder how long it will take me. We pay the bill and walk out into the cold night.
“What are you doing now?” he asks.
“Well, nothing, Going home, I guess.”
“I was wondering if you’d like to come back with me,” he says, his eyes hopeful and kind. He’s romantic, charming and perfect. Eager. Adorable.
I say yes.

The journey takes a good half-hour. Inside the flat, he pours me the glass of water I ask for and a bigger glass of wine I don’t. His flatmate is out. His pad is neat and tidy, tastefully decorated. Everything is in order, no chaos, nothing is random. Even the bills, photos and shopping lists stuck to the fridge are perfectly lined up and evenly spaced. I sip my drink carefully as he regards me from the chair opposite. He tells me how much he likes me. It feels nice. He says I’m cheeky, and not the kind of guy he would normally go for, but he didn’t have to. I already know. Minutes later, as he is nuzzling into my neck and stroking my knee, I get a flash into the future. It involves me introducing disorder and confusion into his life, as he gets to know me and grasps that I have been on my very best behaviour so far, which still isn’t saying a lot. As he whispers into my ear about staying the night, I fast forward a month, maybe a year, and see me breaking his heart, letting him down and bringing him a randomness he’s not ready for. He’s everything I think I want, but know, in my heart, that I don’t. While we move to the bedroom and draw the curtains, I know that this will be the last time I see him. I am almost proved right.

Almost a year later, I am in central London on my way home after my first spate of Christmas shopping. As I descend the stairs into Piccadilly Circus station, two geekily handsome bespectacled men are on their way up. Their arms interlocked. Lovers. They share a joke and laugh. The same laugh. One of them is last year’s Christmas fling. He has found his other half after all. He catches my eye for a second, but does not display any sign of recognition. I silently wish him a merry Christmas and feel glad I stepped out of his life when I did. There really is somebody out there for everyone, I guess.

*Ratings are based on the first date only
Post-date rating: 8/10
Date in one sentence: Nice guys have all the luck, until they meet a cynic like me.

Being a Yorkshireman, and knowing what a pain in the arse they (i.e. I) can be, I tend to stay away from them as potential dates. The familiar accent and anecdotes about growing up in the north don’t particularly interest me. Why go all the way to China and have a cup of Tetley tea when there are so many other varieties available? Nevertheless, when I’m contacted by Guy 24, a fellow Yorkshireman, I’m sufficiently interested to meet him for a drink. What harm can it do to slip on a pair of comfy slippers after a series of dates wearing tight, pinched brogues?

His patter is fairly low-key. He seems keen but he doesn’t overplay it – a very typical Yorkshire trait. In his photographs, he looks clean-cut, sensible and handsome, the kind of man I always tell myself I fancy and would be good for me. He seems solid, reliable, honest. A bit boring, I suppose. But bad boys are over-rated and everything looks to be in the right place so I agree to give it a go.

We meet in a non-descript pub in Soho. His choice. I arrive first and prop up the bar, wiling away the minutes on my iPhone. Every now and again, I survey the clientele. We’re just on the cusp of gay in here, the odd tight T-shirt and, yes, that’s a handlebar moustache, but other than that the crowd is mixed. I can’t imagine why he’s chosen to meet in such a dreary bar, but I’m sure he has his reasons. As I’m considering this, he is before me. He is taller than me, wearing a rugby-style shirt, jeans and shoes that only a mother could love – or would buy. He’s handsome, smells clean and has dark hair. We shake hands, he tells me his monosyllabic name, and we order a drink. Let battle commence.

He is from a large city not far from my hometown and his accent carries that recognisable twang. His job is something I don’t quite understand in the Government. He’s quite funny, if a little gauche, and has a nice smile and, crucially, acceptable teeth. The evening is pleasant enough but I can’t help but feel it needs a kick up the arse. So I order some shots of tequila. My date is unsure; he has to be up “quite early” in the morning and says he’s a bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Excellent. I assure him that I too have an early start – a downright lie – and that we’ll only have a couple, to keep the cold out.

Three drinks later and my date has relaxed somewhat. He is subtly fiddling with my leg under the table and suggesting we move on somewhere “more gay”. I smile to myself as I know exactly what that means, but play dumb and with as much innocence as I can muster, allow myself to be taken to a gay bar round the corner.

Over the next drink, he slurringly tells me about his sister’s wedding and how he managed to do something relatively indecent with the best man behind the marquee. Just as I am getting up to go to the bathroom, he makes an ill-timed attempt to lunge in and kiss me, sending our pints flying across the table. I go to get more. When I return he struggles for a moment to focus, before fixing me with what I imagine he thinks is a seductive stare and tells me my trousers are very tight.
“Are they?” I reply, looking down at them.
“Yes. I was watching you at the bar.” He takes a swig of his drink. “Couldn’t take my eyes off your bottom, in fact.” He says the word ‘bottom’ like a naughty schoolboy, covering his mouth with his hand to suppress a juvenile guffaw.
“Unintentional, I assure you,” I answer.
He laughs. “Yeah, I bet.”
The drinks are drained.
“What now?” he asks, his leg brushing up against mine.
“How long does it take to get to your house?”

We sit opposite each other on the train, going back to his in absolute silence. We get off at a station in south-east London that I’ve never heard of, and walk for at least 15 minutes through a series of housing estates carved up by grim dual carriageways. Finally, along a busy main road, we arrive at his house, a Victorian conversion flat. It is raining. And cold. Inside, he gives me a brief tour of his bachelor pad. It’s poky and has too much furniture in, but doesn’t look like the lair of a mass murderer. It was recently his birthday – there are still cards on his mantelpiece. He’s popular. He has a huge collection of DVDs, all films I never want to see. His bedroom backs onto the garden and is the quietest room in the house.
“So…” he says.
So, indeed.

In the morning, his alarm goes off and he spends a good half hour pawing me in an attempt to wake me. I’m hungover, tired and God knows where and the dread of finding my way back home is not exactly conducive to morning glory of any kind. It seems impolite to tell him so, but actions shout when words cannot.
Later, watching me dress, he says: “You run don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You have a very typical runner’s body, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “Do I?”
“Yes. Lithe. Wiry, even.” And then, brightly: “Would you like some tea? Breakfast?”
“No, thank you.”
He leaves the room to shower. I hear him sing Queen songs as he soaps himself. I look around the room and cringe a little. I shouldn’t be here. But he’s nice, right? It could work.

When he’s back in the bedroom, he dresses quickly in a cheap suit that’s never been to the dry cleaner’s and a shirt with a rip in the shoulder.
“I hate shopping,” he tells me. “Anyway, nobody will notice.” I don’t reply.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes,” I say. “What?”
“Well, you’re a runner, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Yeah, well I used to run too.”
I nod, encouragingly.
“And I… well. I don’t know if it’s just me.”
“Yes?” I ask.
“I just wanted to know,” he says, “Have you ever wanked off into your running shorts?”

Post-date rating: 6/10
Date in one sentence: The date that turned into a pumpkin – and a sportswear fetishist one at that – after midnight.

“Most blogs are shit. But, when I discovered theguyliner’s, I couldn’t stop reading. It is a brilliant blog because it depicts an interesting sub-culture and is written with skill and cynicism. But it struck me that he is operating in a comfort zone; aloof and perplexed, the straight man on a raft, in a sea of drowning oddballs. Writing the blog elevates him, detaches him. He is on the front line, yes, but he is watching the sun-set from a deck chair, while the other soldiers howl at it, from a pit. I wanted to get him out of his bubble. I wanted him to meet me.

Because I have no designs to fuck him, and because I am not mental, and because we are both anonymous bloggers, a parity exists that would remove potential for the haughty judgement that facilitates the dark humour in his blogs. It would be a challenge for him.

Clearly, gays like a challenge, because he agreed to meet. I suggested we both write about the experience, and that he post it as a blog; a two pronged perspective piece with some high-powered perception pointed at him, for a change. He bravely, and perhaps slightly reluctantly, said “okay”.

As perceptive and cutting as he is, I think a dogmatic tolerance is the unifying feature of his blogs, so I didn’t feel too nervous as I made my way to the pub; rather, excited, and intrigued.

I got a pint and looked around. There were a few guys who were on their own. Could be him, him, or him, I thought. Eventually someone approached me, and we shook hands, soft hands, and it was theguyliner and we went upstairs and we sat down.

He has a thoughtful face and a stern demeanour, which I didn’t expect. He looks younger than he is, has good skin, nice clothes, neat hair, smells nice and is handsome and thin. He takes pride in his appearance. The thing I enjoy most about him though, comes when he speaks. He is concerned with what he says and he furrows his brow and takes his time. He is very articulate and he speaks softly. He seems to value every word that comes from his mouth, as if he is giving evidence in a court. I am happy just listening to him, he reels me in with his dulcet tones, and I just absorb them, hanging on to every word. He is irresistibly compelling. He doesn’t smile much, only when it is necessary. It is reasonable that he disses people’s teeth a lot, because he has good teeth.

I think I offend him twice. Once, when I describe myself as “quite good looking” and again when I express shock at his declaration that macho-ness is desirable amongst gays. There are a few other faux pas moments but I think I get away with them.

Generally, we seem to get on well. We talk about our blogs, running, writing, loud people… it gets a bit blurry towards the end because of the alcohol. I am never bored. He is interesting, but not arrogant and he doesn’t talk too much, or too little. He is polite, but steely. Understated, but passionate. He has a lovely balance about his character.

He is remarkably humble about what he does for work. He has a brilliant job, but charmingly plays it down. I find myself looking up to him, admiring him, okay, honestly: envying him.

He tells me something that changes my mind about his blog. He says that he doesn’t write about dates that develop into something serious. To this extent, he is not aloof, it’s just that dates where a parity or respect exists are not always documented.

We do some people watching while finishing our last pint. He has a brilliant sense of humour, the best kind; he can switch from subtle to crude in a flash. I laugh hysterically as he tears apart my suggestion he should chat up a sickly pale emo-kid at the bar, full of creative expletives.

We leave when the pub closes and walk to the tube, whereupon some tourists ask him for directions. “You want to keep going that way”, he says, pointing, then laughing when he admits to me he may have misdirected them.

I ask him if he will go home with me, but he says “fuck off, your teeth are awful” and kicks me in the face.

We shake hands and say goodbye and I am struck by how much I enjoyed his company. As I board the tube, I consider that if, in ten years time, I am anything like him, I will have done very well.

I don’t know if he enjoyed my company, but, as is his wont, he tolerated me, for nearly five hours, and I liked those hours. Perhaps my friend-making days aren’t behind me after-all…”

Follow The Male Nanny on Twitter
Read The Male Nanny’s blog

Guy no: 50
Stats: That’s classified, I’m afraid
Where: London, W1
When: November 2011
Pre-date rating: 8/10

If there’s one thing I’ve learned after going on dates with almost 50 men, it’s to expect the unexpected. I’m currently taking a break from the dating scene, the hapless loners and plump-chested braggers holding less appeal as the year wears on. A whopping three months after my last date, I am asked, via Twitter, if I would like to meet by The Male Nanny, my very favourite blogger (sorry to that blogging lady who posts pictures of her sodding cat all day – you’re a very close second, honestly).

The twists here come thick and fast: he is straight, for one – not even remotely curious; and he has no idea what I look like. Our flirtation has been purely intellectual and refreshingly free of any carnal desire. Despite our difference in age, we seem a good match in personalities, yet I’m hesitant. My general rule is never to meet anyone from Twitter, but, like me, he’s an anonymous blogger, albeit with considerably more to lose should his identity be revealed. And so, after mulling it over, I agree. We set a time and date over email, his communiqués making me laugh out loud (an occurrence all too rare) and then it is done. It is happening. Guy 50, then, may be the oddest proposition of them all.

His anonymity wrong-foots me instantly. Blog and Twitter comments aside, I know zero about him. That I will not have to impress him enough to sufficiently fancy me is quite liberating, yet confusing. I consider this. Will it be easier or harder to come across well to someone who isn’t interested in me sexually? Should I care? I realise I am thinking too much and let the brief insecurities fall away. I make my way to the pub. I am four minutes late. Tsk.

It’s busy, filled with a post-work crowd of the usual people too intimidated by God-knows-what to go into Soho proper, and a few older drinkers taking advantage of the cheaper beer. It occurs to me that I have made my first mistake – I have no clue who I’m looking out for. Cursing my idiocy and uncharacteristic disorganisation, I peek into the three different bars of the pub, seeing nobody who fits his descri— oh what fucking description? OK, what would a male nanny look like? I go to the bar and check messages. I see a tweet from him and look up.  Going up to strange young men asking them their name is not encouraged when you’re a middle-aged homosexual, but I’m out of options, so I approach the nearest possibility and ask if he’s the male nanny. He is. We shake hands. I know you’re all waiting for the description but anonymity is as anonymity does – all I’ll say is he has the most wonderfully sparkling blue eyes.

We grab a table and the chat comes easily. We talk freely and openly about most things. Well, ourselves mainly. Perfect. We talk about dating and I take him through my various tactics, revealing most of my dating secrets. He’s made it clear he wants to write about our meeting. I’m not sure if I like the taste of my own medicine. We consider whether any of my dates would’ve gone differently had they known I’d blog about them. I have to admit they almost all would have. Later, he’s surprised when I confess that I have made some almighty fuck-ups on dates. “You give the impression that you’re perfect, above it all,” he says.

I warm to him almost immediately. He’s young but far from foolish. He is very good-looking, trim and looks clean as a whistle. He has a friendly face, a clear, bright youthful complexion and – look, I have to check – nice teeth. He’s articulate, very funny and perfectly composed – controlled yet thoroughly relaxed. I’m conscious of talking too much and my habit of putting my hands on the table when making a point. “Like you’re on Question Time,” he quips.

I drone on rather too much about my opinions on the gay ‘community’. He seems genuinely surprised that gays would bother being obsessed with youth or manliness, but, surprise aside, he’s interested in what I have to say. He looks away quite a lot while I’m talking to him. I realise those eyes are probably wandering every time a young lady appears at the top of the stairs he is facing. I can’t call him out for it; I’d do the same.

I do occasionally see a fleeting chink in his confident, determined demeanour – I peer quickly into it, espying his vulnerable side, and find it heart-warmingly sincere. I’m struck by how levelheaded he is, how ambitious and realistic. I’m also astonished at how quickly I slip into being myself. There are no pretensions at all. Neither of us is trying too hard. But of course we’re not, it isn’t a ‘real’ date.

The time flies – I realise I have not looked at my watch once – and all too soon we are ushered to the downstairs bar to finish our drinks. We sit beside each other and survey the rest of the clientele, each picking someone out for the other. I select for him a pretty girl with a pseudo-Amy Winehouse hairdo who’s talking to a ridiculously tall guy I’d been eyeing up earlier. For me, he chooses a porcelain-white, peroxide-bonced, mealy-mouthed gay with a dreadful fringe who looks like he has a nervous breakdown every time he gets to the end of his Lady Gaga CD. I turn to him in mock horror and we laugh conspiratorially, his eyes shining with mischief.

We leave and head to the tube station. I say I have to put money on my Oyster card, expecting him to dash off for his train, but he dutifully waits for me. We descend to the platforms and finally it’s time to part. I half wish it weren’t so late, so we could carry on guzzling pints and talking, but it’s good to quit while ahead. We shake hands and say our goodbyes. I squeeze onto the tube, ruefully noting if every date could be as much fun as that one, even if totally platonic, I’d probably go on them every night of the week. He’ll be a hard act to follow.

Post-date rating: 10/10 – a full house, and he didn’t even need to shag me to get it
Date in one sentence: It’s not always true that you shouldn’t meet your heroes; this clever, confident guy didn’t disappoint.

I’m a big believer in putting things right if I can. If I’m in a supermarket and knock something over, I’ll quickly pick it up and place it back on the shelf. Should I underpay (or overpay) for something, I’ll endeavour to fix it so that nobody’s out of pocket. I like everything just-so. My date with this guy, then, simply had to happen whether I wanted it to or not, so I could make amends with myself for the fact that I accidentally went on a date with a guy who had the same name as this one, thinking it was him. It was time to go on a date with the right Peter after all.

Regular readers will be aware of my hugely embarrassing faux-pas when I agreed to go on a date with a guy over text, only to discover that it was someone else entirely, who I didn’t want to meet. I duly went on it anyway, and had an excruciating couple of hours in the company of the wrong Peter and his offensive cologne. You can read up on this, if you like. So, 6 guys and a pile of texts and instant messages later, here we are ready to do battle with the guy I should’ve gone out with in the first place.

On first glance, everything’s pretty good. We have been chatting for months on a dating app (well, I use the term ‘dating app’ very loosely; very few dates seem to actually happen) and he seems clever, handsome and funny. He doesn’t say much about himself on his profile. I know that he works in TV, and his age and his height and that’s about it. The only blurb he has says “Straight-acting, good-humoured guy looking for dates”. My eyes narrow a little at the ‘straight-acting’ tag he’s so keen to get out there. What he means here is that he isn’t camp, I suppose. He should maybe say that instead, rather than aligning his firm-wristedness with the heterosexuals, but I resolve not to get too bogged down in this. Finally, after months of toing and froing – not to mention the abysmal date with his dreary namesake – we actually arrange a time and place to meet. The date comes during a busy period; there has been a flurry of meet-ups and most of them wildly unsuitable. Peter comes right after my extraordinary evening with the eccentric composer, so I am looking forward to hooking up with someone regular, down-to-earth and, dare I say it, normal?

I arrive on time at the pub and have a look around. Can’t see any six-foot blond guys anywhere, so I get myself a drink. He texts to say he’s on his way. I don’t reply; it seems pointless if he’s nearly here. I sip my lager and wait on. The phone rings. It’s his number.
“Hello?”
“Oh hiiiii.” Strange. He appears to have asked camp comedian Alan Carr to call me up. Perhaps it’s a stunt and I am appearing live on his chat show – Peter does work in TV, after all.
“Er, yes?”
“Sorry, are you in the pub? You didn’t answer my text,” says Alan, who clearly isn’t Alan Carr at all, but Peter himself.
I reply that I am here, yes, and he says he’ll be here soon. And, boy, did he mean it. Not 20 seconds later, a blond person comes through the door. I don’t look up and acknowledge him – that would just be too easy for him, and he is a little late, after all – so instead I actually turn my back on him and face the bar, leaning on it over-casually and messing about on my phone.
A voice behind me says my name. I turn around, tilting my head up, expecting to be looking up at an angle and into the baby blues of a six-foot blond. All I see is empty space. I adjust my gaze downward and there is his face. He is certainly blond, the eyes, yep, they are blue, but 6’ tall he is not. And I mean really not. He’s as tall as me. I wonder what else he can so blatantly lie about. I’m not kept in the dark for long.

Momentarily stunned by the fact that he really thought I wouldn’t notice his reduced stature, I wheel round to order him a drink. It’s not that I’m disappointed, he’s quite good-looking, but why say you are six feet tall when you’re not? What is his excuse? “Oh I left my other, longer legs at home”?! I get him his beer and we decide to go out on the pub’s roof terrace. I step aside to let him walk ahead. He sashays on through the pub and goes outside. It’s like watching Naomi Campbell swagger down the catwalk at Paris Fashion Week. I see.

I trudge behind him, feeling ungainly. He selects a table and sits down at it very gracefully, full of purpose, like a ballerina. He considers me as if looking into the face of a child with learning difficulties, the line between compassion and disappointment being crossed a million times and back again by his huge, darting eyes. We talk, as is customary, about our jobs. He goes first. He has worked on some fairly high-profile TV shows, not as a producer as he suggested in our initial chats – he’s actually a production assistant. I suppose he thinks I won’t know what they do, so he can big it up – he’s wrong. I don’t care what people do for a living, truly. As long as they like it and earn money from it, then it’s cool. But to hear young Peter talk (well, I say ‘young’; he may also have lied about his age), you’d think he singlehandedly kept his TV shows going. He is, he says, about to enter a dry spell when it comes to work, but I don’t think he needs to worry – with his powers of storytelling he could soon talk his way into another high-flying position, I’m sure.

He talks on. And on. And on. This is partly my fault. I don’t really have anything to say to him, as he doesn’t seem that interested. Plus, he’s camp as Christmas, yet said he wasn’t on his profile, and this irritates me. Not that he’s camp, I don’t give a shit about that, but that he felt he had to put that on his profile in an effort to differentiate himself from camp (and thus, in his eyes, less attractive) gay men, as it is quite clearly bullshit. I toy with the idea of bringing up the whole concept of ‘straight-acting’ and what it means to him, but realise I don’t want to have a highly-charged date on a roof terrace on a hot evening. In fact, I don’t want to be here at all.

Out of nowhere, he asks my age. I don’t reveal this on the phone dating app profile for various reasons, which I begin to explain. He again asks me how old I am. I begin to tell him, but as I do, he goes in for a guess; I’ve no idea why. He’s four years out, erring on the junior side. Man, is he going to be disappointed when I slam down the actual age. I tell him I’m 35. He visibly blanches, quickly reco0vers and says “Well, you don ‘t look it at all. As I, er, said, um, before”. He doesn’t hide his disappointment now, but he doesn’t really need to. He has totally unravelled in front of my eyes and his attractiveness has diminished to the point of fiction, like his height and straight-acting demeanour. I don’t think he’s a bad person – in fact, a couple of things he said about friends and family made me very briefly think he might be a catch for someone – but he is utterly ill-at-ease in his own skin. So uncomfortable is he with his body and soul’s natural state that he covers for them, tries to make them something they’re not. He’s got a lot of growing up to do, I fear, and I am definitely not the right person to be his guardian while he does it.

We leave and walk some of the way home together. I regret this, as he starts to act as if I am trying to get him to take me home. He very pointedly says that he has to get up early in the morning, and that he is going to go a shortcut way to his house. I roll my eyes inwardly and say “Goodnight then”.
He leans toward me as if to shake my hand but I’m already bounding off, pausing only to offer him a jaunty wave before I stride on into the darkness.

Post-date rating: 4.5/10
Date in one sentence: I interrupt the busy schedule of a man with big issues who couldn’t quite measure up.

There is no ego boost greater than being contacted by someone very good-looking. I know that beauty is both only skin deep and in the eye of the beholder, and you can call me a shallow old sucker, but you can’t beat a winning smile and a pair of bright, sparkling eyes.

He first contacts me after he sees I’ve looked at his profile. I had only looked in awe, not daring to click ‘Like’, but he gets in touch and tells me the usual openers about liking my profile, and we chat for a few days. He’s astoundingly hot and intelligent, the kind of guy that would have overbearing mothers salivating and speeding off to M&S to choose their two-piece for your wedding, which would take place in summer in a country house. Before we can ever get that far, however, we have to arrange a date and I am not keen to ask him out, so fearful am I of the inevitable rejection. Congratulations, I think, you’re a 15-year-old burbling schoolgirl. This can only end badly.

He asks for my number and sends me a few text messages, effectively asking me for a drink. Despite his age, he appears remarkably grown-up. He can’t meet me on Saturday because he is hosting an afternoon tea for his friends, he says, but he does want to meet me sooner rather than later. Ooooh. And so we plump for Sunday.

It’s a hot day, and I am thrown into a wild panic. I don’t cope well in the heat, and have no idea what to wear. He’s chosen the venue – a cocktail bar I’ve never heard of – and the thought of arriving there ‘fresh’ off the bus all sweaty and flustered makes me cringe. I burrow through the piles of clothes scattered around my bedroom, finally selecting a T-shirt and chinos. I’m running late, so throw on my shoes and wince at my crimson face in the bathroom mirror. I mustn’t keep him waiting.

Just as I am beginning to wonder if I should invent some dramatic explanation for my tardiness, my phone rings. It is him.
“Hello.” His voice is like chocolate in my ear. Well, not chocolate, as I don’t really like chocolate that much. And I certainly wouldn’t want it poured in my ear. Think of something really nice in your ear – it’s like that. I digress.
He’s ringing me to tell me he’s going to be late. God is smiling upon me for once. He has lost his wallet but still wants to come on the date; he just needs to sort himself out and borrow some money from his flatmate. Obviously, in my flustered state, I take his dedication to getting to the date as a sign that he is already in love with me and that I should start thinking about what colour curtains I want in our bedroom.

The bus arrives and I sit anxiously checking my reflection in the mirror. I look so RED. Why is it so hot all the time? Oh yes, it’s summer. Despite it being a Sunday and sweltering, the whole universe has decided to take its Mondeo for a spin and so I am stuck in traffic, snarling at the thought of being doubly late.

I arrive and scurry into the bar. There is a group of people dressed up in neon hotpants and joke afro wigs sitting outside the bar, so I decide he can’t possibly be here yet. I text him to let him know I’m here. He quickly replies that he’s also here. There’s nobody in the bar. I glance outside. Just the neon afro weirdos. I’m in the wrong place. Panic. Or, he’s one of them. Extra panic. But, no, it seems there is an outdoor bit I’ve missed, because all of a sudden, a tall, handsome man appears from absolutely nowhere, peering at me in the semi-darkness. He says my name, I say his. He makes apologies for being late and I dismiss them, before we head to the bar. It’s 2 for 1 cocktails, a special offer which has often been the catalyst for some of the biggest blackouts I’ve ever had. We kick off with a vodka martini and head outside to a secluded table. Well, secluded to say it’s on the high street.

The conversation is easy. He’s bright, enthusiastic and, more importantly, really beautiful. He has the kind of good looks you can only have in your twenties, before time and circumstance take their toll. He’s tall and lithe, wearing a polo shirt and shorts and a pair of plimsolls. I can’t stop staring at the open neck of his polo shirt and the ‘delights’ which must lay within. I start to feel like a dirty old man after a while, and so concentrate on his eyes after that, but my eyes keep flicking over his body at regular intervals. I can’t help myself; I feel like I’m looking at a huge Christmas lunch that’s sitting behind glass. He tells me about his family, his university life (still fresh in his head, you see), his friends and, well, just about everything. As we neck further cocktails, I feel more at ease with him than I have with any date in the last six months, I would say. As the Dark & Stormy starts to take effect, I can just about imagine how things could be: running in the park; up early to do something spontaneous; making dinner with friends; holidays in the sun and snow. And as all this runs though my mind, and the ideas excite me, I realise that there’s one thing missing. As beautiful as he is, I just can’t imagine the sex, or indeed that there would be any. He’s too hot for me. I wouldn’t feel sexy next to him; I’d be self-conscious and awkward. I picture being introduced to his friends. Like him, they’d all be young and good-looking. They would all be puzzled, I can see, at what we were doing together. As would everybody else. As would I. He’s 26, gorgeous, successful and popular. I can’t compete with that, and I don’t think I’d want to.

We wrap things up, my eyes now firmly locked onto those big brown eyes. He says he’d like to do it again and I agree. And I mean it. I would, if only to see that face up close and personal again. I leave the date half-excited, half-apprehensive. This guy is the very definition of a catch and has absolutely everything – but I don’t think I want it all. I’m not that greedy.

Post-date rating: 9/10
Date in one sentence: One of the most handsome, perfect men I’ve ever met takes me out on a date and I manage to find something wrong with him.

Just like objects in the rear view mirror can appear closer than they are, photos on an internet dating profile can look much more flattering than their real-world counterpart. The hack comes into my life during a late-night browsing session. Having been an old hand on the site for some time, the faces become so familiar than you can quite happily – or not, as the case may be – speed-scroll through over 100 faces before seeing anybody new.

But there he is, smiling widely in a checked shirt with clean, shiny hair and sparkling eyes. Reminding myself that I’m shopping for a date not a Labrador, I send him a quick message telling him the usual introductory guff: I like your profile, you seem fun, hope you had a nice weekend and if you like my profile too, get in touch. I don’t normally do this. So finely-tuned is my inferiority complex that I’ve only ever made the first move – or click – a handful of times.

What follows surpasses all my expectations. Long, descriptive emails dripping with wit and flirtation are exchanged over a period of a few weeks. We both go on holiday at the same time and share our ‘hilarious’ experiences. I’m blown away. He sounds perfect. To avoid this turning into a correspondence-only affair, I take the plunge and ask him if he’d like to meet for a drink. To my amazement, this erudite, charming catch says yes and the date is set for the following Sunday; we’re to have fairly low-key drinks at a pub in Soho.

As I make my way to the pub, I spot someone who looks like him out of the corner of my eye. As bumping into a date in the street is not the first impression I want to create, I pretend I haven’t seen him – well, it might be the wrong person, anyway – and carry on to the pub. I am first, it would appear, so I order a drink and sit down, purposefully not looking at the door, but with it somewhere within my eye line. The logistics of acting naturally on a date never fail to exhaust me. Within seconds, he enters the pub. It was him I saw, after all. He looks different from his photos. Not hideously ugly kind of different, but not quite how he looked. He spots me, comes over and we shake hands in greeting, like two awkward businessmen. His handshake is watery, his fingers slithering from mine after barely a millisecond of skin on skin contact.

He gets a drink and we start talking. I’m puzzled by his teeth. On one of his photos he was smiling broadly and had good, straight, reasonably white teeth. In real life, they have been replaced by browned, 20-a-day gravestones. Damn you, Photoshop. At first, he generally seems quite pleasant. He has previously had a drink before meeting me, to calm nerves perhaps, as his voice is quite loud and has the faint trace of a slur. Or maybe he’s having a stroke. He tells me he is a celebrity journalist on a fairly well-known (for all the wrong reasons) magazine. He regales me for a full fifteen minutes on the murky sex lives of former Big Brother contestants and quiz show hosts, before getting up mid-sentence to go to the bar for another pint. I am not even halfway through mine.

This pattern continues. The first couple of times he gets up for a fresh drink, he buys me a half-pint. Eventually, he gives up the pretence of us ever being equally inebriated and just slams his way through pint after pint. Clearly I’m so boring that I’m driving this poor man to drink. I point this out to him, jokingly. He attempts a gimlet-eyed stare but is ultimately let down by being too pissed to focus. Finally, he speaks.

“You look a bit like a pre-op transsexual.”
“What?!” I reply. “In which way?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, which kind of pre-op transsexual?” I gasp. “Man-to-woman or, er, woman-to-man?”
He considers this a while. “Oh woman to man, obviously.”
Yes, obviously. I want to punch him. I ask him to clarify.
“Well, you’re very slight, aren’t you? Slim and whatnot.”
“I have stubble!” I choke.
“Yeah,” he drawls. “But they take pills to make, um, the hormones grow.”
I point out that looking like a pre-op female-to-male transsexual would mean I had breasts and a vulva, but this seems to confuse him and I see he is regretting his candour.

He asks if I’d like to go somewhere else. Yes, I would. Home. Without you.  How can someone who seemed so perfect on paper be such a dreadful disappointment in real life? I begin to wish I had merely printed out his wickedly funny emails and taken them for a drink instead. Their human representative wasn’t worth the paper they were written on.

He says he wants to take me to a gay bar. I politely decline, blaming an early start at work in the morning, despite admitting earlier in the conversation that I have a week off ahead of me. Luckily, his 800 pints have done their job and he forgets this.

We head out of the pub and begin our goodbyes. Inexplicably, he lunges at me and sticks his tongue down my throat and grabs a handful of my backside. I try to push him off but eventually only get him away from me by tweaking his nipple very, very hard.

“Ouch,” he exclaims, then, with a pathetic smile, continues “Like to play rough do ya?”
Enough is enough.
“Oh piss off,” I spit, and walk quickly away from him without looking back once.

Post-date rating: 3/10
Date in once sentence: Charming man of my dreams sends his slightly uglier, offensive and crass identical twin brother to meet me as a practical joke.

What this does mean is that regular users of the site will get wise to this, and may start to manipulate the data to make sure they get more eyes on their profile. I know, it sounds dreadfully dishonest doesn’t it?

You didn’t think that lying on the internet was restricted to hairy truck drivers pretending to be 11-year-old girls, did you? We all do it. It’s a truth, universally acknowledged that as well as using Jane Austen quotes to make feeble points, people on the internet will lie to you.

Strangely, daters tend to be truthful about things they could quite easily lie about. Jobs, for example, no matter how mundane, are never made up. Most men I’ve been on dates with love talking about their work (unfortunately), so to fib about it would defeat the purpose. Plus, if this pilot episode of a first date gets picked up for a full series, job liars are going to have great difficulty explaining why they’re leaving for their job at MI5 in an Asda uniform.

The main lie, the big bad that few men I’ve met on the internet have ever been able to resist, is height. Yes, height. A very large percentage of male online singletons add an extra inch or two to their altitude, even though this lie will be immediately found out should they go on a date with you.

I even did it myself for a while, after a doctor assured me I was 5’10”. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him; he didn’t even ask me to take my Converse off and smelled of rum. I have since readjusted to 5’9” – there’s another half an inch to go on there but I think once you start worrying about half an inch it’s probably time to give up – and thus will appear in fewer site searches. I can live with that. At least I don’t have to wear a built-up shoe on a date to keep up the pretence.

So, gentlemen, try to tell the truth about your stature. I won’t think any less of you if you’re a short arse, but I don’t want to have to start bringing my tape measure out on a date with me to check.