The Pedal Pusher

Stats: 28, 5’10, blond/blue, London
Where: Shoreditch, London
Pre-date rating: 7.5/10

There are some dates you feel you should go on, even if you really ought not to. Maybe it’s because somebody incredibly handsome has deigned to ask you out, or perhaps you are lonely, and your diary tells you this coming Friday is a blank space, its page a polar landscape.

Whatever the reason, sometimes we say yes when we should be raising the drawbridge in an emphatic no. Johnny, 28, is such a no. But his square jaw and icy blue eyes draw me in, and he pets my vanity like I’m a cat drunk on all the milk in the world – he contacts me first and tells me he likes my smile. I’m flattered enough that I set aside my misgivings about his profile – one of his ‘absolute musts’ is that his date be a “keen cyclist”. I’m keen as mustard about plenty, but freewheeling around on a metal, bulimic horse with pedals isn’t one of them. I enjoy it when I’m doing it, but I’m not a confident cyclist, especially in London. But his missives are so charming and touchingly direct, like an awkward Head Boy asking me to dance at a school disco, that I am sucked in to whatever it is he is doing. It feels wrong, fake somehow.

Finally, he asks me out for a drink. I hesitate.
At last: “It says on your profile you want to go out with a cyclist. I am not one.”
The reply: “Oh that? No, it’s fine. I don’t know why I said that; it’s silly.” I can almost hear him laughing as he types that. Almost. It’s a hollow laugh.

On the actual night of our date, I fall victim to traffic and am a few minutes late. As I bound up to the pub, I spy a few cycles tied to the lone lamppost outside. They seem to be twisted around each other in an inextricable tangle, a frenzied orgy of metal, chain and oil. I wonder if one belongs to the guy awaiting me inside. He is sitting directly opposite the door to the pub, staring ahead intently. He seems annoyed at my tardiness, which I would understand, except I texted to let him know and, let’s not forget, it wasn’t intentional. I apologise in mock breathlessness – I didn’t run that fast to get there – and despatch myself to the bar to get us drinks, in the hope it will our oil on his Atlantic mood. When I return, he has thawed somewhat, but his jaw still seems set. Perhaps if he were to relax it, the entire bottom half of his face would come crashing down, like a pelican’s bill.

On some men, a brusque nature can be quite attractive. Everybody wants to be the one to force the clam and find the pearl, after all. On others, however, it is wearing, and my brightness feels forced, like a battered spouse trying to keep the peace. Any jokes I make are met with a kind of half-smile, half-sneer, and his own conversational attempts don’t seem to run to much more than sullen critiques of the world in general. I put it down to the same awkwardness I spotted in his emails, and resolve to try a bit harder – he’s really good looking and his chest – straining beneath his shirt – looks like it might be fun to wander over. I decide to take things back to his comfort zone, then; I will take the whining child to Disneyland. I broach the subject of cycling.

Suddenly, he comes alive. His biggest relationship, it seems, isn’t with the guy who worked in PR with wandering eyes and hands and dumped him last year, but his two-wheeled lover. He has had most of the best experiences of his life behind those handlebars, he says, and loves that he never knows where his next adventure will take him. There is something touching about that. I almost envy him his fanaticism, and it’s clear his passion for pedalling has served him well physically, if nothing else.
With the fire well and truly in his belly and a previously unforeseen sparkle in his eyes, he turns to me and says: “So do you cycle?”

I cough, embarrassed. I made it clear I didn’t cycle in the email and he said it was fine. Should I point this out? He obviously forgot. I’ll play along. “No, not really.”
He looks disappointed, like, immediately. As if I trod on his puppy’s head or broke the crushing news about Santa Claus.
“What does ‘not really’ mean?” he asks, incredulous.
“Well,” I begin cautiously. “I mean, I haven’t really ridden a bike regularly since I was at uni.”
He is wide-eyed. “And that’s what? Twenty years ago?”
My eyes shrink to slits as the diss registers. “Thirteen, actually. I haven’t needed to ride a bike since then. And I’d be uncomfortable riding a bike around London.”
“Don’t you mean you’d be scared?”
I sigh. “Yeah, if you like. Scared. That’s not too weird, is it? There are loads of accidents.”
“Not if you’re careful. You just have to own the road.”
I roll my eyes. “A juggernaut hurtling around the Elephant and Castle roundabout begs to differ,” I reply.
“Wouldn’t you at least try?”
“I did,” I say. “I hired a Boris bike for the first time recently. It was horrible.”
“Why?” he says, with a definite sulk.
“I felt nervous and out of control; I’m not a confident road user. Why put myself and others at risk?”
He leans back in his chair. “So basically you’re a chicken?”

I search his face for glints of humour, or signs this is a wind-up. It isn’t. I feel suddenly very tired. I don’t have an answer for him.
He continues: “Look, like I said on my profile, I am really into cycling. It’s important that anyone I, er, anyone I share my, um.” He falters. “Anyone who goes out with me needs to cycle, really.”
They’ll also need nerves of steel. I sip my drink and consider my answer. What witticism can I throw back? Whither my bag of jokes and pithy putdowns? It’s empty; I can’t be bothered.
Finally, I speak: “Yeah. Well, I don’t. Pretty much ever.” Another sip. “I run, though.”
He laughs with a final sneer. “Pah. I don’t think you running alongside my bike like a dog is really going to work, do you?”
No, Johnny. No, I don’t.

On leaving the pub, I wait dutifully while he untangles his bike from the spaghetti junction at the lamppost. I don’t know why I wait. What do I want, I wonder. Once he has freed his iron-framed boyfriend, he gives me a lascivious look.
“I could just push it along if you wanted to go on somewhere,” he says, as if we have just spent the most thrilling hour of our lives together. He goes on: “Or, actually, I’ve got some gin back at mine.”
I see. He wants to check out my saddle, after all. I look from him to his bike. I wonder which would give the most satisfying ride. I sigh and begin walking. In the opposite direction.

On arriving home, I turn out the lights and go to the window, as I sometimes do when I first get in after a date. I look out at the buses hurtling by, filled with people, and the taxis and the passers-by and the drunks and the hubbub, and I cast my eye back over my empty kitchen, my shadow long and lonely against the tiled wall. I am envious of them all in a way, but at least I didn’t go home with Johnny. I will always have that.

I look out of the window again, and see a lone cyclist zooming down the road. The lights change, and he quickly mounts the pavement to avoid them. A woman at the crossing shouts after him: “You stupid twat!”

Exactly.

Post-date rating: 3.5/10
Date in one sentence: One drink good, two wheels bad.

A beginner’s guide to breaking it off: The text

Is there ever a nice way to bid adieu to an affair of the heart? Is the blow any less crushing because you have communicated it via a gift-wrapped box of (live) white doves, after an afternoon of champagne or during a shuddering orgasm? Probably not.

But there are many ways of delivering the fatal thud to the back of the head that so many relationships suffer. It’s just about picking your moment – and your method.

Textual ditching gets a very bad press. When Frasier star Kelsey Grammer fluffed out his hair, primed his best texting finger and sent the SMS which would end his 15-year marriage, the papers and news outlets that still cared about him were up in arms. How could someone who so charmingly growled about tossed salad and scrambled eggs be so callous as to finish off all those years of wedded bliss with a robotic network message? While Grammer perhaps should have really thought that one over a bit longer, there’s a lot to be said for euthanising your relationship via text.

For relatively short flings, it is perfectly acceptable, as long as you get the language right. When dumping anybody by any method, the one thing to remember – and that so many forget – is: DON’T BE AN ARSEHOLE. As cathartic as it may be to list all your soon-to-be ex’s failings, it won’t help anybody and acting like a piece of shit is bad karma.

What texting does is gives you the opportunity to get fairly straight to the point, remain emotionless, and more importantly, get to the end of the dumping without any interruptions, like tears, or screaming, or a wine glass in your face.

Some examples to avoid:

“I’m shagging someone else.”
“You’re ditched.”
“The sex was totes abysmoid. Laterz.”
“You smell like a caged animal, so I’m setting you free back into the wild.”
“Don’t you think I deserved that last Emmy for Frasier? Really?”

 Some better examples:

“I didn’t really feel any spark.”
“I feel we’ve lost momentum after not seeing each other much recently.”
“I think I need some time by myself.”
“I’m not sure we’re right for each other.”
“I think I’d rather just leave it there for now. Can we stay friends?”

It doesn’t matter whether you don’t mean it or are lying or hiding your true feelings. Who cares? That’s not what this is about. You’re done here.

Those who think texting is callous miss the point entirely – they probably deserve to be dumped. Texting that it’s over is a kindness. You’re sparing them the humiliation of a very public break-up. They can put any spin on it they like:

“Oh yeah, we ended it over text; it was no big deal. We weren’t that serious.”

Or, more likely:

“Can you believe the total BASTARD ended it by text? A few short lines? Some bullshit about there being no spark. No spark?! What am I? A fucking Roman candle?! I hope he gets eaten by sharks. I’m better off without him.”

If you’re seen as a bit of a coward, so be it; if you’re merely ending a fling, there isn’t much to be gained by drawing out the whole process over a miserable drink in a pub, where everyone else is having a good time. A text also helps the dumpee to react however they want: nobody wants to get angry or cry in front of someone they’ve had sex with only two or three times.

When a ditching text is appropriate:

- You’ve been dating a month or two and haven’t been gelling particularly well.
- You’ve been going out for a few months, but seeing each other less and less – a ‘dwindler’.
- The last time you saw each other was an utter shambles and you’re both too ashamed to admit how dreadful it was.

When a ditching text is inappropriate:

- You’re about to jet off on a romantic holiday together.
- They’re waiting at the head of the altar.
- You’ve been together for five years.

Use your common sense. Would you be devastated if you got a Dear John text from them right now? Oh, you would? Oh. Well, send it anyway. Time is money.

Say no to the misery of matchmaking

Imagine at what distant depth of ebb you’d have to be to ask a friend to set you up with someone. To be plundering your friends’ friends for potential dates, like Google with a stiffy, you must have truly run out of options. People may scoff at online dating or even picking someone up in a bar, but to cast your incestuous net only as far as the puddle next door shows a lack of pluck and imagination.

Agreeing or volunteering to set mates up with each other is the worst idea you’re likely to have, save for those orange slacks you thought would look good on you in the ‘90s. Whether your forlorn singleton friend has had their eye on a particular someone within your social circle or is just throwing out a speculative “Surely you must know some hot, single guys for me?” there’s seldom a pot of gold at the end of the matchmaking rainbow. Well, for you, at least.

It’s a common misconception that people you know, or your friends know, will like each other.
“Well, I like my friend and my friend likes me,” you may ponder, as you stir your Starbucks and idly stare out of the window at the crotches of a series of passers-by, “so it would follow that they would like my friend too, so that’s one thing they have in common straight away!” This rather inconveniently ignores the fact that we are all about a million different people from one social situation to the next – what one friend likes about you may be the very thing that makes another back away from you in horror. So, matchmaking. No. Here’s why:

As its instigator, you’ll get to hear every mind-numbing detail of the courtship
We all love a little bit of gossip, true, but hearing relationship details is only really fun when you know just one half of the couple. It can all get very personal. Intimate, even. If you want to know what your friends are like in bed, why get it second-hand from whoever’s banging them right now? Just fuck them yourself.

You’ll start to like one of them less
There are two sides to every story and, as the piggy in the middle, you’ll get to hear them both: imagine Fox News blaring into one ear, while BBC Radio 4 chirrups in the other. What a thought. It’s inevitable there’ll be discrepancies; we are all unreliable witnesses at the best of times.

Eventually, your loyalties will skew toward one more than the other. It’s impossible to predict what will finally sway you – maybe you too can’t stand wet towels left on the bedroom floor or you discover your friend wipes their earwax on the bedside table. Whatever it is, you’ll never look at your friend in the same way again. That’s a shame, isn’t it?

You’ll get the blame when it all goes wrong
Relationships are beautiful at the beginning as they blossom. Like a proud curator, you will watch as your charges – who you brought together, don’t forget – enjoy the trappings of love and romance.

The rot of acrimony is never far away, of course – it suckles at the teat of devotion and waits for the right moment to strike. Once it does bite the nipple which feeds it, its victims will be looking for someone to blame, and as soon as they’ve stopped screaming at each other, they’ll turn their attention to you. How could you even suggest they got together in the first place? You knew what he was like! Why didn’t you warn me?

Your friends will start to hate you
Matchmakers get a reputation. I would say a ‘bad rep’, but I abhor the term and, frankly, you have brought it all upon yourself. Matchmakers are like the über-busybody, with a strain of OCD that sees them want to tidy people up into pairs, as if being single was the worst thing that could happen to anybody. Every time you drag a single friend along to an event, any other single friends you have will suddenly have the urge to stand anywhere other than near you, in fear that they too will fall victim to your hopeless, catastrophic matchmaking.

So resist. They may beg, they may plead, but setting up your mates will lead only to heartache and a lot of awkward texting. Let your pals live alone, unloved – your conscience will be clear.

The name game brain drain – how to pick your online dating handle

What’s in a name? You don’t know the half of it.

The one thing they forget to tell you when you try online dating is that you have to pick a name for yourself. Yes, not only do you have to fret about whether your pictures make you look pretty or the quality of your babbling blurb, you also have the added trauma of coming up with a profile name. It has to encapsulate everything about you in one easy line. It will appear alongside your picture and could mean all the difference between someone giving a saucy smile and clicking through to find out more or merely an eye roll before scrolling on to the next sweetly monikered singleton.

First things first
The default, I suppose, would be to pick your name. James. Sarah. Rita. Alfred. There they are. Names, names, names all over the place. Chances are, of course, that you are not the only single James out there, so what next? A surname initial maybe? JamesD. Hmmm, that’s gone – try again. How about adding a number? JamesD1. Exciting stuff. Your profile name is up there with a chatroom handle. How about a more meaningful number? Date of birth? JamesD1975. Yes, this is SCREAMING originality, well done. Maybe something like your postcode? JamesSE17. Hmm, not sure about that one, Jimmy. Can’t you at least pick a more salubrious area? So you see the problem. Onward, then.

Hometown glory
One option is to give a nod to your roots. West_Midlands_Wanderer or Blackpool_Bloke both have a ring to them, if you like that kind of thing. Alliteration is key here, for the ultimate effect. London_Lad (mind you, nothing makes me die inside more than a grown man calling himself a “lad”) or Scotland_Saucepot are much better than London_Man_Who_Likes_Trains or Edinburgh_Knitting_Expert

Personality disorder
Some use their profile handle to quickly communicate what kind of person they are. It doesn’t always work out sadly. Men called Lovable_Dreamer are likely to be premature ejaculators, while ladies who Love_To_Laugh are invariably rotten drunks who sit in the corner of the pub crying. Serious_Thinker, Mood_Ring, Optimist567 and Free_Spirit are probably all rancorous bores with acrid BO. It’s just the way it is.

Hobby horse
What about your interests? Like reading? How about Bookworm71? Love to spell words correctly and know your way around a semicolon? Maybe try GrammarBore800. Footie fanatic? I_Will_Spend-My-Entire_Weekend_Watching_Sky_Sports_While_You-Cry_In_The-Kitchen seems to be available. Into baking? Give All_I_Will_Talk_About_Is_Cupcakes a try. I’m sure the offers will flood in.

Literary connection
If you really want to show off and have potential daters pondering your name rather than concentrate on the fact you have either quite clearly lied about your age and your photos are more than 10 years old, go for something quirky out of a book or film. You will think you’re being highly original, but you’re probably not – do a quick search on the site for anyone using a name that’s like the one you’re thinking of before you take the plunge. There are probably about a million Holden_Caulfields, Lizzie_Bennets, Sophia_Westerns and Pip_Pirrips all looking for love too. If picking something from a movie, make sure it’s not a DREADFUL one or a slightly dubious character. Leave Danny_Ocean, Leatherface101,  Baby_Jane_Hudson or Vivian_Ward to one side, perhaps. Also, ladies, maybe give Roxie_Hart a miss too – she was very glam, yes, but she killed her lover and tried to frame her husband.

Grindr name
Okay, so by now you’re getting desperate, right? If you’re on Grindr or a similar ‘hook-up app’, just got for the basics as above, or try the standard ‘Looking_4_Meet_Now’ or ‘Vauxhall, 32′. The easiest way to get noticed, though, is to find your ‘Grindr name’, inspired by the charming men who call themselves BUTT CLEANER or NUTS GOBBLER. My new, magic formula couldn’t be easier:

1. Body part you wash first or last in the shower.
2. One parent’s occupation.

And voilà! Be you a Hand Signalman, Bollock Trucker, Bum Plumber or Toe Psychologist, you’re sure to get *exactly* the attention you’re looking for. And maybe even a little bit more.

The Boyfriend

Stats: 5’10”, brown/green
Where: A party in east London
Pre-date rating: N/A

As you schlep your way through single life, you find yourself arriving at a lot of parties alone. At first, you try to avoid it, and make plans with friends to meet up at least 10 minutes beforehand at a nearby tube station or off-licence so you don’t have the awkwardness of standing on the doorstep by yourself, eagerly pressing the buzzer. After a while, though, you care less and less; you become more accustomed to your status as a solitary animal. Insecurities at no longer being one of two fade like old newsprint.

I am at a party full of people I don’t really know. Somebody I used to work with has invited me, and while there are former colleagues dotted about here and there and the odd face I recognise, I have never taken my lead from Ally McBeal when it comes to work relationships – I prefer to keep them strictly professional, save for the odd foray into disastrously going on a date with one. So I am alone for more than a few moments, hovering awkwardly in doorways like a vague scent, not quite brave enough to edge myself into strangers’ conversations, but not quite willing to give in and go home by myself. There is gin here, and champagne. And I am thirsty.

I slink over to the kitchen and scour the worktops for a tipple. I settle on a big bottle of Plymouth gin and glug as much as decency will allow into the nearest clean glass, before peeking around the kitchen, like a meerkat, on the search for tonic. I soon see a bottle, which is attached to the hand of God, or his nearest approximation on Earth. A man made from the 10 hottest Hollywood leading men melted down into one is splashing tonic into two glasses. Seeing that I want the tonic too, he smiles and waves the bottle at me, holding out his hand for my glass. He takes it from me and holds it up in mock horror.

“I like your measures,” he says, with a wicked grin. “I wish you were coming to my house on Christmas Day – my mum controls the gin usually and she does so religiously!”
I am instantly at ease with this delectable deity and so move a little closer, shuffling along the worktop to stand next to him.
“If everyone can still see straight by the Queen’s speech, I obviously haven’t been doing my job right,” I chuckle, and we clink glasses. He looks over his shoulder but obviously doesn’t find what he’s looking for and so we talk a little more and fix another round of drinks with equally dangerous measures. His name is Rod (“short for Roderick, NOT Rodney, I swear”) and he designs T-shirts in between studying architecture. I’ve no idea how old he is, but I imagine he is an embryo to my fossil.

Just as we are laughing a bit too loudly over a really stupid, unfunny joke, a taller, slightly older guy comes along and snakes his arm between us. He’s not moving in for a bear hug, however; he’s come to retrieve his drink. The second G&T Rod was making – it feels like hours ago – was for him.
He doesn’t stop to chat, just gives me a cursory glance that could wilt lilies, snatches his drink and nods to Rod. “I’ll be through there, babe,” he spits, before turning on his heels and gliding away into the next room where something dangerously hip is booming out of the speakers.

“That’s my other half,” Rod explains, almost dolefully.
I nod and smile weakly.
“What about you? Who are you here with? Boyfriend? Uh, girlfriend?”
I reply with a hollow laugh. “Errr, no, I have no other half. I am, um, my whole.”
His eyes crinkle in confusion. “You’re a hole?”
“No, no, I’m two halves of the same whole. You see?” I’m floundering. “Shit. No. I mean I’m single. There is no boyfriend. Not yet. Not now.”
He grins. I see him consider me. “Ah, okay. Cool.”

We continue chatting for a while and are just finishing another round of lethal gins when I see Rod’s boyfriend coming into view. I ask if he too would like a drink and he says yes. Rod then excuses himself to go to the loo. I hand the boyfriend his G&T and he sips it. I can tell it’s too strong for him, but he is desperately trying not to show it in his face. The eyes don’t lie, though.

He asks my name and when I tell him, he repeats it a couple of times, in sibilant monotone. He then asks where my boyfriend is, and when I reply that I don’t have one, he fixes me with a chilly “I see”, and looks me up and down, eyes wide in a failed attempt at breeziness. He leans in and touches my arm.
“It can be so hard to meet someone these days,” he smiles, sourly. “Everyone our age seems to be paired up, I suppose. Well, I say our age – how old are you?”
I laugh at the blatant barb and tell him.
“Well,” he gushes in faux-sincerity, “I don’t think you look it at all. And I’m sure the right guy is out there for you somewhere.” But not here, his eyes say. Not my guy. Subtle.

At that moment, Rod comes back. The boyfriend gives me one last withering look and turns to Rod. “Shall we go soon?”
Rod shrugs, disappointed. “Well, I suppose so, if you want.”
“I do,” says the boyfriend. “I’ll just go for one more quick boogie. You coming?”
“Yeah,” says Rod. “I’ll get us another drink for the road.”
“Fine,” replies his paramour, dismissively waving to me as he walks away. “Bye, then,” he says, giving my name one more swirl around his tongue like it’s a particularly nasty-tasting mouthwash. And he’s gone.

Rod turns to me. “Another?”
I nod. As he pours, he keeps looking furtively at me. Like he wants to say something, but obviously doesn’t feel he can. I’m not quite drunk enough to drag it out of him, so I just gaze back at him and smile like a simpleton. Until…
“It’s been great to talk to you,” he stutters. “We should exchange numbers or something. And, uh, meet up or something.”
I start to tremble a bit. My slight inebriation gifts me a brief frankness: “And will you be bringing your boyfriend along?”
Rod flushes red and breathes quickly. “No, I definitely won’t.”

I look back at him and then my eyes flick to the other room. I can just see Rod’s boyfriend in the distance, his back to me, talking to a girl who’s laughing uproariously at whatever he’s saying. I look back at Rod, who has his phone in his hand, primed to take those digits. I look back one final time to the boyfriend.

I should do this. I should take his number and give him mine and meet him, just to spite you, you sour bastard. I should teach you a lesson for looking down your nose at me just for talking to your precious – and, yes, ridiculously handsome – boyfriend in the kitchen, you insecure dolt. I should meet him and meet him again and meet him yet again and eventually take him from you, and prove it isn’t really “hard to find someone” at all, and that even though “everyone is paired up at our age”, pairs can be halved. Relationships can be sliced right in two before your very eyes. I should ruin you. I sigh. But I won’t. I know I won’t.

It isn’t for me to serve him his own head on a plate. If Rod is to go a-wandering – and something tells me that eventuality isn’t too far off – I don’t want it to be with me. I don’t want that responsibility and have no desire to cause someone else that heartache. Not to mention, I don’t want to be the one creeping through to the kitchen at all subsequent parties just to check my beautiful boyfriend isn’t talking to yet another gin-pouring stranger with his eyes on my man.

I reel off my telephone number to Rod, changing the last digit completely so he won’t get through to me should he try, shake his hand and go in for a light hug. Then I drain the last of my gin and watch him walk off toward his boyfriend, who now has at least one more chance to keep Rod all to himself.

At the next party, he may not be so lucky.

Post-date rating: 8.5/10 – knocking off 0.5 for the adulterous potential and another 1 for terrible taste in men.
Date in one sentence: You will always find me in the kitchen at parties, probably talking to your boyfriend.

The Colombian Gets Out of the Bath

When dates are over, I try not to think too hard about what my date thought of me. You can drive yourself mad pondering the whys and the wherefores when they don’t call. Was it something I said? Was I too ugly, too stupid, too sane? Enough. Yes, the self-doubt still wraps itself around my throat like a razor-edged silken scarf, but I try to pay it no mind. They’ll call if they want. Maybe I’ll text. Let’s just see.

After a first date with a devastatingly attractive Colombian guy which, for the most part, took place in my bath, however, I can’t help but wonder what kind of impression I made. We flirted on social media for weeks, he came over, I ran a bath, minds and mouths wandered, we got out, went for a ‘picnic’ and then he went on his merry way. End of story, you’d think; maybe just a charming tale to tell your particularly racy grandchildren. But just like in Hollywood, a successful first bite of the apple necessitates a sequel, and so it is that I find myself back tapping my very own acerbically tinged version of sweet nothings into my iPhone, arranging with Ignacio when I’m going to see him again. What could he possibly be thinking? How could we top groping each other in a too-hot vat of suds in the middle of the afternoon? Has he been thinking about what I look like dry, with a shirt on?

Clearly, he has. In his faltering English, he tells me he wants to take me out for coffee. I’ve loads of work to do and look like I’ve been sleeping on the backseat of a bus for a week, but when I cast my mind back to the bubbles, I remembering liking what I saw. Let’s see how he holds up without the taps digging into his back.

Ignacio is waiting for me when I arrive at the café. It’s the kind of place you are pretty much guaranteed to find an eyelash (or worse) in your tea. I have dressed casually – maybe too casually – in battered Converse and jeans that could do with a dip in water themselves. My T-shirt is clean, though, and just tight enough. I see his eyes fall immediately to where my nipples are so, if nothing else, my boyish pecs have made something of an impression. He is wearing a grey merino jumper which hangs off him so beautifully, he may have been born in it. His jeans are clean, albeit a tad European in style, and his trainers would definitely pass the doorstep detergent challenge. I sit down opposite him, order a coffee from the dumpy, uninterested server and wait for him to say something. So far, nothing. Not even a hello. Just his eyes flicking all over me like a moth looking for somewhere to land.

I break. “How are you?” I know, I know, but what else is there to say? Thankfully, he’s only too happy to tell me how he is and the conversation gets off to a bumpy start at last. After a few minutes of pleasantries and work tales, he rests his chin on his hands and stares into me like I’m behind glass at the Natural History Museum.
“I’ve been thinking of you, like, nonstop,” he says, his accent a rich, sexy growl.
I cough, embarrassed, and paint on a look of nonchalance. “I thought you might,” I reply, despite having been certain of no such thing.
“I don’t often get to go to boys’ houses and get a bath,” Ignacio smiles. “You make an impression!”
I smile back as coquettishly as I dare, given the very first time I met him, I got an extreme close-up of his balls. “It isn’t every day I invite someone into the bath, either, I assure you. I don’t want you to think it’s my ‘thing’, or a fetish.”
The light humour is lost on him; the tone doesn’t seem to hit its target. I see him frown slightly, as if he’s not quite understood. It isn’t the last time I’ll see that.

We pass the next hour talking about all manner of inconsequential things, remaining politely guarded, but with an unspoken ‘something’ between us. My heart isn’t thumping and my head has yet to tip over my heels, but I’m intrigued enough to want to see him again. If Ignacio is hoping for round two of looking for the loofah, he doesn’t let on, and neither do I. As we leave the café, I press my lips lightly to his and leave him there, making vague promises of a phone call, a text, a whatever. I go back to my flat, close the door and sit in silence for a while, not really sure what I’m doing.

He texts the next day and phones the day after that. We chat, but it is difficult. I try to talk more slowly – and his English really is all right and perfectly serviceable – but there’s an issue here which isn’t just idiomatic. Although he says his previous boyfriend was from England, I can’t help but think our stumbling blocks are cultural and, dare I say it, personality-related. Nevertheless, I resolve to plough on – he is quite definitely one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever had my hands on. And he can’t stop thinking about me, remember.

He tells me he wants to take me out to dinner, and I accept. He arrives at my door smelling like an angel and looking like a god, planting his full mouth on mine very timidly at first, which seems at odds with his general aura of perfection and self-assuredness. He glances around my flat, which is mercifully much tidier than on his last visit, gently squeezes my arse and tells me we have to go or we’ll be late. I hold the door open for him on our exit, but make sure I bound on ahead as we descend the stairs to the street so he can get a good look at my backside in these trousers. And he does look, I notice. I wear my wickedness like a crown.

In the restaurant, while my view is perfect and the food sublime, our chitchat is stilted once again. He doesn’t seem to get my humour at all, and my gentle ribbing seems to mortally offend him, while his own attempts at flirtatious badinage fall flat without the nuances of a native speaker to help him through. The frown is back in full effect. I try harder than I usually would to compensate, but it’s heavy-going and I find myself shovelling in yet more pasta rather than break into his lengthy attempts to explain to me exactly what he meant by what he just said.

Once the bill is paid – split 50-50 – and coins for a tip have been splashed onto the silver dish, we head outside, the air choking with anticipation and a mutual feeling that perhaps we need to make more of an effort if this baby’s going to fly. I decide to return to where the flame burned the brightest, and ask him back to my flat for a cup of tea that will never be drunk. He accepts. We climb the stairs to my flat like two Marie Antoinettes trudging to the guillotine – heavy with food, tired and perhaps a little grouchy from the dearth of sparkling conversation. Once inside, I pop the kettle on and he sits gingerly on the couch, tense and quiet. I make the tea and hover over him with it. He finally relaxes back into the sofa and pats the cushion next to him. I sit.

We talk a little more, slurping at the tea occasionally, but more often than not watching each other carefully as we move our hands this way and that to get comfortable and find a way to touch without it becoming too obvious. Finally, my mug half-empty and the tea within it tepid, I make my move. The lunge. It’s well-received and is the perfect gateway into the next hour of post-date snogging and stroking. The minutes roll by, buttons pop open and skin hits the air.

After a while, however, I begin to withdraw. It’s a school night, I’m tired, and his hands across my pasta-bloated tummy are making me feel sick. All of a sudden, the scene seems ridiculous: him naked save for his socks (white!) and me shirtless with my flies open. It’s cold, and I don’t just mean the weather. I make excuses about saving this for another night, and for a few seconds, his eyes search mine for a sign of what’s really going on. They offer no explanation.

Eventually, he realises he’s beaten and dejectedly begins to get dressed. I watch him put his clothes back on, just as I did after our first date in the bath. Beautiful. Once he’s done, I get up and show him to the door. He starts to say something, but doesn’t bother in the end. He kisses me again – for what will be the final time – and it feels sweet and hungry and I begin to wonder whether I am doing the right thing closing the door on him. But close it I must. He pulls away from me and we exchange a “see you soon” that only one of us believes. I shut the door and listen to him go down the stairs even slower and with less enthusiasm than he went up them.

There is a text the next day, which I ignore, and then another the day after, which I answer good-naturedly but without any hint that there’s more to come. After a few more texts between us that are more neighbourly than passionate, he sends me a final one lamenting that it hasn’t worked out and that if I change my mind, I should get in touch.

I never do.

This is part 2 to The Colombian in the Bath.

Another 25 men you should never date

Dating can be a drag. You never quite know what you’re going to get next. Back off with your “life is like a box of chocolates” shtick, Forrest Gump – we’ve never had a box of Milk Tray with this many nasty surprises.

Well, we know you’re the perfect date, don’t we, and we know to give a wide berth to the first 25 men I very kindly alerted you to, but there are still some romantic buzzkills out there just waiting to spoil your fun, break your heart and drink all the milk in your fridge.

You should never date a man who…

1. Obsessively counts calories.
“You’re on a diet? Sounds really interesting; tell me more!” – Nobody, ever.

2. Wears Toms with no socks in winter.
Yes, he looks beautiful and carefree, as I’m sure he will when he’s clutching your hand while he dies of pneumonia because he was too darn cool to slip on a sock.

3. Doesn’t put lid back on toothpaste.

4. Demands the cancellation of any TV show that he used to enjoy, but has stopped watching, or still watches, complaining all the way through.

5. Eats hot food on trains.
Pasties, McDonald’s, noodles, whatever. It smells. It smells bad. And he’s with you. So you, by default, smell like that.

6. Wears a suit every day, but has never had it dry-cleaned.
Good luck nuzzling up to this sour-lapelled hobo.

7. Expects you to have instant recall of every piffling conversation you’ve ever had.

8. Smokes.
Unless they do it in that hideously sexy French way that makes you wonder what else they can do with those fingers.

9. Orders nachos, to share, at a pub.
You are essentially sitting around a table eating a bag of crisps that someone has slung on a plate and poured a load of tomatoey crap all over the top. With your fingers. Are his nails clean?

10. On a first date, reads the set menu aloud, then tells you you can have whatever you like.

11. Always tells you how busy/tired/overworked/partied out/popular they are.

12. Doesn’t refold the newspaper after he’s finished reading it.

13. Is desperate to break bad news on Twitter.
Or indeed be the first to tell you anything, publicise a new Tumblr he’s found (that you saw months ago) or just be a one-man version of the news ticker on the CNN website.

14. Tells you their body is temple – as they chow down on a KFC while queuing at the shop for cigarettes.
Faux health nuts are almost as boring as obsessive fitness freaks.

15. Insists on telling you how much everything costs.

16. Or, worse, asks you how much everything costs.

17. Sings along really loudly at pop concerts, while filming it on their phone.
Problem 1: You can’t hear the performer sing over the top of your beau’s tuneless rasp. Problem 2: You can’t see properly because the wannabe Tarantino is distractedly waggling his iPhone in the air.

18. Takes out a full-page ad to announce a forthcoming Twitter break.

19. Leaves toast crumbs in the butter.
This carries the death penalty in more progressive civilisations (the first of which I am yet to found, but will).

20. Tells you to “take it easy” when he means “goodbye”, or says “it’s not rocket science, is it?” when talking about something they think is easy.

21. Carries around huge bags of stuff they say they “couldn’t be without”, like straighteners, boot polish, or sachets of sugar.

22. Still revels in what a ‘rebel’ he was at school – when he actually means he was an insufferable wanker.

23. Is friends with Harry Styles.

24. Reads an article online and logs in/creates an account to comment “WHO CARES?” OR “IS THIS NEWS?!”
He should save his super-valuable, important opinions for his blog. Oh, no, hang on…

25. Blogs.
Blogs used to be quaint diaries, “what I did on my holidays” and family pictures. Now the whole world is a grandstanding columnist with an axe to grind, each one more incendiary than the last. Date a blogger – especially a reactionary one who specialises in comma-strewn outrage and misguided fury – and your boyfriend’s self-important bleatings about what he saw on the news today will be available for the whole world to see. He’ll become addicted to this attention from strangers, you mark my words, and before long you’ll be going out with a dim-witted digest of current moral indignation, who exists only to “jot down a few musings” on whatever a controversial columnist has said that day. Just have ‘Nobody cares’ tattooed on your middle finger to save time.

(I am nothing if not self-aware.)

Thanks to @branners, @RuariC, @kaviargauche, @simonpjbest, @Philip_Ellis and @coxyinsw2 who contributed 3, 8, 10, 12, 15 and 22 respectively.