the one with all the gifs

I love a good GIF and for the smutty among you – no, that’s not a euphemism.

In fact, I love them so much that the minute I’m presented with an opportunity to use them in the girls chat, I take it.

I don’t know whose stupid idea it was though it was probably Cath and/or Ammi and truth be told I can’t be arsed to go back through the group chat to find out who to blame, but they one of us suggested we should branch out into Tinder.

I mean – it’s not serious is it?  It’s just a big game of human snap?  What is the worst that could happen?

Enter C.

He was the worst that could happen.

That’s unfair because obviously at some point I probably drunkenly swiped right.  Actually that’s likely to be untrue too.  I’d had some notification telling me I’d been Super Liked and wanted to see what that entailed.  And I wanted my ego massaged.

It was quite easy to ‘chat’ to him.  He was funny, seemed well grounded, apologised on behalf of men the world over for unsolicited dick pics.  Winner I thought.

Now, having learnt from past experience I didn’t particularly want to spend the next eleventy billion years messaging back and forth only to be disappointed in real life again so when the suggestion was made to meet up for a drink a week later I decided to go for it.

As normal photographs of C were exchanged with Ammi and Cath along with a detailed description of what I was planning to wear, where we’d agreed to meet and at what time.  A check-I’m-still-alive call was scheduled for 21:00.

The day arrived and, surprisingly, I wasn’t as nervous as I thought and that was because of the glass of wine I had beforehand.

I’d got to the bar first and grabbed a table and ten minutes later in walked C.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact he was red faced, out of breath and panting like a whore in church or the fact he ordered a non alcoholic beer but I just knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere.

Perhaps he was nervous or just super awkward in real life but within minutes of him sitting down it was very obvious that he had no idea how to talk to me in person…. in fact I reckon if he could have sat at another table and spent all night sending me GIFs he (and I)would have had a far better time.

I knew from our conversations before that he was into competing in triathlons so tried to steer conversation toward that; like how he got into in the first place, training, where he competes.  I tried to keep my questions as open as possible and STILL he found ways to give me one word answers.

I was convinced the date was nearing an end after about 40 minutes when C suggested we MOVE tables.  I didn’t want to.  I liked being sat at a round table where he sat semi-opposite me.  It was nice.  But he’d spied a table that had become free where the chairs had been replaced with a sofa style seat which meant we had to sit next to each other.

Close.

Oh god.

I didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to be so close that our arms could touch or our knees.  I was about to protest when he lifted his drink and mine and got up and moved.

As if the non alcoholic beer hadn’t already killed things my noticing he had smaller thighs than me as he ran across the bar certainly put the final nail in the coffin.

Fuck.

The new seating arrangements didn’t make things any easier.  Turns out he was hard work on any type of seat and he’d lost my focus and attention.

In fact, I was more interested to see who was taking part in the speed dating event going on in the upstairs part of the bar and spent most some of the time while he was rambling on about the different types of trainers he needs for running and how his triathlon bike has hard shoes attached to the pedal which makes the transition from water to bike easier dreaming of ways I could sneak upstairs and get involved.  Plus ‘Mark’ had caught my attention while the daters were on a break and was smiling broadly at me while getting a drink at the bar.

Overall the date was tough going. Really tough going.  And even more so because not only was there zero spark but we clearly had nothing in common.

If I’m a tequila, he’s natural spring water.

After an hour and a half of excruciatingly painful ‘conversation’ I made my excuses and left.  C insisted on walking me to the car park and as much I tried to to say no, he was adamant he should.

I was paying for my ticket when I realised he was stood unnaturally close to me and instinctively I recoiled in dread that he might try and put an arm round me. Or kiss me.

In an effort to end the silence C thanked me for a lovely (!) evening and as I was getting ready to turn around and leave he leaned in close, extended an arm toward me in a hug type motion and in my blind panic I grabbed his hand and shook it.

I shook his hand.

For real.

Like you do when you end an interview.

For. Fuck. Sake.

I don’t know who was more shocked to be honest me or him though the look on his face showed quite clearly it wasn’t what he was expecting and whilst I was wildly shaking his hand I just blurted out “it was nice to meet you”.

And then I left!

I called Cath on the way home and in between her gasps of horror and belly laughing she told me to just ‘chalk it up to experience’ and not to worry about it.

C messaged me the next day saying he had a lovely time but sensed there was no spark on my part.  I told him he was right.

Moving forward if someone communicates with me entirely in GIF then there will be no meeting in person at all!

Me on the other hand, I will continue to use them as if they were cash.

the one with the fiancee – part 2

I’m starting to think Doctor Foster might in some way be my spirit animal.

There’s been quite a bit of debate among my girlfriends and I about whether her behaviour in Season 2 was justified or if she was legitimately just fucking nuts.

I’m not saying she was right to do some of the things she did, but I can understand why she did them.

Now, bear with me.

The not used as often as it should be rational part of me says that when Dick Face Simon came back to town she should have just ignored him.  Been the bigger person and left him be.

But on the flip side I can see 100% how his return activated her Psycho Switch.

At the end of Season 1 she’d played him like a fiddle and he ended up doing a bunk to London with his Piece On The Side.  Boom!! She’s won we all thought!

Between you and me, I wasn’t convinced she ever really had closure.  Sure, to the outside world she looked like she’d handled it well – but did she?  I always thought she buried a lot of what she actually felt so his reappearance made all the feelings she’d ignored erupt like a fucking volcano!

Which brings me to now.

Until I wrote the post about the dickhead with The Fiancee I hadn’t thought about him in a long time.  I spent a few days after The Telephone Call From Hell hoping she’d thrown his shit out and dumped his sorry ass and decided to chalk the whole situation up to a shitty fucking experience.

And then last night happened.

Match.com has this wonderful way of notifying you every time someone looks at your profile.  I haven’t been online in a few days but figured I’d give it a quick check.

WHAT. FRESH. FUCKING. HELL.

Guess who was there in my list of ‘people who have viewed you’.

Him.

MP.

There he was in all his lying, slimy, sack of shit glory.

Don’t click his profile and see what it says he’ll know you’ve done it. 

All rationale went out of the window and I clicked his picture more aggressively than I meant to.  Seeing his face again flipped my Psycho Switch from off to on.

He hadn’t changed anything.  Same photos as before.  Same bullshit blurb as before.  Same everything as before.  Same, same, same.

Take a million screenshots just in case you need them down the line as further proof he’s a fucking asshole.

I genuinely didn’t care that he’d get the same notification I had.  That I’d looked at his profile.  Fuck it, maybe I wanted him to know that I knew he was back online.

I opened WhatsApp and messaged our group chat with what had happened.  Ammi was quite insistent that I shouldn’t message him but did ask if I’d kept L’s number – she wondered if it would be worth telling her he’s back online in case she’d been a fucking idiot and taken him back she hadn’t left – but I deleted the numbers I had a few weeks after everything happened.

The general consensus was that I shouldn’t make any contact in anger even though he had behaved like a complete and utter fucking asshole first time round.  Both suggested I sleep on it and see how I feel.

Well, I’ve slept on it.

And I’m still fucking fuming.

How dare he look at my profile.  I haven’t changed that much since the last time we saw each other so he had no need of poking about – unless his intention was to alert me to his presence in which case well fucking done sunshine.  I see you.

Not only do I see you, but I’ve got some things to say.

You are a selfish, spineless, lying, manipulative fucking waste of space.

Did what you were doing and the impact it would have on not one, not two but five people make you at any point think ‘You know what, this is probably going to make me look a cunt, so I shouldn’t do it?!’  No it fucking didn’t. It can’t have done.

You have a seven year old daughter.  You are the single most important male role model in her life and you should be the example of what she looks for in someone when she’s old enough.  Not fucking romping your way round the country by being a lying fucking scumbag.  Someone who gains a persons trust only to destroy it when you’re done or bored or found out.

Your fiancee had a nine year old daughter for fuck sake.  Not only did you cheat on L but you took the trust that little girl placed in you and you pissed it up the wall along with everything else.

And then there was me.

Don’t get me wrong, in hindsight I’m not naive enough to think I was the first and we all know I wont be the last – but let me ask you – have you ever had to tell another person that their someone, the person they loved more than anything was cheating on them?  Have you ever heard the sound of someones heart breaking on the phone?  Have you?

I have.

When she called me that Sunday I heard her entire world crumble.  I heard her heart break.  I heard the clogs in her brain turning while she tried to process what she’d been told and I heard her try and work out what she should do, what she’d have to tell her daughter; a girl who’d been in your life for seven fucking years you selfish prick.

I apologised over and over and over again.  I justified my behaviour.  I promised her I wasn’t some whore who’d knowingly got involved with a man who wasn’t available.

I felt dirty.

I felt violated.

I felt disgusting.

You made me feel those things.  You were responsible for the resulting clusterfuck after that call.

You.

Not L.  Not me.

And all because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.

If you’re back online because you are genuinely in a position where you can pursue someone then fine.  I suspect you aren’t though given you’ve hidden your photos now knowing I’ve seen you.

What are you hiding?  Or are you worried I might contact you and call you out on your bullshit?

Well don’t worry, I wont.

You’re not worthy of breathing the same air as me let alone be given any more space in my brain.

I will never, ever have anything to do with you again.  I will never write or speak of you again.

You no longer exist in my world.

Now, to quote Rachel from friends ‘that my friend is what they call closure’

the one with the (semi) naked selfie

OK, lets get something straight; if you want take a picture of yourself stark bollock naked (or even semi naked for that matter) for your own pleasure or the viewing pleasure of you and a partner or because you need the girls to verify something that looks a bit unsightly on your skin and are sending it to them via the privacy of your WhatsApp group chat then please…. knock yourself out.

Seriously.  Do it.  Go on and live your best life.

But if you want to take *that* kind of photo with the sole intention of sending it to me someone that you have never met because you think it’s a giggle or because ‘you just have to’ then there is something very fucking wrong with you and you should know that shit like that boils my piss.

*************************************

I got chatting to B weeks ago.

Nothing consistent at first, just the odd bit of chat here and there.  If I’m honest I wasn’t entirely convinced that he floated my boat and I wondered if we actually had that much in common but he given that he didn’t offer to ‘sort me right out’ and had made me laugh when we did chat I figured I’d see what would happen.

After a while came the inevitable exchange in numbers.

And there was my fucking mistake.

The first message came through and just said ‘Nice’ and had a winky face emoji at the end.

The second message read ‘Back home now’.  It too was accompanied by a winky face emoji.

Both messages came through at gone 10:30pm.

Now, I’m not a night owl – I never have been.  I’m rubbish at staying up late and for those who don’t believe me you can ask The Hot Geek.  The only time you’ll find me up after that time is if I’m pissed on Prosecco with the girls in which case I’ve been known to still be awake at gone midnight.

Naturally, I hadn’t replied…. but for fear of making B feel like I was ignoring him I sent a quick text that just read ‘Morning! x’ and this was the response I got:

3

Fuck. Sake.

No, I didn’t approve and his comment about it ‘only being a giggle’ really fucked me off because I wasn’t smiling.

4

After a while I got a couple of messages back:

5

Now, what I wanted to reply with was ‘it left me the impression that you were an oversexed dickhead’.

But, in a surprisingly out of character move, I thought I’d actually send him something that might make him think in future:

The “Sorry… Had to be done” implies that you couldn’t help yourself but to send the photo and it wasn’t till I challenged you on it that you jokingly acknowledged I didn’t approve and when it became very a clear I wasn’t interested in it only then did you apologise.

The apology would have been fine if you hadn’t followed it up with a comment about being a giggle which came across as you weren’t sorry at all. You were having a laugh with no care as to the impact it would have on me.

The thing is, it starts off with photos like that and 90% of the time it moves into pictures that are more revealing and when you don’t know a person it’s just so uncalled for.

If you met me in a bar… your first thought wouldn’t be to remove your top and show me your body? I don’t get why it’s OK to do it to someone you’ve been talking to online?

The simple answer is it’s not.

I’m not a prude and like I said at the beginning of this post – if this type of thing floats your boat or, as my mate Ammi says, ‘butters your crumpet’ you crack on but before you add it to a message or an email and send it to a total fucking stranger ask yourself – if you met the person you were sending it to in a bar or a cafe or anywhere for that matter – would your first action be to whack off your top and stand loud and proud in front of them waiting for some sort of approval.

I suspect the answer would be no.

So don’t be a dick.

the one with the unhappily married man

1  2

Fuck sake.

Admitting you’re married to me does not earn you brownie points.  It does not endear you to me me in anyway shape or form.  It does not make my knickers pound with the excitement of forbidden passion.

It makes me rage.

And it makes me feel sorry for your wife.

Oh, and me noting how honest you were wasn’t my way of offering you a compliment.

As a single woman this is my advice to you:

If you’re that miserable in your relationship and you can’t (or don’t want to) make it work then find your fucking balls and leave.

Please.

Leave before you fuck up a whole bunch of peoples lives for the sake of you wanting fun and excitement.

the one with the financial compensation

The words ‘You have one new email’ from match flashed across my notifications bar.

Silently I chant my new mantra ‘Please don’t be weird.  Please don’t be weird. Please don’t be weird’.

I open the message and it reads:

“Hey, I really loved your profile and I think it was very brave of you to let your friends write it.  I’m tempted to ask if you had to bribe them to be kind about you but I suspect not, you have a really pretty face, you look kind and honest”.

Given I like my ego (not a euphemism) stroked on occasion as much as the next person, I hit reply.

Shallow?  Yes.

Fucks given? Zero.

My reply was:

“Ah thank you, that’s very kind of you.  I didn’t have to bribe them to write nice things about me but they do now have a vested interest in my dating endeavours so I have to give them progress reports :-).  How are you?”

Now, I never met up with this guy who we’ll call Mr Dublin, but over the course of a week or so, our conversation went like this:

Mr Dublin: I’m really good thank you, tired from all the travelling though.  I work in London.  Canary Wharf actually, lovely but a bit hectic.  How about you?  What’s work for you?

Me: I work for a Digital Marketing company in Bracknell.  Nice and local thankfully.  I used to work in Canary Wharf – many moons ago though, couldn’t go back to going into London everyday.  Do you live in London?

Mr Dublin: Kind of.

OK, I’ll bite

Me: Kind of?

Mr Dublin: I’m from Dublin actually, still live there but stay in London Monday to Friday for work.

Right…..

Me: Oh wow.  You must really enjoy your job to be so committed to coming to London for work.  What do you do?

Mr Dublin: I am.  But my family are all back home, so as vibrant as London is, the city can feel a bit lonely.

Here we go….

Me: Ah, I see.

Mr Dublin: Look, you seem really nice so I feel like I should be 110% honest with you.

Tell him to fuck off and hit delete

Me: You know you can only be 100% honest don’t you?

Mr Dublin: I have a wife.

Wanker

Me: Goodbye.

Mr Dublin: Wait, look, I’m trying to be honest.  I’ve been married for a long time and my wife lives in Dublin.  She’s my best friend and we get on really well but, well, she doesn’t stimulate me.  Physically.

Fucking wanker

Mr Dublin:  Me and my wife have an agreement.  We don’t want to separate so while I’m in England if I want to seek out the company of another woman I can.  I’m totally open about it with her.

Pretty sure it’s ‘my wife and I’ asshole

Mr Dublin: Come to London.

Me: You’re joking?

Mr Dublin: No.  Come to London.  I’d like to get to know you.  We can have dinner.

Me: Not even if hell freezes over.

Mr Dublin: LOL.  Stubborn.  I like that in a woman.

Persistent little fucker aren’t you

Mr Dublin: Where do you live?  I can send a car to come get you and bring you to London.  We’ll have drinks and dinner.  You won’t have to pay for a thing.  I’ll be a total gentleman.

Who will no doubt want to screw me after dinner.  Like a gentleman

Mr Dublin: I can put you up in a hotel if you don’t want to go home.  I’ll make sure you get home the next day.  We’ll have fun, I promise.  I’m really quite funny.

You’re a fucking moron

Mr Dublin: I’m serious.  The whole evening will be on me.

And you’ll be in me given half a fucking chance

Me: Look, I’m not sure how many times you’ve used this line on women before and how many of my kind have been bimbo enough to fall for it but I’m not interested.  Take the money you’d spend and get yourself some therapy.  You clearly need it.

Mr Dublin: You’d be well compensated for your time.  Its not just dinner and drinks I’d cover.

Outstanding

Me: Sorry?  Did you just offer to pay me for sex?  Are you fucking serious?  London is full of places where you can rent a woman by the hour so if you’re that fucking desperate and your right hand is no longer working for you sunshine, you might want to look there.  My tetanus isn’t quite up to date and men like you make my skin crawl.  I feel sorry for your wife.  Fuck off and don’t email me again.

the one with the fiancee

At 46, MP wasn’t the oldest guy who’d ever messaged me on match.com but he was certainly at the top end of my specified age range.

He was tall, athletic, had salt and pepper hair and eyes as blue as the tropical seas.  He really was very handsome.

His first message landed in my inbox a week or so after my date with The Drunk and I proceeded with a new found air of caution.

I was surprised by how warm and friendly it was.  He’d given some thought to it’s content which thankfully avoided questions like ‘so, what are your views on being fingered?’ and statements like ‘you look really naughty, I bet you know how to have fun…’.  He finished the message by offering his full name and the name of where he worked so that if I wanted to check him out and make sure he wasn’t lying, I could.

Now, I’m not a massive bimbo all the time.  I was more than aware that it could have been one big elaborate hoax (though a tiny part of me wondered who the fuck has time for shit like that)  but having learned a valuable lesson with The Drunk I used the details he gave me and googled him.  Sure enough on the results page there was his company bio, linked-in profile and twitter account.

What a fucking relief.  I did a bit of a happy dance, gave myself a high five and emailed him back.

Messaging him was easy and dare I say it, I almost enjoyed hearing from him.

We talked about work, past relationships, our home life, ambitions, our kids and what we enjoyed in our spare time.  Though he was older we had a fair bit in common.  Where we differed was in our jobs.  I do nine to five for a firm of Financial Advisers whereas he worked in Software (what is with me and Hot Geeks?!) and looked after clients all over Europe so he travelled a lot.  That, he said, was why he’d struggled to find anyone long term.

I suspect it was more the fact he was a lying, cheating sack of shit.  But we’ll get to that later.

My Modus Operandi is to message for a while online and establish if things flow before moving into giving someone my number – God forbid it end up in a phone box advertising sexy services or worse still, on the internet where some rogue PPI claim company could get hold of me – but after a couple of weeks MP came straight out and asked if I’d like to meet for coffee.  Nothing strenuous; just a quick get together over lunch to see if we got on in person as much as we did online.

Not wanting another date which ends with being sexually assaulted and verbally abused I agreed and we met in a coffee shop near my work.

It was really lovely.  He was softly spoken (thank God for my hearing aid) but as nice in person as I’d imagined.  Truth be told, I could have spent all afternoon talking to him but as I had to go back to work we both agreed to go for a drink next time and something to eat.

Fast forward a couple of months and we’d started to see each other more regularly and were talking on the phone when we could.

Nothing in how he behaved gave me cause for concern.  But then I’d expect nothing less from a Master Manipulator.

Easter Saturday I woke to a text message which simply read:

“A, you’re so lovely and wonderful, but I cannot see you anymore”

What the fuck.  Like, what the actual fuck?

Screenshotting it I sent it the girls with a message that just said ‘I will never understand men’.

I couldn’t reply because (like a spineless bellend) he blocked me so feeling a bit bemused and a little upset (and quite a bit pissy) I took myself to Reading for the Easter Weekend.

At exactly 1:33pm on Easter Sunday my phone rang.  A number I didn’t have stored flashed across the screen and in that exact moment something inside me knew who would be on the other end of the phone.  The conversation went like this:

Me: Hello?

Her: Hi is that A?

Me: It is.

Her: Hi, I’m L.  MP’s fiancee.

Me: ….. and now it makes perfect sense.

Fuck. My. Actual. Fucking. Life.

For someone who had found the courage to pick up the phone and call me, L was surprisingly calm.  She didn’t shout (I would have), she didn’t swear (I absolutely would have) and she didn’t assign blame (I probably would have…).  What she was, was a woman looking for answers.

I made L one promise on that call: I would answer any question she had on the proviso that she understood two things:

  1. That I had absolutely no idea she existed.
  2. That she accepted she probably wasn’t going to like some of the answers she got.

Before you judge me know this: I genuinely had no idea she existed.  Not a fucking scooby.  I’ve been in relationships with men who can’t keep their dick in their pants so I know first hand how dogshit awful that feels.  NOTHING in how he behaved gave me reason to suspect he was with someone; we talked on the phone before work and after work, in the evenings and at the weekends.

For the next half an hour I told her everything.  Told her how MP and I met.  About our messages.  About our dates.  Where we’d been and when.  Everything.

I had nothing to hide because in my eyes I’d done nothing wrong.

Between us we pieced together a clusterfuck jigsaw of lies and deceit.  For every time MP was with me, he’d lied to L about where he was.  Every single time.

L had long suspected that he was unfaithful but having seized an opportunity to go through his phone she’d found the last of our text messages and frantically wrote my number down and called me when he was out.

I told her that it was unlikely I was the first woman he’d cheated with and I was undoubtedly not going to be the last.  My advice, not that it meant anything in the grand scheme of things, was to pack her bags and leave.  And maybe set fire to all of his shit before she go.

At the end of the conversation a tiny, broken voice just said thank you.

Thank you?  Was she serious I thought?  I’ve just told you things I hadn’t told my girlfriends and you’re thanking me?  In that very moment I felt fucking awful.  I felt like the bullet fired from a gun that shattered her heart and I felt disgusting for it.

And then I felt pure, unadulterated rage that a man I had come to trust had behaved like a prepubescent boy who had just discovered what his cock does and was determined to yield it like a bastard lightsaber at anyone he could.  What a selfish, lying, manipulative fuck.

Before L and I disconnected, MP came home and in a heartbeat I heard L find her ladyballs and tell him that she was on the phone to me and that she knew everything.  A tiny squeak emanated from MP and though I wasn’t there I knew his world had come crashing down.  She asked me if I wanted to speak to him one last time and I simply replied saying “Nah I’m good thanks, I’d rather stitch my vagina up that give him anymore of my time.  Good luck”

And with that, the call was done.

So now, when people mock me for my rules I tell them this story.

the one with the drunk

Until recently, I had three rules that anyone who wanted to have the pleasure of my company for the long term was expected to keep:

  • Don’t lie
  • Don’t cheat
  • Don’t hit me

Basic, simple, standard stuff.

Rules that you shouldn’t really have to remind people to follow because, lets be honest, they shouldn’t be dicks.

Those rules have done me well…. that was, until I went out with M at the beginning of this year.

M had real potential.

He had a good job, owned his own home, had no crazy ex on the scene and more importantly had the kind of sense of humour that didn’t just make me chuckle, it made me belly laugh.

M and I spent the best part of a month chatting online before I took the plunge and gave him my mobile number which came with the obvious caveat of ‘no dick pics please’ and ‘don’t drunk text me’.  We spent another few weeks texting and chatting on the phone before we set the date.

We decided to meet for a late lunch at 3:30pm.  He lived in Thatcham and I’m in Wantage – as the venue was ladies choice I decided to pick a pub that’s run by a very good friend of mine mid way between us.  Plus I figured I’d be close to a friendly face if things went tits up.

Sometimes my subconscious is on fire!

Date Day arrived and shortly after midday I got a text from M to say he was at the pub.  I explained that I wasn’t ready with some things to finish off and that I was still planning on getting there for 3:30 – I politely suggested perhaps he might like to head home and go back later but he insisted on waiting and watching the rugby… he said it’d be fine.

It wasn’t.

By the time I arrived M was as pissed as a newt.  He could just about walk to the bar and gleefully admitted he was on pint number 6.  Excellent.

I should have turned round and run for the fucking hills left but I put the overindulgence down to nerves: he’d been married for quite a long time, separated about 18 months and hadn’t really been out with anyone in that time so figured I’d give him the benefit of the doubt!

I’d arranged for us to have a table away from the main bar where we could sit and talk and get to know each other.  That’s what I’d planned on doing.

Not M though…

With food ordered (mine, not his… he declared that ‘eating’s cheating’ and ordered wine) I nipped to the loo quickly to find a window to jump out of to give myself a pep talk but on my return I found M sat with 6 strangers.  Men who’d come to the pub to watch the rugby and who were now, it would seem, sat with us on one big table!

Things really started to unravel when one of the guys – Russ – leaned over to me and said “I think you’re really brave”.  What? Brave? For what I wondered?  Not. A. Clue what he was on about.  Confused, I looked at M who whispered “check your phone”.  While I’d been away, M had taken the liberty of fabricating a whole new backstory for us and had regaled his new friends with tales that I was his probation officer and that against all advice we’d embarked on a love affair.

I was quick to put Russ right much to M’s disappointment.

I know.  I know.  Fucking weirdo.

By the end of the game M had lost all ability to walk or stand upright but he did retain his faculties enough to declare how much he cared about me and how he really wanted to see me again and began pushing for a second date.

Now, in my head I’m screaming ‘you’re having a fucking laugh sunshine, I can’t believe I stayed on this one let alone go for another!’ but opted instead to say that it wasn’t going to work and that perhaps things would be best left and said we’ll call it a day.

Judging by the reaction I may as well have told him his house had been burned to the ground and his dog was dead.  He was raging.

Giving him time to calm down I retreated back to the loo and told my friend I’d be back in a moment.  When I came out, M was waiting for me.  He’d calmed down and opted to change tact – he’d decided that the only way to change my mind and for me to see what a catch he really was, was to for me to kiss him.

Fuck that.

I declined.  Politely (at first).

His ‘request’ was a more forceful second time round and came with him grabbing my wrists and trying to shove his tongue down my throat. Grim.

I said no again and to emphasise my point I shoved my knee between his legs.  He soon moved.

Upset and angry he told me that if he’d known I was going to be a ‘pissy bitch’ he wouldn’t have stayed.  Charming.

With that he grabbed his coat and stormed out.

I returned to my table and ordered a bottle of wine with my friend where we sat and read, with equal parts horror and amusement, the flurry of messages he sent me from his cab telling me I was a disgrace, I was a tease, how he cared about me and I just ripped his heart out…. blah, blah, blah

I never heard from him again.

So now I have four rules:

  • Don’t lie
  • Don’t cheat
  • Don’t hit me
  • Don’t get pissed on your first date

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