2013-05-22T14:10:37-04:00 The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=the-guyliner Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for The Guyliner Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3317355 2013-05-22T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-22T11:59:28-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
I roll my eyes. Yet another date who confuses sleaze and innuendo with flirtation. For me, they're uneasy bedfellows.

I'm sitting in the park on an unseasonably warm day for the time of year. Before me is a mini banquet of all manner of romantic foods: chocolates; adorable cupcakes; dinky little sandwiches with the corners cut off; fizz. And yet there is no spark whatsoever between me and my date, who now sits next to me proffering a red lollipop, eager for me to wrap my lips around it. No doubt he's anticipating a preview of the 'technique' that I am now absolutely certain he is never going to experience in real life.

You should try to avoid going on dates if you're not that keen on the person. While it can be nice to 'get out of the house', toying with someone's affections merely because you don't have anything else in the diary is unfair. I am, of course, filled to the rafters with advice I never take and standards I set but refuse to live by, so, through lack of other options, I'm here with Graham, an accountant from what he calls "the West Country", getting grass stains on my favourite shorts. I'm a bad person, I know; I don't need telling twice.

This is our second date - our first was a run-of-the-mill 'four drinks and home' on a Thursday night. There was a distinct lack of something on our first meeting, but he has a nice face and has made the fatal mistake of acting as if he is very 'into me' -- the ultimate aphrodisiac. I am nothing if not vain and stupid, so rather than politely decline his invitation to poke over finger food in the middle of Regents Park, I accepted. For one brief, idiotic moment I imagined an afternoon basking in the undivided attention of a pretty boy would be a good way to spend the weekend and a relatively wholesome one at that. Instead, he's trying to get me to fellate sugary treats in an effort to move the date on from being two vague acquaintances nodding at each other across a picnic blanket, to a pair of lusty bodies writhing around in the herbaceous borders.

He's giving up his Saturday for what he thinks is a sure thing, so I do feel a little disingenuous having agreed to meet him. Lewd lollipops aside, he's gone all out to charm me -- and his picnic is impressive -- but, like I say, I didn't have anything better to do anyway. Sometimes that's the only reason guys say yes to a date -- an empty horizon. I have jumped upon the wrong ship out of sheer desperation.

I take the lollipop, despite myself, and wrap my mouth around it. He watches, transfixed, like a businessman watching a stripper take her bra off. To make up for my guilt at wasting his time, I make more of an effort to be entertaining and chatty. I know this isn't going anywhere, but I don't have to act like an arsehole. I at least owe him some conversation. I ask him lots of questions and he answers them eagerly. I quickly realise my renewed interest in him is making him like me even more. I'm not really sure how to extricate myself from this, so I turn on to my front and prop myself up with my elbows, noseying at everybody else in the park. He reaches out and strokes the back of my knee with his hand. I turn to look at him; he's staring straight ahead. His facial expression displays nonchalance, but the tremble of his touch betrays his nerves. Soon, the sun starts to slink off behind the trees. I sit up and nervously fidget with the lolly wrapper.
He fixes his doe eyes upon me and asks: "What are you doing tonight?"

I lie back on the grass and close my eyes tightly. I hear the splash of prosecco as he refills my glass. "Nothing," I say. "I'm free tonight."

I open my eyes and he is looking back at me. I guess he's maybe thinking that 'sure thing' is going to work out for him after all. He's pleased, hopeful -- whereas I just wish I'd never laid eyes on that bloody lollipop.

Stats: 28, 5'11", brown/blue, Taunton
Where: Regents Park, London
Pre-date rating: 6/10
Post-date rating: 6/10
Date in one sentence: Don't suck anything unless you're prepared to face the consequences.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3270893 2013-05-14T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-14T12:21:42-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
I tune back in to hear him telling me, in a rainy Tuesday monotone, about a go-go bar he went to in the East Village and quickly zone out again, my eye wandering over his shoulder to someone standing in the distance. That someone looks familiar. Hotly familiar. We catch each other's eye and stare a millisecond too long. I remember. Why, we went on a date only the other week. As I recall, he turned up looking hotter than hell, ate a burger, spat most of it over me and then left me the morning after with an oniony taste in my mouth I couldn't shake for days. So far, so normal.

The gay world is too small, I sigh. I decide to refocus, however, on my current date, who is in full flow about a carriage ride through Central Park. It's not that New York is boring - it's one of my most favourite places on Earth. Yet my date is recalling his trip with all the vigour of a bank teller warning me the next direct debit to leave my account will send me overdrawn. I hold in a yawn so hard that my lungs start to sizzle. My phone buzzes. A text message. Guess who?

"You look bored. Fancy a drink?"

I glance over to where my observer is standing. He looks mischievous. He raises his glass and gives me a lopsided grin.

I turn back to my date and start to weigh things up. I've not been great company. I'm unresponsive. He deserves better. Plus, he picked his nose and wiped it under the table when he thought I wasn't looking. The SMS intruder, on the other hand, looks a lot more fun.  I'm no pushover, though. Let's make him work for it. Plus, it's my round and I don't want to look stingy.

At the bar I reply:
"Well, look who it is. I'm actually having an outstanding time, thanks."

Quick as a flash, he's back at me:
"You're full of it. Your eyelids are drooping. Again - do you fancy a drink?"

I'm so excited, I almost fancy I can taste onion in my mouth again. But I'm not a ball of knitting, to be picked up whenever he's bored. I haven't heard from him since our date. And so I reply:
"Maybe I do. You never called."

In a heartbeat comes the retort:
"Neither did you. Consider this the call. What's your answer?"

Touché. I return to my date smiling to myself, but knowing I'm beaten. That's a good answer. The cocksure bastard.

But how to extricate myself from the king of Manhattan? We sip our drinks for another 5 minutes until I spot my date stifling a yawn and see my opportunity.

"I'm a bit tired," I say. "Do you mind if we call it a night?"

My date nods a little too eagerly - clearly he's not head over heels in love with me either - and we leave the pub, the texter's eyes burning into us. Out of the corner of my eye I see him reach for his phone. Ideally, I'm aiming to be standing in front of him before he can even type "WTF?"

As I say my goodbyes to the Big Apple enthusiast, I feel my phone buzz angrily in my pocket. And then again. Eventually I see the date into a cab and victoriously turn back to the pub, texting the words that will get me my 'Access All Areas' pass deep into the fires of Hell:
"Yes. Pint. See you in 5."

Stats: 29, 5'8", brown/hazel, Cheltenham
Where: East London, E1
Pre-date rating: 7/10
Post-date rating: four for the guy I started out on the date with. A solid eight for the one I ended it with.
Date in one sentence: If you can't love the one you want, love the one you're with - unless someone hotter is standing in the corner.

A truncated version of this post first appeared in GT magazine, where I write a monthly column about my dating experiences. Find out when the next issue is due on the GT website.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3236272 2013-05-08T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-08T12:18:53-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
You may have no regrets at all at the dawn after a night of passion, and the person lying next to you may be the one you've been dreaming of, but even if it's a one-nighter, there's still plenty of opportunity for mortification. Behold a mere three things you'd really want to avoid the morning after.

Messy flat
As if waking up in a strange place wasn't bad enough, having to contend with your date's dubious household hygiene standards can take awkwardness to a whole new level. On the nightstand, a flat glass of Diet Coke, empty food wrappers of brands you didn't think they still made any more, and enough dust bunnies to make a life-sized model of the tornado from the Wizard of Oz.

You creep through to the bathroom only to find there must have been some industrial accident: a shower curtain in shades of green and orange never seen in nature; the remnants of what appears to have been a cat's Jacuzzi party in the bath plughole and a toilet bowl that, were it sentient, would bring its owners to trial as war criminals.

Tip: If you're having someone back, have a whizz round with a cloth and a bin bag. If you're the one confronted by the mess, make sure you're wearing rubber gloves if you plan on seeing them again.

Lack of a quick exit
If there's one thing you want after a one-nighter (or the first of many nights), it's the ability to beat a hasty retreat. Awkwardly dressing while they watch? Getting discovered creeping out? Opening the bedroom door to find a houseful of roommates eating breakfast and staring at you like you just fell from the sky. If you can (and are sober enough or not engrossed in 'the moment'), pay attention to the way you get into the place, as you're sure as hell going to want to be exiting as painlessly as possible, at twice the speed.

Tip: If confronted by stunned flatmates or, even worse, a rogue parent or sibling, pretend to be a workman who has been doing essential, erm, overnight repairs. This may mean you to have to dress in overalls for every date you go on, just in case.

Regret
We know that you're ultra desirable and no end of bright young things would be desperate to wake up with you, but sometimes, well, you can't guarantee that the guy at the next pillow is going to be glad to find you there.

Yes, coming face to face with someone who last night was all over you but this morning clearly preferred you with a few pints behind you. Or maybe he was caught up in the moment and now that moment has definitely come to an end.

You can usually tell if the night before won't be turning into a happily ever after. Talking in clipped sentences; no offer of a cuppa; getting up and walking out of the room, only to come back into it showered and dressed; saying how "tired" they are and telling you the best bus routes to take home. Like they care.

Styling it out can be difficult, but just shrug and get on with it. Pull on your socks, locate your shoes and breezily say your goodbyes as you open the bedroom door, no need for whys and wherefores and number-swapping. Oh, you've walked into a cupboard. Never mind. Try again. Another cupboard. Crap. What did I tell you about ensuring you had a clear exit? Don't look at him, just open the next door and walk forward. It has to be this one, right?

Tip: Hang your underwear (a sock will do - you're not a stripper) on the handle of the door that gets you out of the bedroom so you know where to look. Make sure you hang it on the inside, too - you don't want the rest of the household knowing your SHAME.

Coming soon: The Perils of 'Waking Up Second'.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3183153 2013-04-30T19:00:00-04:00 2013-04-30T12:27:54-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
So many of us miss out on the follow-up date. They say sequels can never live up to their predecessor (mine certainly don't), but lots of debuts fail to even get the chance to try.

Is there something you can do to smooth the path to 'date deux'? Maybe. Here are seven for a start. (I use him throughout, but I suppose it works both ways, but I kiss boys not girls, and they do say "write what you know". Although, I don't really know much.)

Pay your way
You want to be treated like a prince or princess? Fine, no problem. But even William and Kate have their own wallets. Put your hand in your pocket if you want his fingers to dial your number.

Sort out your attitude to sex
Some facts: not everybody thinks having sex (or going back to theirs for a fumble and/or nakedness) is anathema to getting a second date; having sex on a first date doesn't mean they will see you again, either. Sex after a first date is not a prize, a reward or a bargaining tool. It can turn some people off you, or be the start of the most passionate of relationships. Do not get too hung up on this. 'Withholding' sex (a ridiculous phrase I feel compelled to use) in the hope it will make you like someone more is ridiculous, as is 'putting out' for the same reason. Be relaxed and go with the flow. Yes, you can always leave your audience wanting more - but sometimes the passion takes over. Sod it, your mother will not make you wear ivory.

Be honest
If you want things to go beyond the premiere, make sure you have been as straight with your date as injunctions will allow. If you've done a bit of bragging, inventing or boasting to seem like a bigger catch, well more fool you, but it needn't mean you can't pull back from it. Daters aren't stupid, though - we can tell a bull-shitter from twenty paces (make it ten if sober). Bigging yourself up is OK - making it up isn't so great.

Get it in the diary
If you can feel something between you - a spark, a lightning bolt, whatever - then why not talk about some events you're going to be at or nights out you'll be having and see if he might be there, or if he'd like to come along? I mean, y'know, you're going to have to keep this casual as it's date 1 and all, but if you just drop a few suggestions, he might remember you when he thinks about his plans for the weekend. Then, when he's there, you can do your best to work your magic.

Keep it light
The chat between you on your date is the major thing - it's what you'll be doing most of apart from a) going to the bar b) scurrying to the toilet to text friends or c) smooching (hopefully). So the chat has to be grade-A quality. Keep it witty, bright and breezy. Good-natured, flirtatious badinage is your aim. Leave the heavier stuff like family travails, politics (I'm not saying be shallow but gloss over any potential political differences which may cause conflict), work woes and all that stuff to dates 3 and 4, when you've already charmed the pants off them. Believe me, I have tried going in with 'agenda' chat and found myself staring at a rainy kerb waiting for the bus home with a phone quieter than a post-apocalyptic library. And hey, do plenty of listening, too - you're not at the hustings.

Don't think about it
You know the saying "a watched pot never boils"? Well that's a load of old baloney, and the person who said it has a hell of a lot of kitchenware with holes in the bottom. But, there is something to be said for having a relaxed attitude when it comes to the follow-up call. Don't end the date with "So... I'll hear from you soon, right?" or "Are you going to call me?" - just end with a goodbye, a peck (or more if you're feeling that way inclined) and when you part, thank them for a great evening and wish them a safe journey home. If it's gone well and you're feeling positive, you've probably done all you can. No amount of mind control is going to change the outcome. And you know what? He might just call. Or...

Be the one to call
Why wait? Give it two or three days after the first date and send a text, smoothing the way for that phone call. Why not? Nobody ever got anywhere by waiting for something that might never come. Why sit at home wondering why he hasn't called? Don't worry about coming across as 'pushy' or a 'stalker' - he may be shy and really glad you got in touch. What's the worst that can happen? A refusal? Whatever, there'll be others. Don't die wondering. Put yourself in control. If it's going to turn into anything serious, it's right where you'll want to be.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3161352 2013-04-26T19:00:00-04:00 2013-04-26T12:53:49-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
But where there is wireless, hardware, oak beams and credit cards, there is retail; and here I am, wandering around it on a Saturday, looking for nothing in particular. I'm glad my own MacBook Pro, which wheezes like an asthmatic vuvuzela every time I turn it on, is at home and not here to see the sleek, steel-encased upstarts that will one day replace it both in my affections and upon my knee. The place is crammed with Apple fanatics in all shapes and sizes and with every variety of facial hair imaginable. Ageing computer geeks, tight-skinned students, emo girls, hipster grandmas, confused middle-class parents rife for a fleecing by their offspring and me, peeking over everybody's shoulder to get a look-in at a machine so I can check my email, as my ever-unreliable phone is about to gasp its last in battery power.

I'm having no luck, so decide to move upstairs to find a free computer. As I make my way to the staircase, I notice three younger people - two guys and a girl - standing at the foot of it and looking my way. One guy is whispering in the ear of the other guy and looking at me. It's making me a bit uncomfortable, but I carry on - I'll leave being afraid of youths until I'm elderly. They're dressed in that young way where nothing seems to fit them properly and one of the guys looks like he hasn't taken his baseball cap off since he was a toddler. They are, of course, all beautiful in their own way. I walk past them and start up the steps. I only manage two or three paces before I feel someone rush past me and stop right in front of me. It is Guy 1, the whisperer, sans baseball cap. I don't have much time to take him in, but he is young, cute and staring quizzically at me.

"Excuse me?" he says, in an accent I immediately recognise as French. By stopping, I've already excused him, I guess, so I don't reply. He goes on: "Are you gay?"

I'm confused. It's not often I get asked this question in public, let alone in the middle of the day. And even though we're in the middle of the uber-liberal, peacenik outpost of sun-kissed California that is the Apple Store, I'm wary. Why would he be asking? Is he a homo or a homophobe? Is he going to kiss me or punch me on the nose?

I can't think of what to say, so I say nothing. His eyes search my face, desperate for an answer. I eventually say "Sorry?" to fill some stale air.

He begins to falter, before continuing: "It's just that you are very good-looking."

He pauses for a second, bows his head in embarrassment and looks like he's about to say something else. He doesn't, however, and darts off, away from me, just as I manage to blurt out a stunned "Thanks".

Thanks? Is that it? The best I can do? It's not as if I get told this every day. Not since my adoring grandmothers died have I received compliments on the way my face is set out with such enthusiasm (not to mention unsolicited). How is one supposed to react when someone compliments one's looks? And why would they be doing it right here, right now? Does he want me? What for? Should I be flattered? I am more than flattered. Would I feel the same if he hadn't been such a mouthwatering proposition himself?

I start to make my way back down the stairs, I don't know why. To get his number, maybe? To ask if he'd like mine? Instead, I notice him leave the store. As he does, he gives me a backward glance, full of mortification and missed opportunity.

And then he's gone. Shit.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3053127 2013-04-11T19:00:00-04:00 2013-04-11T12:55:58-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/ recent post on dumping someone by text proved to be pretty divisive. It seems that many people prefer a face-to-face break-up or, at the very least, a phone call.

It's a common fallacy that bad news like this is better in person, or coming from a disembodied voice at the end of a telephone. Perhaps it seems more personal, or means more, because it's perceived that tapping in a few digits, then delivering a knockout blow over the phone and waiting distractedly for the stunned reply, in some way takes more effort or is more respectful than sending a carefully worded text (or email if you're feeling jazzy or are Christopher Ewing in Dallas).

While I believe texting the kiss-off can empower the recipient much more than a surprise attack via a voice call - at least then the dumpee can think about crafting a response rather than blurting out hysterical reactions they will almost certainly regret later - I'll give the humble telephone the attention it deserves as a device for despatching paramours.

Pick your time carefully
When guys and gals in the 1960s and 1970s used the phone to chuck their lover under the bus, they had to rely on the landline, that dinosaur of the telecommunication age, to deliver the dismissal. That meant having a vague idea of when their future ex would be home and, if they were kind and considerate (which you really should be unless ending a toxic or abusive relationship), whether they would have anyone around them to comfort them. Now, of course, we have mobile phones - or 'cells' if you're reading this somewhere exciting like Manhattan or, erm, Anchorage - so you can get your dump on any time you like.

Even though your unfortunate dumpee is always contactable, keep your head in the 1960s. Nobody wants to be in the supermarket or at a club when they receive the news that the chords of their parachute into lifelong companionship have been severed. Nor do they want to be in the middle of dinner, arguing with their mum, on the toilet, appearing on reality television (my long overdue sympathies to Kevin Federline there) or at work when the news comes through.

Before you make THE call, you need to find out where they are. So, either send a text (see, even the heartless SMS has a role to play here) to see what they're up to, or give them a short call, before inventing some distraction which means you'll have to phone back later. You do, of course, run the risk of spooking them if you act distracted or sound ready to deploy your weapons of mass rejection right here and now. Keep this text or call fairly light. Save the plummeting anvil for the main event. No need to stress them out unnecessarily before you end it. Kindness is key.

I don't know how to say this...
Well, you really should. Starting off by saying that you're not sure what to say is a total cop-out, because it leaves the recipient in a brief state of frenzy. Are you going to announce a death? Reveal a lottery win? Tell them you have met someone else? Confess to a bank robbery? If you can't find the exact words straight away, do some stalling - and drop a few clues along the way - with a slightly more telling "Look, I've been thinking..." and make sure you say this in a SAD voice and are somewhere quiet, not in the queue for a bar with all your friends.

There'll then be a brief pause while the cogs whirr in your almost-ex's mind. You should struggle on, however, and say things aren't really working out for you and that you think you should both break up. Yes, the 'both' is key here, as you need to make it sound like this would be mutually beneficial.

"I want to break up with you" or "I'm breaking up with you" somehow seem colder than "I think we should break up". While it's you who's ruining everything and casting them back out into the kingdom of the singles, by introducing a 'we', you are giving the dumpee the chance to consider any doubts they have had about you themself. If you can, lead them to think it's the right decision - one that may have even been reached mutually were the discussion to go on much longer.

Hanging up on you
So you've said the words, but what now? Do you just hang up and leave them to their feelings? Do you let them air their emotions - which could range from a barrage of abuse and grievances to heartfelt, uncontrollable pleas to change your mind? It's your call, but bear in mind how emotionally charged the response will be. Do you trust yourself not to go back on it if they manage to convince you with tears and tales of all the good times? If you are going to cut the call short, do it kindly. Maybe even agree to talk it over in more detail some other day.

State your reasons for the break up, sure, but at least sugarcoat it to a degree. Nobody wants to hear that their laugh is too loud or their personal hygiene is akin to that of a wild boar. If things haven't been working out and you haven't felt fully into it or you want to be by yourself, then just say - put the responsibility on yourself, not them. You're walking away from it all, anyway; you may as well take the flack (unless they were really objectionable, of course).

And once the call is over, put the phone down and leave them alone. No late-night texts, no drunken regrets. Step away from rants on Facebook and save your saccharine apologies or sincere wishes for the future. Let them get over you. And you, of course, need to get over it too.

So, y'know, get over it.

If you're really stuck, give this a listen before you call. (Or, if you're just plain mean, play it down the phone.)

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3014725 2013-04-05T19:00:00-04:00 2013-04-05T13:23:33-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
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.

Stats: 28, 5'10, blond/blue, London
Where: Shoreditch, London
Pre-date rating: 7.5/10
Post-date rating: 3.5/10
Date in one sentence: One drink good, two wheels bad.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2980244 2013-03-29T19:00:00-04:00 2013-03-29T14:06:03-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
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.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2930402 2013-03-22T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-22T05:12:01-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
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.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2896727 2013-03-18T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-18T05:12:01-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
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" (seriously - it's 'a thing'). 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.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2861608 2013-03-13T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-13T05:12:01-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
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.

Stats: 5'10", brown/green
Where: A party in east London
Pre-date rating: N/A
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.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2826617 2013-03-10T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-10T05:12:01-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
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.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2803222 2013-03-04T19:00:00-05:00 2013-05-04T05:12:01-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
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.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2759300 2013-02-26T19:00:00-05:00 2013-04-28T05:12:01-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/ all the way in, do you think my ex was right to say that it was cheating?"

2. "What do you think of the coalition government?"

3. "I have been on soooo many dates this week, it's nice to finally just go for a drink that's probably not going to lead to sex for a change."

4. "But, no, the doctor said it would be fine if I just carried on using the cream and made sure anyone who touched it washed their hands before and after - but especially after."

5. "Is that a grey hair?"

6. "I mean, the baby probably isn't mine anyway, so I'm not going to worry too much about that until it gets older and starts asking for money."

7. "I'm going to the toilet, and when I come back, I'm going to kiss you. OK?"

8. "I just want you to know that I'm not the kind of person who goes home with someone on the first date. I mean, I don't know the area that well so wouldn't know how to get home in the morning, so I always take them back to mine."

9. "What do you think of this?"



10. "You looked different in your photographs. I thought you were blond."

11. "I really like that you feel comfortable with your natural smell. I mean, you know, deodorants are really bad for the ozone layer anyway, aren't they? And there's something so primitive about a man's natural odour. So sexy. Oh, you do wear one? Oh. Oh."

12. "Technically, we're still together. Well, not technically. Actually. Physically."

13. "I've got some coke in my pocket. Do you want some?"

14. "Yeah, I know, but hypothetically. No? What about this one, then?"



15. "I write a blog! It's about dating, and basically I go on dates with loads and loads of different guys and then write about them and rate them out of ten - but I won't write about you, I promise."

Images: Flickr ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2723451 2013-02-20T19:00:00-05:00 2013-04-22T05:12:01-04:00

The Guyliner http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-guyliner/
We have been at the bar about twenty minutes when my date - Dean, an estate agent from Kidderminster - looks out across the bar, his face freezing into a mask of horror and embarrassment. Naturally, my gaze begins to follow his, imagining he has spotted someone we can gently mock for the next minute or two (aww, c'mon... you do it too). Before I can fully turn my head to where he's looking, he clasps his hand round my wrist and implores me not to look. I dutifully turn my head back to his original position and look Dean straight in the face.
There is a moment's silence. Finally, I speak. "What's wrong?"

His face is still frozen, like a Victorian mill-owner posing for a family portrait. He stares straight ahead for what feels like an eternity before turning back to me, ashen-faced.
"I don't believe it," he says slowly, deliberately.
I can't imagine what's going to come next. Is he going to reveal to me that he's part of a terrorist cell, and his contact has entered the bar? Is his wife or mother in the room? I'm almost right. He speaks again.
"My ex-boyfriend is over there."

Finally I get the chance to turn to look where Dean was gawping before, to see a guy who, if I'm honest, looks a hell of a lot like Dean, except shorter, glugging on a pint and laughing. He is with another guy and they look to be on a date - and it's clearly not their first. The guy is tall, good-looking and around ten years younger than me. I feel for Dean right now.

"Do you want to go?" I ask, conscious that double-dating with one's ex, even when they're not aware of it, is probably not many people's idea of a great night out.
"No, we can't", he hisses in hushed tones. "He'll see. We'd have to go past them".
I take a long swig of my drink. I feel a long night ahead.

The conversation continues for the next few minutes, but Dean's mind is elsewhere. Just as I'm in the middle of telling him a frankly hilarious story about something that happened to me a few weeks earlier - a tale which really needs attention to fully 'get' it - his eyes robotically track to the left, where the ex is standing. I watch him do this around three or four times. He then drains his drink, the first of the night, and breezily exclaims: "Another?"

That his mission could attract the attention of his ex doesn't seem to bother him too much, so I say yes and watch as Dean attempts to reach the bar with all the subtlety of a pig in stilettos on a treadmill. He looks back at me and makes the 'same again' gesture and I nod over-enthusiastically, my head turning just in time to catch Dean's ex notice him. The ex rolls his eyes and then flicks them to me, looking me very quickly up and down before returning to Dean for one more weary glance and then back to his drink and his hotter date. It was a brief moment, but it was enough. This isn't the first time the ex has looked up from a drink to spot Dean in his eye line, I now realise. Dean, of course, chose this venue.

Dean returns with the drinks. "Do you think he saw? Did he look?" he asks expectantly.
I sip my pint. "No", I lie coolly, "he didn't".
Dean's face falls and sets in stone. I do not see him smile again.

The second drink is even more painful than the first. Dean's chatter has now been reduced to monosyllabic answers; I could slash open a vein in front of him and he would pay me no mind. While he hasn't looked over at his ex again, I know that's where his head is. His eyes are lifeless, his pretty mouth twisted into a scribble of pain and regret. I drink the last half of my pint far too quickly, but it has to be done. Enough.
"Shall we go?"

Outside, we manage to move a few steps before Dean asks if we can stop a minute and leans, half-crouching, against a wall. He looks up at me.
"I'm sorry", he says, his eyes becoming moist, "I'm so sorry".
I sigh. "It's okay. It must be really hard".
He nods piteously, like a child who has just dropped the last 10p of their spending money in a lake. "Yeah, it is", he murmurs.
"Did you...?" I am hesitant to talk about exes on a date but it seems the situation compels me. "Did you break up very recently?"

And then it comes - a tsunami of emotion I was unprepared for. The tears fall heavily and Dean begins making a choking, moaning sound, somewhere in between a car engine failing and a tube train pulling out of a station. He is crying.
He talks at a million miles an hour, every word juddering and anxious, like they are surprised to find themselves finally being spoken after God knows how long whirring around inside his head.

"He said he wanted some space. He said I could stay and he would move out, but I wanted to go. I wanted to see if he would miss me. And then as I was going, he said he wanted to break up for good - that he needed to be on his own. Without anyone. But I've been back; I've been to the house. We used to live there together. But he's not on his own. There have been others. Some looked, well, serious. Sometimes they bring in shopping bags. I see them out running together. He is everywhere. They are everywhere."

I feel dumb, awkward. While my heart goes out to him, he should be with friends now, not a stranger. I put my hand on his shoulders, but in the midst of his heaving sobs, he shrugs it off. He finally stops and looks up at me. I replace my hand on his shoulder and this time he lets it rest there.

"Dean, can I ask you a question?" He doesn't speak or look at me, but nods sadly. I ask: "Did you know he was going to be here tonight?"
There is silence. Then, a man in a nearby flat coughs like he is about to lose a lung, and the tableau melts.
Dean nods. "Yes, I knew he was going to be here". He looks up at me, his eyes like puddles, his face wretched and blotchy and pained. "I bet you think I'm a right stalker now, don't you?"

I look at him, an emotional disaster in chinos. Somebody's son. It would be easy to think him a stalker, but this isn't insanity or obsession. This is grief, heartbreak.
"No, no, I don't. But I do think you have to stop being where he is. Go out and have adventures of your own."
"You think?" he sniffs hopefully. "Will I ever get over it?"
"Yes, you will", I smile. "There are plenty of people out there to help you do just that".
His eyes begin to dry. "And you?" he says. "Are you one of them?"
I can't fix him; I don't have the skills. At best, I would be a sticking plaster, not the complicated surgery it would take to put Dean back together again. But now is not the time for home truths and confessions. The 'telling it like it is' will have to wait.

"Yes", I say gently. "I might be."

Stats: 31, 5'11", mousey brown/blue, Worcestershire
Where: Columbia Road, east London 
Pre-date rating: 8/10 
Post-date rating: 4/10
Date in one sentence: Dean cries a river over me, but not because of me.]]>