funny dating stories
BINGO! We have the new gay stereotype - the gay man who refuses to conform to a stereotype! How lucky for me to have snared this rarest of beasts. And barely halfway through our first drink. I have two options. I could just let this go, or I could take a tin-opener to that can of worms he's waving in front of me.
I get the feeling that he's typing one-handed, so decide now's as good a time as any to go into silent mode. He gives it one final go. "I shaved today," he says. I see the email has an attachment: a photo, which I open. Yes, he's shaved all right. Everywhere. Instead of a smooth chin or chest, I see gleaming genitalia - Spam-pink with sensitivity and not a hair to be seen...
Alcohol isn't always a must on a date, but it helps. Not only can inebriation aid attraction and conversation or soothe disappointment, it is also handy to have something to sip during awkward silences. Will I really be able to fall in love without a glass of beer in my hand?
At that moment, our main courses arrive. My stir-fried vegetables look even limper and sorrier than I feel. I pick at them. Hugh eats his curry greedily, like he can't wait to finish it and get out of here. I am thankful for this. We do not speak at all.
His profile promised the romantic equivalent of high-speed broadband. Instead he is, at best, alternately fizzing and flatlining dial-up on the Isle of Skye. He's telling me about his career thus far. It's light on comedy.
"Go on, just suck it. You might like it." 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.
I have a rule: no food on a first date. It can only end in disaster, really. Sauces slop down your front a whole lot more eagerly if you're dining opposite somebody you're desperate to impress and vegetable-induced farts are all the more enthusiastic if they know you're sharing crudités with a stranger.
It becomes clear why I don't fancy him at all, why the fireworks failed to materialise - he looks like me. Like, spookily. His hair, the same kind of dishwater brown and even greying in similar spots as mine, is styled as if he used me for a mirror. I'm on a date with myself.
One slogan I do have a fondness for, however, is 'shop local'. It's nice to keep things in the neighbourhood, to contribute to the good of the community, and so it is that I find myself in a bar not a 20-minute walk from my house, waiting for the next Guy.
My date leans on the bar and looks me over, before telling me he's glad he messaged me. I thank him, and then ask him why he did in the first place. I don't generally seek approval or security by asking dates why they're interested in me, but he is a genuine puzzle.