Author: Anonymous

Oh my god. Oh, my good god.

So having remained shag-free since October to lick my wounds after discovering that 9 years of booty calls and drunken sex do not a lasting relationship make, I finally decide that maybe I should climb back aboard the Dating Express before I actually forget what goes where.

I dabbled in internet dating about 5 years ago after too much wine with a married friend who wanted some vicarious thrills and persuaded me to sign up for Match, and the results weren’t pretty: there was Simon the Screenwriter (looked like a cross between Keith Harris AND Orville, no personality away from his keyboard); Colin the Policeman (stated within 5 minutes of meeting that he though broccoli was evil and I don’t think he was joking); the guy from Essex so awful I can’t even remember his name – I do remember him calling Basildon his ‘manor’ though and thinking he was a prick.

I even ended up seeing the flatmate of one date for a little while, but he had ADHD and it was too exhausting trying to keep up with all his conversational tangents.

It did my ego more harm than good – there’s nothing worse that someone looking you up and down in a ‘well you don’t look like your picture’ kind of way and I wasted a lot of time and effort on guys I wouldn’t normally touch with a bargepole: it’s amazing how absurdly flattered you can be by someone ‘winking’ at you. Internet dating was not for me.

Back in 2006 I was still convinced that Captain Booty Call was the man for me and it was only a matter of time before he realized this, so maybe in hindsight I was never fully committed to finding ‘The One’, because I thought I’d already found him. If only I’d spent all the money I shelled out on subscriptions and dodgy dates on a Mulberry handbag – now that would’ve been the start of a beautiful friendship.

A couple of years ago we moved into a shared office for work, and one of the guys who worked there was funny, smart, kind of cute… After a couple of days I realized that every time I spoke to him I’d giggle inanely, stutter a lot and ribbons of heat would move down my face in waves. Consultation with my Gay Best Friend confirmed what I thought: for the first time in 15 years, I had a crush on someone – unspeakably embarrassing, given that I started gibbering like a constipated monkey every time I got near him. Relief was close at hand though – discovering that he was married with a kid was the cold bucket of water I needed to sober up and start acting like a grown-up again. I think he was quite surprised when he found out that I could actually speak in complete sentences using words of more than one syllable.

We moved offices again recently. I was making coffee one afternoon when Ghastly came into the kitchen. Ghastly was so nicknamed because he always seems to be having a go at someone. After getting cornered by him for 20 minutes, he didn’t seem so bad. A few days later he even offered to make me a drink… Funny how someone just asking if you want a brew can cause the waves of heat to go running down your face and make you look like a beetroot: I really have to get a handle on these office crushes, dammit.

But back to my original point. Surely if I’ve been finding other men attractive then I’m ready to get back in the saddle? Dating new people would at least assure my friends and family that I’m not headed for a middle-age filled with numerous cats, purple berets and the unmistakeable aroma of wee.

With this thought in mind I decided to open myself up to new experiences, and so when a cheeky young buck from the bar down the road started sending me horny messages on Twitter, I thought, Why not go with the flow and see what happens?

The internet is a terrible thing, my friends. After a weekend of frenzied, filthy text flirting and a quick coffee this morning, I decided to do a little webstalking…. finding some lovely pictures on Facebook of him and his girlfriend. And when I told him he was busted his only question was ‘Does that mean you’re not up for a shag then?’. Outrageous, and I’m tempted to email his lady and tell her what a cock she’s dating.

There’s an old joke that men are like toilets – they’re either vacant or full of shit, and the good ones are always engaged. The more I stick my head above the dating parapet the more I think this could be true. Maybe I did something bad in a former life and I’m destined to only be attracted to married men for the rest of my days. Maybe the only people who’ll ever be attracted to me are fuckwits, although for sanity’s sake I’m not tempted to pursue this line of thought any further. Maybe my Grandma was right and there really is one someone for everyone out there.
I bet you a tenner mine’s a goatherder living halfway up a mountain in Tibet.

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