I had a feeling tonight, a reminder of a pain once felt so acutely that, although now dulled, will never be truly healed. I was on a central line train, heading back from a two-bottles-of-white-and-a-gossip kind of night with a girlfriend at Leyton Technic, when a song came on shuffle as I stared out the windows. I don’t remember the last time listened to it but it must have been when I was with Mr Fleet Street as I suddenly found myself wandering the memory of the last time I saw him. It was the end of a long night- dinner, drinks, club, more drinks- and we were sat opposite each other on the ride home. He’d pulled me into a passionate embrace on the platform at Tottenham Court Road, I’m not much for kissing in public but for him I did every time. I can still feel the scratch of his stubble against my cheek, the silk of his puffer jacket as both strong arms wrapped around me, reminding me that no touch has felt right since. Remembering the way his hands clasped my own, feet tapping on my toes, those green eyes boring in to mine,crystal clear despite the late hour. Tears welled up as I let myself acknowledge that he’d never make me that happiness again. It was with calmness that I realised I’d never get over losing him, he’s a fixed point in time that can’t be swayed by time or any of the reckless coping mechanisms I’ve deployed the last eighteen months. There’s a comfort in knowing that a part of me will forever be kissing him goodbye, unbeknownst for the last time, at Chancery Road. I never thought we’d have a last kiss, but what a kiss it was.
First Date…
I went on a date last weekend. Too soon, I hear you say? Damn right dear reader, but I’m a twenty-something with a blog to run and I’m not sure how many articles about me tiptoeing around my house sipping whiskey at 5am in a heartbreak stupor I can stomach posting.
Anyway, the date was organised by S, who knows nothing about my situation with Tory Boy but knows a man who has apparently fancied me since he saw a photo on S’s Facebook profile (how very millennial). Thinking this might be some sign from above that it was time to get back out there, or at the very least out of the flat, I agreed and the date was set. We’d meet early afternoon in Soho to ensure plenty of time before the 10pm curfew, and S would be present as chaperone because apparently First Date is painfully shy around new people. Cheers mate, you’ve really pulled out all the stops with this one.
The day rolled around and after a few cups of espresso (I don’t sleep remember) I started to get ready. I always lose my appetite and start running after a breakup so I was looking particularly toned and decided on a navy merino wool shirt which draped over all the right places, pairing it with some tapered cream chinos and brown suede boots.
We met, ordered a substantive round of drinks and started talking. The conversation flowed easily between the three of us. S has form for setting up her friends and has perfected the art of establishing a topic, leading with an anecdote and then drawing back so the two love interests can take the lead. This tactic worked well for the most part, except that no matter what the subject of discussion, First Date invariably managed to segue into an anecdote about him and his ex husband. Which is surely a red flag. Not that he was married, I knew about that (thank you Facebook), but if you can’t fill a few hours of conversation without bringing up the man you divorced two years ago, it suggests you’ve not quite worked through the situation and I’ve no desire to be anyone’s therapist.
I still hooked up with him, mind you. What? I’ve always been a bit of a tart. After several hours downing cocktails in soho, the bars inevitably closed and we all decided to schlep to my flat in the suburbs. Picking up several bottles of wine en route, I gave them a quick tour of the place before we settled ourselves down on the cream sofas. As the chatting continued, First Date and I got increasing touchy feely and as I gently stroked his lower abdomen he nudged my arm until my hand was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Maintaining focused eye contact with S so she wouldn’t look down I stroked his ever hardening member until his trousers were so full I could barely move my hand. S went to the kitchen to grab another bottle and First Date spun over to get my fly open and my own member in his mouth. After a minute or so, I heard the telltale ‘pop’ of a cork leaving a bottle and pushed his head up so could get my fly up before S walked back in the room. We talked for an hour or so longer, getting increasingly merry and eventually- once First Date started audibly snoring on my lap- S called a cab.
As soon as they were out of the door I sighed, knowing I had no interest in seeing him again. It was nice to be distracted for a day but S made it clear at various points that First Date is looking for something serious and that really isn’t something I can give anyone right now. He’s also a certified Nice Guy TM, so I can’t even have a bit of fun enjoying the attention without feeling like an arse. We chatted scantly over the next few days but no plans were made. I’m not ruling out dating altogether but I think next time I need to look a little further away from home.
“This fucking flat!”
I’m writing this in a café round the corner from my flat. That in itself sounds like some kind of bizarre, pre-covid throwback: I’m sat in a café, working on my laptop, sipping an Americano while Gangster’s Paradise plays out of the radio on the counter. There are no facemasks in sight, no hand sanitiser within reach, the only sign there’s a pandemic on are the increased gaps between the tables. I know the group of attractive twenty-something musicians at the table closest to mine are discussing a recently deceased idol, I’m just not near enough to tell if it’s Johnny Nash or Eddie Van Halen.
As for the reason I’m procrastinating from work in a café rather than at my living room table, part of my hallway ceiling caved in on Saturday morning. F1, F2, F3 and I were all far too hungover to deal with anything so grown-up, considering we’d spent the night before polishing off the contents of three bottles of prosecco, two bottles of white wine, ten cans of beer, and a bottle of tequila. F1’s old university friend, Lady G, had sauntered over from Clapham to join in on the stupor and I’d spent a good chunk of the night talking to her about her work helping recently released prisoners develop their employability prospects and interview skills. “They’ve been very rude lately” she said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling “some of them don’t respond well to me taking their video calls in bed. Apparently, who am I to lecture them on employability from under a duvet?” Someone without a criminal record, I offered? “Well exactly! I said, ‘three things Karen: one, I’ve completed my education, two, I own the flat I’m currently sat in bed in, and three, I’ve got enough employability skills to have a job trying to help you! So stick that in your pipe and smoke it- oh wait don’t, you’ve got a problem with drugs.”
The next morning, we’d all just about managed to drag ourselves out of bed before a sizeable chunk of paint and plaster crashed onto the carpet and water poured down the wall. “Oh for FUCKS SAKE” shouted F1, grabbing her phone to call our bastard landlord. “Hmm yes” he grumbled, a man of few words, even fewer of which are helpful in a crisis, “I can definitely get someone out to look at it on Monday morning…” F1 shot me a look. “I’m sorry David, but this absolutely, categorically, cannot be a Monday thing. There’s water pouring onto the wiring and we’ve had to cut the power” she said, remarkably calmly, while F3 bellowed “THIS FUCKING FLAT” from the kitchen. The emergency electrician, plumber, building maintenance officer, and Nandos delivery man all arrived at the same time and F1-3 and I sat eating burgers while they all (delivery man excluded) argued about who had jurisdictional authority. Eventually, the culprit- a leaking radiator pipe in the flat upstairs- was caught and neutralised, and we all settled in for a night of pasta and Come Dine With Me.
Cut to today and bastard landlord is round assessing the damage. Since I’m technically illegally subletting my room from the original tenant I opted to clear out for a couple of hours. Fine with me, the coffee here is excellent, the décor is chic, and the ceiling? Mercifully dry.
A blank space remains blank
Checked blazer, mid blue jeans. Ruffled hair, backpack on. I changed 3 times before leaving the house. Spotted the rain and ducked back inside to grab an umbrella. I reached the platform with seconds to spare. The train rattled along, stopping everywhere from West Hampstead to Canonbury, the sun setting through the windows. Half the train was heading home from work the other half heading out for the night. Turned-up sleeves, turned down collar. Text lighting up my phone, suede boots on wet cobblestones. The rain was pouring as I walked round the corner to the bar, “I’m in the back, in the yellow jumper”. An odd face, gorgeous from the front, pinched from the side. Grey-flecked hair, but he talked about missing London’s night life most of all. It was a fun evening, a few drinks and a couple of laughs, there won’t be a second date though. A few occasions where his jawline caught my eye, but no real spark. I like my older men older, arrested development doesn’t look good on anyone. I spent the whole time thinking ‘I could probably draw you into my web if I wanted to, I just can’t be bothered. I’ve got a blank space, but I won’t be writing his name.
Time to hit the brakes?
Sunday was my fourth date with Tory Boy, the first since we had sex. He cancelled our original plans last minute when his bastard MP of a boss invited him to dinner with his wife at the kind of private members’ club my kind struggles to get into. He called afterwards- inebriated- to apologise and gush over their shared interests in Hayekian economics and reduced covid-restrictions. I replied with my favourite Marina Hyde quote: “yes, he’s a dreary little eugenicist bro. But aren’t they all, dear?”. I was a bit annoyed when he didn’t propose an alternative date to meet up for a few days but he eventually suggested we go for lunch on Sunday. Specifically, he suggested “a big ass lunch- big like your ass”. The man knows how to flatter me, I will give him that.
The meal itself was very nice, a cute Italian place nestled between South Kensington and Gloucester Road underground stations. On the walk from the tube, I remembered the last time I’d been in that part of town: around Christmas last year, me and M spent the day perusing the museums round there (V&A, Natural History Museum etc.) and strolling the streets, coffees in hand, window shopping and hunting out the most secluded mews to photograph. On Sunday, I passed a ski-themed mural we’d spent a solid fifteen minutes staring at and sent her a photo of it.
Tory Boy greeted me with a kiss and a hug, and after half an hour of the waiters hovering awkwardly while we argued about whether the government was prioritising saving lives or the economy this week and if their inability to do either effectively was due to ineptitude or psychopathy (I swear Dido Harding earns commission on each pensioner her policies kill) we finally ordered. I followed his lead in ordering starchy, creamy dishes: fettucine in a creamy mushroom sauce, venison-stuffed tortellini with parsley butter and a mozzarella, tomato and aubergine flatbread that pulled away from the teeth in strings. Clearly anal was not an option for either of us that day. The rest of the conversation was thankfully less heated: he’s Jewish and told me about his plans for the Yom Kippur fast that was due to begin that evening (“no water, no wanking, no tv. It’s going to be awful.”, and I filled him in on the recent interview I had for a promotion at work (which went well, thanks for asking), and my fears that they were probably going to give the job to some twat in New York.
Two-and-a-half hours flew by and soon we were strolling down the street hand in hand, me sipping a takeaway coffee and him smoking a cigarette. “Sorry I’ve been so shit this week, it’s just the new job being intense. I had a really nice time today”. I smiled, “it’s fine, I don’t mind. I enjoyed it too”. We kissed and lingered outside the station for a minute, smoking, sipping, and sharing kisses. We sat next to each other on the Piccadilly line as far as Green Park, his head on my shoulder, until I got up to change. I looked back at him from the doors, “see you soon” he called.
It’s been nearly six months since we started talking, and I fear we’re hurtling towards the point when taking things one date at a time gives way to a conversation about where this is heading. I fear that question because I really don’t think I have an answer for it. I like him, enjoy his company and he makes me laugh and he makes me hard, but I’m not sure I’m ready to give all my attention to one person. The confusion isn’t helped by the fact I have a date with someone else this week, but I’ll tell you about that later.
One of those days
I had one of those days today. Bad weather, bad mood, bad emails, bad news. By 5pm I was sat in my sofa, looking from the tube tracks outside my living room window, to the blank word doc on my computer screen and back again, tears streaming down my face. After allowing myself a few minutes of proper toddler tears- the gasping, shuddering, sniffing kind we’re all prone to from time to time- I stood up, grabbed my keys and slammed the front foot behind me on my way to the tube.
I ended up outside my happy place: the Maughan Library on Chancery Lane. 700 years of history contained in cold grey stone and yet it makes me feel warmer inside than anywhere else in London. I studied at King’s College London years ago and I’ve never felt more confident, assured and focused as I did there. Something about this year has made me feel stuck. Stagnant, vacant, directionless. I needed to be reminded of the last place where I felt like I knew where I was headed in life. I picked up a large latte from the Pret over the road and strolled past all my old haunts: Somerset House, the Kings building on the strand, the Victoria embankment gardens.
There’s a sadness to visiting the places one was happiest, you’re forced to admit you’re nowhere near as happy now. I wonder if I know then that I’d never be that happy again? I think I did. I think I knew that was the peak. It’s probably why I barely slept back then, barely went home, barely saw my family. I spent every hour god sent walking those streets, seeing the people I loved, reading every book I could.
I spent twenty minutes getting lost in Inner Temple, I considered a career in the law once. Wandered all the way up to St. Paul’s, remembering the time M fell over on the ice at the bottom of the steps rushing to meet me and J for dinner. She had vouchers for Pizza Express and we drank wine until we couldn’t stop laughing. M moved out to the country a couple of years ago and J and his girlfriend are out in Greenwich, I text them both to say I missed them before stepping down into London Bridge station. I spent the tube ride listening to The National and deciding what whisky to pour when I got home.
Third date, clothes off
I had my third date with Tory Boy this week, he’s the first man this year to reach that milestone so I thought it only right to reward his perseverance with sex. As I walked down the front steps of my flat and down to the tube the bright rays of sun warmed my face and made my cheeks blush. He met me at the station and we chatted about his new job on the short walk to his house. He’s leaving a fairly innocuous home counties Conservative MP to head up the policy team of a prominent Tory ex-Minister whose constituency is dangerously close to my hometown. I rolled my eyes as he gushed about their shared interests in Hayekian free-market economics and libertarianism and told him I hoped he realised this meant he could never meet my friends or family.
We walked through the front door and I got a momentary glimpse of an immaculately tidy flat, it’s walls covered in framed pictures of Tory Boy himself, before he pulled me into a kiss. We broke apart a minute later and I observed the photos more closely while Tory Boy opened beers in the kitchen: there he was ruddy cheeked and playing American football at university, here flanked by his parents on graduation day, in a suit meeting a former prime minister. We only managed a few sips of our drinks before slipping into his bedroom, breathlessly tearing off clothes. Seconds later I was sat firmly on his face, his member in my mouth as his tongue worked my arse. We both came within minutes and I spun around, kissing his face and massaging his chest.
We ordered a pizza and sat naked and intertwined on his sofa watching a Steve Carrell film of his choosing. He leaned back against me as I slid my hand down his stomach and as soon as the credits rolled we were back in the bedroom. ‘Are you staying tonight?’ he asked afterwards. ‘I can’t’ I lied, doing the buttons on my shirt and scanning the room for the boxers I’d last seen flying over my left shoulder, ‘early meeting tomorrow’. He nodded and slipped his trousers on to walk me out and hail a taxi. I sat in the back seat as the car passed by pubs, restaurants and what felt like a hundred sets of traffic lights, pondering. I don’t believe in waiting more than a few weeks before sleeping with someone, it complicates things: there’s nothing worse than realising that all the interest and feelings you thought were growing are actually just anticipation for sex, and once that’s done there’s nothing left between you. And yet here I am, five months of messaging, three dates spread over six weeks and only just doing the deed.
I stopped the cab round the corner from my flat and stepped out onto the street. The air was cold and leaves were crunching under my feet, it felt like summer had slipped away into autumn in just a few hours.
Welcome back
Welcome back dear reader, I missed you.
Now where to begin? You last found me walking the streets of my home counties hometown, pondering teenage disgraces and lost loves (how often the two go hand-in-hand). Since then, there have been rural retreats with family, debaucherous weekends with S and A and, yes, even the semblance of a dating life. Well you can’t keep a good boy down… I’m now back in London with a new flat, new housemates and up to the same old tricks.
Here’s a brief rundown of some of the men in my lockdown life:
1. Dr Dick: late thirties, cardiovascular surgeon with a charming flat in a leafy North London suburb- more on that another time. Minor obsession with trash Netflix scifi balanced by having the thickest member I’ve ever seen- again, more on that another time
2. Kieran: Irish twenty-something, who moved over five years ago to help an uncle set up a wedding venue in Rickmansworth and has the air of a man who simply forgot to move back. He now runs a folk/alternative music blog from the basement of said venue with the kind of punny name you can imagine a bunch of inebriated students describing as ‘quite clever actually’. It’s not. Despite the uber chill demeanour he’s an absolute freak in the bedroom and likes nothing more than being bossed about and taken roughly from behind. Owner of the kind of arse that makes even the most staid gentleman keen to fulfil those fantasies. Honestly, if I wasn’t completely secure in my position of ‘best arse south of the Watford Gap’ I’d be a tad threatened. That reminds me, I did tell him I’d give him a shout when I’d moved back to London…
3. Hugo: corporate banker, fit as a butcher’s dog with a rugby player’s firm broad body, clearly an arsehole. Nonetheless, I’ve still not ruled out the possibility of a drink and a shag (or dogging on Hampstead Heath as he suggested)
4. Santiago: forty-something university lecturer, we swapped nudes in what I assumed was a one-off mutual masturbation session. He texted me daily nudes (without receiving a response) for what felt like an eternity, sent an Octavia Spencer gif and then blocked my number. I’ve never understood the logic of blocking the number of the person who’s ignoring you. You’ll only spend the next six months wondering if they ever would have text you back after all. If you’re currently speculating whether my lack of response was related to the quality of nudes he sent let me reassure you: yes, yes it was. Suffice to say he could do better. And bigger.
5. Our Father: yes, I corrupted a vicar. No, it wasn’t part of some demented ‘I went to a Catholic school and I’m annoyed no one ever interfered with me’ fantasy. The fact is I’m a sucker for any Oxbridge graduate reading Anthony Trollope on the tube, and he wasn’t wearing the dog collar then anyway. We went out a few times and never quite sealed the deal as six years of celibacy had left him virtually sex-phobic. He had a come-to-Jesus moment in the bathroom on our third date and came back to tell me he wasn’t sure he was ready for all this. I drained my whisky glass and smiled, relieved I wasn’t going to have to teach a sexually-repressed man in his thirties how to douche.
6. Lachlan: I convinced him to wank under the table during a video call with his company’s entire board of directors and send me a picture. ‘Nuff said. Actually that’s not the end of it, he has a flat in Canary Wharf and I’ve been invited over next week. I’ll keep you posted of course.
7. Mark: he’s trouble. Don’t ask me why, just a feeling. He’s also gorgeous, tall and intelligent so lord knows I’m going to let myself get carried away. He’s catching the last rays of sun on the Amalfi coast currently, but he’s another one with a date in the diary this month.
8. Tory Boy: my parents are never going to forgive me for this one. He’s a Cambridge PPE grad (yes I have a type, move on) turned special advisor to a government minister. Normally I’d run a mile but he’s handsome, kinky as hell and exudes the kind of domineering adolescent confidence I’ve not seen since my days at an all boy secondary school. I swear there’s no hope for me. We’ve been speaking since April and have a third date lined up this week- I’m going round his for drinks and we all know what else. He can be quite sweet at times and I’ve got an awful feeling he might actually quite like me- I must remember to be gentle.
Game Changer
I’m on my way to a second date. Second dates are the game changer when it comes to deciding whether you’re interested in someone and, accordingly, the bar for success is considerably high. On a first date, simply getting through the evening without insulting them via an anecdote previously selected for its supposed neutrality and avoiding the kind of minutes-long awkward pause that would put Made in Chelsea out of business is enough to consider the whole thing a roaring success.
Second dates are a mixed bag. On the one hand you’ve already established that you’re attracted to each other (this is a prerequisite of meeting again) however it’s no longer acceptable to wimp out and end the night modestly, without a kiss. One of you is going to have to make the move and the power-play that determines who is often a key factor of the date. Similarly, while you now know that they found you at least vaguely interesting company, maintaining an air of neutrality on all potential inflammatory topics- the one that prevented awkward pauses last time- won’t cut it on date two. You’ve got to come to the table (or bar) with substance, resolve and at least one unpopular opinion to defend. This isn’t always a bad thing though, debate can be sexy after all.
The gentleman in question- Mr Fleet Street- has selected dinner, drinks, and a round of crazy golf as the evening’s activities. Well, we might as well cram in as much as possible pre-lockdown. This is a well-rounded but carefully crafted itinerary: dinner allows both parties to check that other has manners worthy of meeting the parents, drinks are always prime opportunity to work up to physical contact and more flirting whilst an activity like crazy golf will help establish the power dynamic.
He was keen to show me his preferred Soho date spot, a Sri Lankan restaurant nestled down a side street, which contained no more than eight two-person tables. The wait was an hour so we decamped to an Irish bar two streets away. “Oh I have some news for you by the way” he began, downing his second Guinness. “That Boston move I mentioned: it’s actually happening a bit sooner than I reckoned. I’m going in six weeks”. Cue me cutting my eyes to an imaginary camera, fleabag style. I looked back at him “that’s fantastic, you must be so excited!” And it is fantastic, I can’t say with any certainty that I want him to stick around and it does mean my current goal of shagging him can remain my only aim.
A few hours later and full of full of food I was lying against his chest, dancing my fingers over the buttons of his fly, his hand playing its familiar percussion beat on my arm. I watched the throngs of people in the pub lurching back and forth in front of the sofa we were nestled on. He leant down and murmured “you should move to Boston”. I smiled “you know I can’t, and besides I like being in London”. I felt him nodding against my shoulder, “do you want to stay at mine tonight?” Yes, I thought, but I was full of food and was due to meet a friend for breakfast in oh, seven hours? “Not tonight” I whispered, finding his mouth again. We made our way down the street and onto the tube platform and he pulled me into a kiss. We tapped feet and stroked hands for a few stops. “You’ve got very soft hands for an ex-rower” I remarked, feeling my way over the smooth palms and delicate grooves. “I’m an office boy now” he said, dark eyes boring into mine. As the train pulled into the station, I leant forward and kissed him lightly. I got off and glanced over my shoulder, he was still staring at me as the train pulled away into the dark.
Tug-of-war
My phone flashed with an incoming call. A is trying to get me to date P (the old uni friend I kissed last week), declaring it “in both our interests”. More like his interests: A has never been keen on P’s most recent ex and thinks me stepping on the scene would squash the inevitable reunion. I said I was unwilling to set myself up for the inevitable tug of war debacle.
“speaking of debarcles, are you out tomorrow night? Perhaps we can attach your phone to you on a piece of string”. Ha fucking ha.
“Fraid not” I lied, “I’ve been roped into babysitting duties.” In reality I’ve booked in a selfish weekend in which I don’t intend to leave the house. Fresh sheets, clean flat and a bubble bath are all I have on the cards. Bliss.
“Traitor” grumbled A, audibly pouting. One of his favourite drag queens is performing in a particularly seedy soho club and he’s desperate to go. Normally, I’d be champing at the bit but I checked my bank balance this morning and while an evening with Netflix isn’t exactly going to end with a drunken snog under a confetti canon, it can be had for under a tenner in the comfort of my own home.
“I thought you were in Disneyland anyway?” I asked him. A is at the odd age where he spends most of his time searching for someone he can practise his patented ‘four finger twist’ on, but still can’t turn down a mini break with his mother to go hug Mickey Mouse.
“I’m back now, although my social media will suggest I am there for much longer. I am lying low to avoid someone..”
A has been dating an investment banker and I can only assume they had a red wine fuelled argument when they saw each other last weekend. Whilst I’m well aware he’s playing on the fact I can’t resist gossip, I am still tempted to go out to get the details. “Another night, darling!” I sign off after much deliberation. Now, where did I leave the radox?
Secret Diary of a Dating App 