Love God had been calling with increasing regularity, with a never-ending stream of charming one-liners. As the week progressed and my goodwill waned, his cocksure confidence gave way to a growing wave of desperation. Where previous gems had ranged from the sublime “Love God is the only date you’ll ever need!” to the ridiculous “So! I finally get to see my beautiful Princess D tomorrow”, by Thursday, he was resorting to the less witty “Nice day, today” and (when I had given up responding altogether) “Let me know either way if you’re still up for meeting tonight”.
Displaying a disconcerting lack of knowledge of anywhere in London not in Primrose Hill and a reluctance to venture into Central London (which is where I primarily socialise), he finally settled on an unknown bar not far from where I used to live with Male Model.
I arrived on time, to greetings of “’ello, laaaave” from the bouncer, aptly setting the tone of the establishment within. Dinghy and grotty, the bar had been kitted out with optimistic neon lights in a putrid pinky-purple colour. A discotastic range of primary-coloured flashing bulbs highlighted a makeshift dancefloor, on which 3 chavvy girls dressed in their best market stall micro-mini ra-ra skirts, with scraped back, highlighted hair, gyrated. A haze of smoke concealed the rest of the bar, while loud music blared from every orifice.
Love God arrived, easily discernable by the fact that he was the only other person in the bar above the age of 12. We relocated to an equally chavvy, but thankfully quieter, pub around the corner, and headed to the bar.
“So, D,” said Love God, gloomily resting his head in one hand. “How many of these bloody things have you been on?”
I muttered a response, marvelling at his sudden loss of charm and optimism.
“I mean,” he continued. “I’m not going to meet my future wife on a dating website, am I? I’ve had 3 dates so far – nice enough girls, but I know it’s not going to happen, so there’s no point meeting again, is there? And, you know, some girls even suggested meeting for dinner! I’m not going to waste time and money on that, when there won’t be that attraction – what’s the point? I’ve paid my subscription to the site now, so I’ll turn up, have a quick drink, stay for half an hour and then get out.” He handed me my glass of still mineral water.
“I won’t take that personally,” I informed him, kindly, resenting the extra half hour I had sacrificed on the treadmill for the sake of this soirée. 5 minutes into the date, and I was already wondering if it could get much worse.
Suddenly, the door burst open, and in marched G, my randy former neighbour. A martial arts teacher, he had once lured me into his flat, under the guise of “showing me a few moves”, which he did. I had managed to escape by slapping his tongue out of my mouth, kneeing him in the groin, and escaping into the comforting arms of Male Model, who was thankfully arriving home at that moment. G had just proposed to his then girlfriend (now his wife), and never gave up pursuing me. I came to fear bumping into him as much as I feared the evil cat who used to roam around the block.
G spied me. “D!” he shouted, enthusiastically scrutinising my breasts. My date had indeed just got worse.
The rest of the evening (all 45 minutes of it, before Love God decided that, having finished his drink, there was no point staying), was actually not bad. I counselled Love God on his attitude towards finding love, and challenged his claims of indifference – why pay to be on the site and bombard me with messages, if you think you won’t get anything out of it? In return, he impressed me by correctly identifying my jeans as being from the Victoria Beckham Rock & Republic range (although he must have checked out my arse very subtly, which I guess is equally as impressive!), and, when the conversation inevitably turned to fitness and martial arts (I can’t help myself; at least I kept the vitamins and food diary hidden), and I told him how I had floored a mugger on New Year’s Day, he said “but you’re tiny!”, at which point, I momentarily thought I could love him; earlier that day, I had practically been in tears to L, during a walk in Regent’s Park, over the perceived uncontrollable expansion of my thighs.
So, that was that. Love God is no more. He left me, a forlorn figure zooming off down the road back to Primrose Hill, his cocky confidence stripped down to defensive fear of still being single at 40, no doubt one of many on the dating website. “My friends tell me that all the women on the site are desperate,” he had confided in me. “Either desperate to get married, or desperate to get laid.”
“Yes, but isn’t everyone?” I challenged.
And apparently, it’s not just women. When I returned home to resume the online search for my next victim, a box flashed up on my screen. This member wants to instant message you, it said. I quickly checked out his profile. He was stunningly gorgeous, with ripped, toned, muscles, and based in Florida. Phwoarrgh! I clicked yes. It turned out he had been turned on by the claims in my profile (taken out of context, I must add) that I am naughty. Are you really naughty? he wanted to know. It turned out that he, too, was being naughty. Very naughty. All I will say is that he had a web cam, and he was definitely left-handed.
Displaying a disconcerting lack of knowledge of anywhere in London not in Primrose Hill and a reluctance to venture into Central London (which is where I primarily socialise), he finally settled on an unknown bar not far from where I used to live with Male Model.
I arrived on time, to greetings of “’ello, laaaave” from the bouncer, aptly setting the tone of the establishment within. Dinghy and grotty, the bar had been kitted out with optimistic neon lights in a putrid pinky-purple colour. A discotastic range of primary-coloured flashing bulbs highlighted a makeshift dancefloor, on which 3 chavvy girls dressed in their best market stall micro-mini ra-ra skirts, with scraped back, highlighted hair, gyrated. A haze of smoke concealed the rest of the bar, while loud music blared from every orifice.
Love God arrived, easily discernable by the fact that he was the only other person in the bar above the age of 12. We relocated to an equally chavvy, but thankfully quieter, pub around the corner, and headed to the bar.
“So, D,” said Love God, gloomily resting his head in one hand. “How many of these bloody things have you been on?”
I muttered a response, marvelling at his sudden loss of charm and optimism.
“I mean,” he continued. “I’m not going to meet my future wife on a dating website, am I? I’ve had 3 dates so far – nice enough girls, but I know it’s not going to happen, so there’s no point meeting again, is there? And, you know, some girls even suggested meeting for dinner! I’m not going to waste time and money on that, when there won’t be that attraction – what’s the point? I’ve paid my subscription to the site now, so I’ll turn up, have a quick drink, stay for half an hour and then get out.” He handed me my glass of still mineral water.
“I won’t take that personally,” I informed him, kindly, resenting the extra half hour I had sacrificed on the treadmill for the sake of this soirée. 5 minutes into the date, and I was already wondering if it could get much worse.
Suddenly, the door burst open, and in marched G, my randy former neighbour. A martial arts teacher, he had once lured me into his flat, under the guise of “showing me a few moves”, which he did. I had managed to escape by slapping his tongue out of my mouth, kneeing him in the groin, and escaping into the comforting arms of Male Model, who was thankfully arriving home at that moment. G had just proposed to his then girlfriend (now his wife), and never gave up pursuing me. I came to fear bumping into him as much as I feared the evil cat who used to roam around the block.
G spied me. “D!” he shouted, enthusiastically scrutinising my breasts. My date had indeed just got worse.
The rest of the evening (all 45 minutes of it, before Love God decided that, having finished his drink, there was no point staying), was actually not bad. I counselled Love God on his attitude towards finding love, and challenged his claims of indifference – why pay to be on the site and bombard me with messages, if you think you won’t get anything out of it? In return, he impressed me by correctly identifying my jeans as being from the Victoria Beckham Rock & Republic range (although he must have checked out my arse very subtly, which I guess is equally as impressive!), and, when the conversation inevitably turned to fitness and martial arts (I can’t help myself; at least I kept the vitamins and food diary hidden), and I told him how I had floored a mugger on New Year’s Day, he said “but you’re tiny!”, at which point, I momentarily thought I could love him; earlier that day, I had practically been in tears to L, during a walk in Regent’s Park, over the perceived uncontrollable expansion of my thighs.
So, that was that. Love God is no more. He left me, a forlorn figure zooming off down the road back to Primrose Hill, his cocky confidence stripped down to defensive fear of still being single at 40, no doubt one of many on the dating website. “My friends tell me that all the women on the site are desperate,” he had confided in me. “Either desperate to get married, or desperate to get laid.”
“Yes, but isn’t everyone?” I challenged.
And apparently, it’s not just women. When I returned home to resume the online search for my next victim, a box flashed up on my screen. This member wants to instant message you, it said. I quickly checked out his profile. He was stunningly gorgeous, with ripped, toned, muscles, and based in Florida. Phwoarrgh! I clicked yes. It turned out he had been turned on by the claims in my profile (taken out of context, I must add) that I am naughty. Are you really naughty? he wanted to know. It turned out that he, too, was being naughty. Very naughty. All I will say is that he had a web cam, and he was definitely left-handed.
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