08 June, 2010

The English One with the Shoes.

Every now and then, I think that maybe I just need to lower my standards. You know, maybe I'm expecting too much. So once in a while I give a bloke a chance that I normally wouldn't. Like Candidate No. 6.

We met at a very nice restaurant in Fitzroy that does ripper tapas. I was a bit early. He arrived, and looked exactly like his picture which was good. We 'fessed up our nervousness. A glass of wine helped. No. 6 is a shortish guy with a nasal English accent and, well not a lot going on really. He told me all about himself on the first night. Some slightly disturbing history of drug abuse, but nothing too serious. Look, I'm going to cut to the chase here and tell you that I broke a cardinal rule of mine and shagged him. It might have been the wine, the beers and the vodka. It might just have been because it'd been quite a while. Anyway, I did.

A couple of weeks went by, and I invited him to mine for dinner. Now the day he arrived, I had a monster hangover. Six kinds of fucked up. I'd cleaned the house, picked up all my clothes, emptied the kitty litter (gah, gluh, hurk), changed the sheets (I really hate doona covers), and cooked a fine dinner. Then he turned up. I went cold. Completely off him. His aftershave was cheap, and he smoked. I used to smoke, so I don't want to get all precious about it, but the combination of bad cologne and dirty smoker mouth made me not want to kiss him. At all. But you know, he was over, so I was sort of in for a pound. As it were.

The final straw was the shoes. They were slip-on things with a fucking gold chain across the instep. Worn with grey socks. God damn they were ugly. Bad shoes. Bad breath. Bad news for Candidate No. 6.

I shagged him anyway. He stayed. He slept all over me. And look, I'm just not into all night oppressive spooning. I kept pushing him away. He kept moving closer. It was hot (in a temperature way). I felt pawed. He snored. I barely slept. Worst night's sleep in a long time, and that with a roaring hangover too. Hideous.

Anyway, he sent me a text message later that week. For reasons I can't explain, we talked almost exclusively through texts. He wanted to know we could catch up again. I dumped him by text message. It was a mostly kind message, but clear. I haven't heard from him since.

The moral of the story is to never drop your standards. They're yours. Just trust them. And don't get too fucked up on the first date. I must try to remember that one.

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