I’ve been talking about my online dating experiences in the past couple of posts so I felt it make sense to carry on the theme. After finally realising that Big Love wasn’t ever going to make his mind up and choose me over drugs and other women, and that other men on The Other Side of the World weren’t quite as good as I’d anticipated (or at least the ones I’d met on Plenty of Fish), I packed up my shit, booked myself three flights, and finally found my way back home.
I cried a lot when I first landed, and it felt like jet lag had a hold of me for months and months and months. I couldn’t sleep at night, snoozed my way all throughout the day, and found it really hard to socialise with people. I was depressed. Thankfully, my friends and (some of) my family pulled me through and I finally found myself back on the dating horse.
It was time to trawl the offerings of Plenty of Fish again.
I met Number 41. He was a couple of years older than me, was single, had a fairly decent job and a place of his own, a car with all the wheels and windows intact, and a beaming smile that made me feel a bit giggly just looking at it in photos. I thought I’d finally made some progress. Maybe there were decent guys in amongst the shit pickings I kept finding?
We talked for a couple of weeks but it wasn’t long before he asked me out on a first date. A casual date. A few drinks in a pub that was close to where both of us lived, plus dinner back at his place should the mood take us that way. I was pretty sure that dinner would mean sex, but I promised myself I wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date.
We had a lot of fun in the pub, staying for hours longer than we’d planned. One drink turned into two, and then three, and then four, and then neither of us could remember how many drinks we’d had exactly. There was a lot of pool playing, some karaoke singing, and a lot of dancing around like blind idiots. I had so much fun on the date that I didn’t even realise we’d been out together that long. The last-call sing of the bell shocked us both.
“I lied about dinner. Do you still want to come back to mine? We could get a kebab on the way home?” he drunkenly mumbled.
Because he’d promised me dinner, I hadn’t eaten before leaving the house. The alcohol that we’d been drinking in the pub had already gotten me pretty plastered, and when the cold air of the night hit me I was well past the point of being drunk. Leaving the pub was a blur. Getting back to his place around the corner was a blur. I’m fairly certain he had to carry me for some of the journey home, I was that much of a mess. And I definitely remember getting dropped on my ass at least once.
I remember bits and pieces of the night. We were in his kitchen at one point and I was crying because I wanted to go home. We had a little fight because he wanted me to go to bed with him and I didn’t want to. I was so drunk that the room was spinning all around me and I was fairly certain I was going to puke. I didn’t, though. Instead, I somehow found myself in his bed anyway. It was an absolute recipe for disaster. We fucked even though I repeatedly said I didn’t want to, and he couldn’t get hard for a lot of it. To be fair, I cried. It was hardly a sexy situation. I wasn’t exactly the most attractive date. I had some self-harm scars on my leg that I wasn’t proud of, too. That was the whole reason behind me not wanting to sleep with him on that night: I wanted the opportunity to tell him about those scars before they were revealed in all of their silvery glory.
We didn’t say much to each other when he dropped me home the next morning. He text me a few times, but I mostly ignored him. I felt like a bit of a bitch but I had absolutely no intentions of ever seeing him again. I wanted to tell him that in a nice way, so I just pretended I was sleeping all day until I felt brave enough to have an adult, post-sex conversation with him.
That’s when things turned a very different corner. As soon as I made mention of not really wanting anything serious, he completely switched personalities. He was angry, bitter, and mean. He referred to me as a “savage dog” because of a small bite mark I’d left on his shoulder from the night before’s drunken escapades. He made a number of mean comments about my self-harm scars, calling me a “fucking lunatic cutter” and a “fucking nut job”. Text after text after call after voicemail of pure hatred and trash-talk. I was a cunt, a slut, a cock tease, a whore. He was an asshole. Maybe I deserved it for sleeping with him on the first date when I didn’t really want to, but should he really have slept with me in that state anyway? The consent in this situation is questionable. Maybe it’s not even that questionable at all … ?
Following on from this wanker, I then met The Guy I Couldn’t Get Rid Of on Plenty of Fish, and then One Ball … which is where we are now. But if things don’t work out with One Ball, it’s inevitable that I’ll find myself back on the online dating apps eventually. Maybe I should go back to basics? Trawling the bars with a purse big enough to hold my knickers and a couple of condoms?
Club or online, either way, the end result is the same: big fat disappointment.
DID YOU ENJOY THIS? YOU’LL PROBABLY ENJOY THESE DATING FAILS TOO –