War stories from the trenches of the London dating scene.
A recent Tinder beau made it to a 3rd date. If you're a swipe-happy veteran of the app then you'll know this is quite the achievement and, because I'm sure you're all dying to know, I'm gonna go ahead and tell you how these dates went down(hill)...
Date numero uno was spent in a quirky cocktail bar in Tooting and I'm going to refer to the guy as Lips. He has gorgeous boy lips. I'd swiped right because he looked sexy and bad-boy enough to suit my mood at the time. We quickly organised to meet for a drink; I fully expected to chat for a bit and then go back to his for naughty fun times. He seemed nice enough but after learning of his career choices (bartender and now armed forces) I presumed not particularly bright. I really need to stop making assumptions of guys because, as with other dates, I was surprised.
Lips was super smart, charming and a perfect gentleman (not to mention hawt). The only hiccup was the revelation that he was a year younger than his Tinder profile said - making him a year younger than myself. I had never dated anyone my own age, let alone younger! I felt like a cradle-snatcher but he was so mature and age is just a number right? (And, as a friend wisely pointed out, dating older guys wasn't working too well for me). After a long evening of flowing conversation (rock music, gym, politics, living abroad...) he walked me to the tube station and gave me the best first date kiss I've ever had - those lips! We both tore ourselves away and I skipped home like a giddy schoolgirl. I didn't even care that I'd shaved for nothing!
A week later I saw Lips again. He turned up late and drunk but I forgave him because he was wearing a kilt - being part Scottish, he'd been celebrating the United Kingdom. There was a band playing at his local pub and he danced for me in his kilt with an infectious energy that soon had me on my feet too. We danced among a group of old ladies who were all very open in their admiration of my date's attire. I was just revelling in the finding of a straight guy who enjoyed stupid dancing as much as I do. Plus there was this awesome of buzz of sexual tension between us - every time our arms brushed or our eyes lingered just a moment too long.
Dancing to live music with old ladies and a hot boy was surprisingly liberating.
Back at his, Lips fell asleep during a Nolan film (sin of sins) but woke up in time to kiss me all over and take me to bed. He was drunk and I was tipsy so there was little thought to inhibitions: his quite vocal enthusiasm for me was cute and he asked me to be rough with him. I'm not used to being the dominant one in bed but it was actually quite fun and a great workout - two birds one stone. My only complaint was that he later seemed to be under the impression that pounding away at me would produce an orgasm. When asked if I was "close" I silently cursed pornography and told him that whilst I was having fun, I needed more focused attention in order to climax. He obliged.
And wow (WOW). Hands down, best oral sex ever. Precision is key.
Lips fell asleep and I decided I couldn't be bothered to call a cab so I curled up next to him. This was a good decision because the next morning I was treated to round two. Round 3 almost happened but I had a brunch meeting.
Two weeks of casual texting passed and we finally had time to meet up again. We had drinks, caught a film at the cinema and then went back to his. Sober this time, it was less frantic but just as good (if not better) and I dozed off wrapped up in muscly arms (which I've decided is definitely my favourite place to sleep). During the night he woke me up for more naughtiness and despite getting about 3 hours sleep I was very happy with how the date had gone.
UNTIL the morning.
It began with Lips getting out of the shower and producing a hair clip. "You left this on the floor," he said, holding it out to me. It wasn't mine but I smiled and thanked him, because it was awkward that another girl had been there in the last couple of weeks. Maybe it would have been fun to call him out on it and watch him squirm...
Either way, Lips proceeded to dig himself into a hole with spectacular aplomb. First there was the revelation that he had looked at the leaked pictures of Jennifer Lawrence. Worse, he was of the opinion that she shouldn't have sent nude photos if she didn't want them getting out. Not only is looking at stolen pics repulsive to me but that kind of victim blaming is awful. He then went on to talk about all the ways his ex-girlfriends had been annoying, which then evolved into a rant about how crazy, hormonal and complicated women are.
My problem is that I'm too polite, even when someone's being an asshole. Granted, the ex-gfs he was describing sounded like nut-jobs, but I didn't want to hear about them. And the way he was insulting my gender was a real turn-on... Did he realise he was talking to a girl? It was unlikely he'd forgotten the vagina between my legs after spending the night gaining intimate knowledge of the area. So was he just stupid after all? Who does this?? On a third date??
Dude, if I'd launched into a tirade of hate for my exes and all their dickheadedness, the only suitable reaction would be for you to get a sex-change in shame for your gender. But I'm too cool to do that (and maybe too old/mature?) so I held my tongue. And, worryingly, a part of me saw your criticism of the female psyche as a challenge - if you were my boyfriend you'd change your mind, fo sho.
I wondered if I'd even hear from Lips again but decided I couldn't be bothered to waste time on another (even slightly) chauvinistic pig. I got back on Tinder and looked for guys over 25.
But then Lips sent me a picture of his arms - my kryptonite! - and I caved. Booty calls are fun. And booty calling a guy with serious tongue tekkers can never be a bad idea ...right?
