Tag Archives: Dating Apps

Rush Hour Rendezvous

January 2020. The start of a new year and in an attempt to regain some control back in my life I gave B an ultimatum; it was either everything, or nothing at all. After two, very long heartfelt messages we agreed to cut all forms of contact to allow us both to move on with our own lives. It was the single hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. The sense of loss felt all consuming. In the long-term I knew it would be for the best; the limbo we had been in for the last three months meant that my emotions were constantly on simmer. It wasn’t healthy and I respected myself enough to know that I deserved more than what B could currently give me. In the short-term, it felt like I’d lost my lover/best friend/confidant all in one. Some days I’d momentarily forget about B and then I’d go to bed at night, shut my eyes and my subconscious would push through a thought of him. It would feel like a heavy weight dropped in the pit of my stomach and a pang of longing, which felt almost physical, would twinge in my heart and then spread through my body like seeping ink. The oh too familiar feeling of heartache. I just wanted it to hurry up and pass.

I debated with myself on whether dating again and meeting other men would help. I applied to be a guest member of the dating app, The League. Apparently I was 46,000 out 57,000 people on the waiting list for London, unless I paid a hefty membership fee to skip the queue *rolls eyes*. I checked in a couple days later to see that I’d moved 20 places down. Bloody hell! At this rate I’d be dating again by the time I was 60. I reluctantly downloaded Hinge instead and stared at the app on my home screen. I really hoped that the last time I had deleted my Hinge profile would have been the actual last time. I sighed; I’d never felt less excited by anything. I created a new profile and watched over a few days as the red notification icon gradually climbed in numbers; potential likes and messages. The anxiety started to creep in. If by the tiniest chance that any one of these men could potentially be ‘the one’, could I even bring myself to open up to the risk of being hurt, again?

I started messaging one guy and it momentarily made me feel good; a little ego boost after the rejection. After a couple days of messaging back and forth, the conservation came to a halt. Maybe he had met someone else? Maybe he just wasn’t interested? Maybe he found your blog, Jess… I laughed to myself. Yep, that would do it. I looked at my other matches and realised I didn’t want to do this right now. A knee jerk reaction and I quickly deleted my profile. Oh, the relief. 

Come mid-January I was run down and lethargic with heartache and New Year blues. I was avoiding my phone (not always a bad thing), struggling to get out of bed in the dark mornings and had developed recurring sinusitis (probably stress related). My friend, Annie, reminded me to be kinder to myself, to not feel like I had to rush into dating. That it was OK for me to just sit with these feelings for as long as I needed to and allow myself to heal at my own pace. Of course, she was right, I knew this; this wasn’t my first rodeo. 

Then, in a weird twist of fate, three weeks after cutting all contact with B, the strangest thing happened. One Thursday evening in late January, I’d left work to go and meet a friend in Tooting for dinner. I was tired and full of cold and had very nearly cancelled my plans so that I could just go home and get into bed, but I’ve always hated letting people down last minute and decided to just suck it up and go. 

I made my way to the Victoria line and ran onto a carriage as the doors were closing. It was rush hour and commuters were tightly packed into the carriages. I hated travelling on the tube at this time, at five foot two I was always wedged under someone’s armpit or balancing between people because I couldn’t reach the overhead handrails. That evening was no different, I was squeezed into a small space with a woman to my left and then to my right a tall man reading his kindle. I did a double take. My stomach seemed to lurch upward into my chest. Was this actually happening? It was B. I lifted a shaky hand and prodded him on the arm. He looked up and I felt an immediate rush of love. 

“Oh, hello!” he said in surprise.

“Hi… this is so weird,” I laughed nervously, my heart starting to hammer in my chest. I paused for a second not knowing what to do or say. “Come here!” B said and pulled me in for a hug. He then spent the next few minutes telling me about his New Year holidays, his family and his evening plans. I nodded along, in a state of shock, my heart at risk of bulldozing right through my chest. Of course I would bump into him when I looked like shite; I was full of cold, no makeup on, unwashed hair, with a spot on my cheek that I’d quickly picked before I’d left work. B however, looked gorgeous, obviously. He chatted away like we always had, like nothing had changed. It was so wonderful to see him and hear his voice again, but I was also crumbling inside. I blinked dumbly at him, I felt hot and my hearing was muffled. Shit, please don’t faint, Jess. And then before I could collect myself and act like a normal human being the tube pulled up in Stockwell; my stop.

I opened my mouth to say something, but no words came out. There were a thousand things I wanted to say to him, but nothing came out. B smiled and pulled me in for another hug. “It was good to see you, Jess, have a nice evening!” he said, and I mumbled goodbye in reply. Had I been given a chance and messed it up? I stumbled off on to the platform in a daze and turned to steal one last glance at B, he was already nose down into his Kindle as the train doors closed. He was seemingly completely unfazed by what had just happened. I however, had momentarily forgotten what I was doing or even where I was going. I stood frozen to the spot as commuters pushed past me to get on to the tube. 

I swallowed a lump in my throat as tears threatened to spill from my eyes. I was still in shock. Nine million people in London and it was him who was squeezed up against me in that tube carriage. It wasn’t even his usual route; it wasn’t even my usual route. What are the chances? For the last three weeks I had been mourning the loss of B and coming to terms that I’d probably never see or hear from him again. And then when I least expected it, when I looked like I’d been dragged backwards through a bush, fate had dangled him right in front of me, the one thing I wanted but couldn’t have. It felt cruel. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, ‘Really?’ I asked. Why couldn’t I just catch a break when it came to men? 

I brushed the escaped tears off my cheeks and slowly walked in zombie like motion across to the other platform; trying to replay those last few minutes in my head. It felt like it was just me that had been completely floored by our unexpected rush hour rendezvous. B had looked and sounded fine. Maybe he had already moved on… maybe he had even met someone else… my heart sank. 

The truth is that a week before, I had received an email from The League saying that my application had been reviewed and I was through the waiting list and could now start seeing potential matches. It was less pressure than Hinge with no swiping and just three profiles a day to vet, so I decided to give it a go. I had matched with one guy and we’d exchanged a couple messages and he had promptly asked me out on a date. I thought, what the hell, maybe it was time, and agreed to meet him for a drink. We set a date but all I kept thinking in my head were possible excuses I could give to cancel. The guy seemed attractive from his photos and had been perfectly polite in his messages, so why was I so determined to get out of it? 

The funny thing is I had agreed to the date only hours before my encounter with B on the tube. I knew then, it was a sign. I recognised what I was doing. I was trying to fill the void that B had left with someone else. But I was 31 now, and if there was anything that my twenties had taught me, it was that replacing one man with another was a sure recipe for disaster. As I lay in bed that night struggling to get to sleep, I knew that if I couldn’t have B then I didn’t want anyone else at that moment. I messaged the guy to cancel our date and then deleted the app from my phone. 

I made a decision to forget about men and spend the next six months concentrating on me. If, like that evening, fate decided that B and I would reconcile or I was to meet another man, then fine, I would embrace it, but no more dating apps. I truly believed in what my dad had said, that against the odds, if it was meant to be, then it would happen. The right man would walk into my life at the right time. I wasn’t going to chase it anymore.

So, in the meantime, I decided to focus on the small things I liked doing for myself, like reading, listening to podcasts, exercising and blogging. It was time to pull myself out of my January blues, dust off the remnants of hurt from last year, count the blessings I did have and focus on my goals for the year ahead. I had done it before and I could do it again. I could make 2020 my year. And what a better time than now to reflect on my past relationships, to remind myself of the lessons I had learnt through my twenties, about men, about life and more importantly, about myself.

The One That Got Away – Part 1

It’s been a little while since I last wrote a blog post. In all honesty I thought I’d next be writing about my previous two exes, Seb and Dennis. I’d put these posts off for a while as I thought writing them would bring up painful memories. But this is even harder to write. Most of my blog posts are written with hindsight and a good deal of reflection. This still feels raw and tears make tracks down my cheeks as I write this late at night. You see, I did unexpectedly meet someone, and I fell in love. This is our story.

As with all the men featured on my blog, I tried to give him a pseudonym. But any other name felt wrong. I love his real name, the way it looks, sounds, seeing it pop up on my phone screen. He couldn’t be anyone else but that in my head. So, for that reason we shall simply call him ‘B.’ 

B was always supportive of my blog and we’d always joke about what his blog entry would be. I would say, “but I don’t know the ending yet!” 

To which he would reply – “who said it’s going to end?”

April 2019. After matching on Hinge, B and I had been exchanging messages for a couple weeks. We arranged to meet at a wine bar on Northcote Road on the Friday after Easter. In all my haste not to be late to the date, I had rushed out of the flat to catch the bus, forgetting to ask one of my flatmates to zip up the back of my dress. I arrived at the bar a minute before B and watched him walk in. He was tall and handsome with blue eyes and upon seeing me he grinned to reveal perfect teeth. I smiled back, already hooked.  After kissing B hello on the cheek, I spun round to reveal my exposed back. He laughed and gently shifted me into the corner. I felt him breathe gently against the back of my neck and his hand ever so slightly lingered on my hip as he carefully zipped me up. Tingles shot down my spine. 

We spent the evening sampling wines and eating tapas, and telling each other funny stories. After dinner we moved on to another bar up the road. We tucked ourselves into a corner and continued to talk and flirt; our faces inches from each other. Not being able to wait any longer for B to make a move, I pushed his drink aside, lent in and kissed him. As I pulled away, I lifted my eyes up to catch B outwardly grinning upwards at the ceiling; clearly happy with himself. I laughed and cupped my hand over his mouth, telling him to at least pretend to play it cool. It made no difference. B spent the rest of the evening grinning to himself whilst I took the piss out of him for it. It was 1am, and after a night of dancing, laughing and kissing, B dropped me off home in his Uber and I was the one who fell asleep that night smiling to myself.

The next morning B messaged saying he’d love to take me out again. We met the following week at a street food market in Elephant & Castle. That evening we cosied up on one of the benches sipping gin and tonics and sharing a Greek food platter. Every now and then we’d steal quick kisses. “I’ve having a great time, but I wish there was somewhere more private we could go so I could kiss you properly,” I whispered to B. He asked if I’d like to go back to his house. I nodded. We finished our drinks and walked hand in hand to the tube station. As we waited for a train, I pushed B up against the platform wall, and kissed him feverishly. The train pulled up and we giddily boarded.

Once inside B’s house, I hovered shyly in his kitchen as he made me a drink. B turned and purposely walked towards me, scooping me up in his arms, I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he lowered me onto the kitchen side. As we kissed B slowly unbuttoned my top, planting kisses from my neck down past my collarbone. My breath caught in my throat. “Shall we go upstairs?” he whispered. I nodded.

I followed B upstairs. I noted the relatively tidy room, made-up bed and dear god… was that four pillows! This man was clearly marriage material. As B watched me take in the room, he commented, “I’ve read your blog, Jess. I added the fourth pillow from my cupboard this morning.” I giggled and fell on to the bed with him. 

That night we stayed up laughing and kissing in bed. I told B I was wary about men hurting me and hadn’t slept with anyone in months. “We don’t have to have sex tonight Jess, we can wait,” he softly said as we lay naked together, our bodies wrapped round each other. It took all my will power not to give in but eventually we fell asleep. The next morning my willpower had completely evaporated. My eyes were barely open before we were wrapped around each other again and I happily gave in this time…

Afterwards, I lay on B’s chest and he told me how it was unusual for him to spend the night with a girl. Sure, he’d go out and hook up with girls, but he would never stay over and would never invite them back to his. I inwardly scoffed to myself; surely this was just a line to reel me in. And yet, something told me he was telling the truth. “But you let me stay over?” I said.

“I know… it feels different with you,” B replied, stroking my hair.

For our third date, B took me up to the Sky Garden to watch the sunset. We ended the evening back at his lying in bed together eating Krave cereal for dinner at 11pm. “I really like you, Jess” B whispered in my ear as he spooned me that night. 

“Oh, do you now!” I joked in reply. In all truthfulness, despite it only being three dates in, I really liked B too. But I didn’t want to admit that to him or myself. I’d heard this before from so many guys previously; all of who had hurt me afterwards. 

“I don’t want to date anyone else…” B said, pulling me into him as he drifted off to sleep.

“Me neither,” I replied, quietly. We both deleted Hinge soon after that.

The months that followed with B were some of my happiest. Memories flood through my mind now. The time we packed up a picnic and spent the day lounging in the sun at Richmond Park. We laughed, drank prosecco and made daisy chains, which B weaved through the embroidery in my dress. The day we went to a festival in East London and B had to watch me pull out the wedgie my denim shorts gave me every 20 minutes. The time that we went bowling and I forced B to take his first ever selfie of us. The bank holiday where we walked for hours along Regents Canal from Little Venice to Primrose Hill and fell asleep together in the sun. The time I danced on B’s toes in my dad’s kitchen, or when he pinned me down and licked my face while I squealed with laughter. Gross, I know.

We started to recognise each other’s quirks; B would be consumed by work and I would overthink everything. But instead of holding these quirks against each other we just accepted them. Each month B would go away for a week or so to work on an event, which would take up most of his thoughts and energy. His messages would come fewer and more sporadically during those times. Unsurprisingly this would have driven a lot of women mad but despite missing him I wanted to be supportive. It was worth it to see him when he got back. 

I trusted B. He was the first man in months that I had let my guard down to. I was scared about getting hurt again but it felt safe and right when I was with him. He would do all the little things to make me happy without me ever asking him to. I loved the way he would turn up at my front door with flowers for no reason. The way he would kiss me hello after being away, cupping my face and intently holding my gaze. I loved the way he would stand behind me on a tube escalator and playfully squeeze my bum. The way we could be completely ourselves around each other even if that meant acting like loons (cue very unsexy attempt at Full Monty strip tease and makeshift man thong). I loved the way we would randomly have sex in the middle of the night and not remember the next morning how it even started. I loved the way we’d fall asleep holding hands every night that we spent together. After all these years I felt that I’d finally met my person.

As my feelings for B grew stronger, I introduced him to my friends and family. After meeting B for the first time I asked my sister what she thought. 

“Oh Jess, the way he looks at you,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“When you’re chatting to someone or doing something… he just watches you.”

“Don’t be silly,” I laughed, waving off her comment, dismissively. But I had sometimes seen it too, when I had turned and my brown eyes had met his blue. I had felt the warmth travel up through me and my cheeks pop out as I barely contained my smile. I knew then, I had fallen for him.

September 2019. It was my birthday and B was due back that day from working away. B arrived at mine that evening armed with an orchid and a card that said that he was taking me to Switzerland. I was over the moon! We’d been talking for months about going away together, but what with B’s busy work schedule we just hadn’t found the time. Later that night as we were curled up in bed together, B turned to me and whispered, “Happy Birthday Jess.” I smiled. We’d had lovely dinner out, we were finally going away together, and everything felt perfect between us. I really was happy.

Three days later and everything changed. 

I had organised to go around to B’s for a night in that Friday. I was looking forward to spending some quality alone time together and I’d bought some new sexy black lingerie especially for the occasion. That morning B and I had exchanged a few messages, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But I had a bad gut feeling. I couldn’t explain why, but I also couldn’t shift it throughout the day.  I’d never had this feeling with B before and it unnerved me, as I knew from experience that my gut feelings were almost always on the mark.

I got home after work and started to get ready and pack my overnight bag. My phone flashed with a message from B saying that he was seeing a mate around the corner and would pop by mine about 7pm. Alarm bells rang in my head. “And then head to yours together?” I replied. The message remained unread. Shit. This wasn’t good.

7pm came and true to his word B arrived at my front door. He greeted me normally and so I mentally told myself to get a grip. Once upstairs in my room I turned and threw my arms around B. I must have been shaking because he asked if I was OK. “Yeah, it’s just me being silly… I had this feeling that something was wrong,” I whispered into his neck.

“Actually Jess, there is something I wanted to talk to you about,” B said, pulling away.

And right then, I knew. My stomach dropped and the pain was almost instant. I immediately reverted to the hurt I had felt 18 months prior when Dennis had run out of the very same room. Something I had never wanted to feel again.

B took my hand and gently pulled me on to his lap. “Jess, this is the hardest thing to say to you… and it’s honestly nothing you’ve done” OK…

“…I don’t think this is the right time to be a relationship” What??... But, we’re going to Switzerland??

“I think I want to move to Canada… or Australia.” Motherfucker.

Oh, of course it’s Australia. I am actually cursed.

B genuinely looked anguished. “I don’t understand,” I whispered, attempting to fight back tears. “We’re so good together, we make each other happy.”

“We do! And this has nothing to do with you, you’re the nicest girl I’ve ever met.” He said, earnestly.  I don’t want to be the nicest girl; I want to be THE girl, YOUR girl!

“This is just something I need to do for myself,” he continued. “The last thing I wanted to do was upset you, Jess.”

“Well, it’s too late,” I whispered, and not being able to hold back the tears any longer, I began to sob into B’s neck. “I was too scared to tell you before…but I’ve felt it for a while now. And I do, I really do. I love you.” And then B was the one to break. He pulled me tightly into him and we cried into each other’s arms for half an hour.

“Are you really saying that this is over?” I cried, as B pushed the hair off my face.

“I…I don’t know…I just need a few days to think everything through. I should go.”

“Please don’t leave me alone.”

“Jess, I have to. I need some time to think.” 

“I know, I know…I’m just scared that once you run out of that door, I’ll never see you again.” 

B stopped crying and pulled my face up to his. He looked me dead in the eye, and said, “That is not what’s happening here. This is not the last time you will hear from me or see me. I promise you, Jess.” B then kissed me and walked out the door.

I let out a sob and curled up on the floor in a corner of my room and phoned my dad. 

“Hello… Jess?”

I couldn’t say anything; I just broke down in tears.

“Oh no, Jess…” 

He knew what this call was. This was the third time he’d received it in the last four years.

To be continued…

Fifty First Dates

Between the months of February to April this year, I dated a lot. It was sometimes bad, sometimes fun, but mostly just quite exhausting. You may know what I’m talking about. Your bank account takes a hit and you find you have to drag yourself out on a Monday evening when all you really want to do is curl up on the sofa eating cinnamon bagels for dinner. You also drink approximately three times the amount of your usual alcohol consumption during a week and wake up each morning with a moderate hangover, only to do it all again that very evening. And you haven’t even hit mid-week yet.

March 2019. By some weird, awful twist of circumstances I had a first date lined up for every day of a working week. It had been exhausting enough doing the admin behind each of those first dates. You’d think messaging five guys simultaneously would be fun and flattering, right? WRONG! You have the same conversation about where you live, what you do for a living and how many siblings you have…five, bloody times. Not to mention having to constantly re-read through each WhatsApp chat to check what you’ve actually said to each guy. My initial thought process stemmed from not wanting to put all my eggs in one basket. Never did I dream that all five dates would come to fruition, especially not all in the same week! London men were like London buses; there would be none at all and then they’d all come at fucking once.

My mammoth date week started on a Sunday. I had matched on Hinge with a guy from Hampstead who insisted on sending me voice notes at 5.30am every morning on his way to the gym. I hate voice notes. He suggested going out for a roast dinner at a pub in King’s Cross. I wouldn’t recommend going for a full-on meal on a first date. It’s difficult to answer questions with a mouth full of cauliflower cheese, and the weird cog motion you do with your hand whilst you franticly chew is just plain awkward. The conversation was mediocre at best until it took an unexpected turn and we ended up talking about male suicide rates for 20 minutes. Not quite first date material. After exactly two hours we politely said our goodbyes and departed at King’s Cross never to contact each other again.

The next day I woke up and couldn’t think of anything I’d like to do less than go on another date, especially on a Monday. Nonetheless, I headed to the Four Thieves in Clapham after work to meet the Australian bloke I had been texting. He was attractive but I wasn’t sure if there was a spark. After a couple drinks and some pleasant enough conversation I kissed him on the cheek and said goodbye. I noted that he chose to take the quickest route home rather than walk me to the bus stop. 

On Tuesday, the guy I had been messaging from Essex cancelled last minute. Halle-fucking-lujah!

Wednesday’s date was with a guy who worked in finance at Canary Wharf but also did some modelling on the side. He was clearly gorgeous in all his photos, but his texting chat had been quite dry. I presumed he was a model with no personality that had just sailed through life on his good looks alone. How very wrong I was. I turned up at Powderkeg in Battersea to be greeted by a very beautiful man. Before long I realised that he was also extremely charming and charismatic. I spent three hours drinking, laughing and resisting the urge to pounce on him from across the table. Apparently, that’s not socially acceptable. At the end of the date he ordered an Uber and insisted on dropping me off at my flat on his way home. Before I could even get my seatbelt on, hot model guy had slid across the backseats and cupped my face with his hand, leaning in to kiss me. Oh wow. We snogged all the way back to outside my flat, where I toppled out of the taxi giddy on wine and lust. Once inside, I text, thanking him for a lovely evening, and saying we should do it again soon.

I woke up on the Thursday morning in good spirits despite feeling hungover. I’d had a great date the night before and I was looking forward to my next first date that evening. I had been messaging Alan the most out of all five men. We’d been exchanging messages for a good three weeks and by text he seemed confident, funny and interesting. Alan had booked a table at bar by Clapham Common station and was already there waiting for me. As soon as I walked through the entrance and Alan stood up to greet me, my stomach dropped. 

The dangers of online dating include building up a persona of someone based on Instagram photos and text messages which could wildly differ from the actual real-life person. Before I’d even sat down at the table, I knew Alan wasn’t the person I’d built him up to be in my head. It wasn’t his fault, but I felt drowned by disappointment. And, being typically British, I knew I’d have to stay for at least two hours so as not to appear rude, or at least until we’d finished the bottle of wine he’d already ordered. 

“How was your day?” asked Alan.

“It was OK, how was yours?” I replied.

“It was good! How was yours?

“Um…we already did me,” I said.

Alan giggled apologetically; he was clearly nervous. After half an hour of chatting, my made-up persona of Alan was shattered. He wasn’t anything like the way he came across by text; I didn’t fancy him in the slightest. Plus, he had small hands! I’m sorry but I can’t get on board with small hands on a man. I have this theory; the hand/penis theory. The saying goes, ‘the bigger the feet, the bigger the…’ but bollocks to that. From my experience there has not been enough evidence to support the theory that there is any significant ratio between foot size and penis size. However, I have found that hands do! Not just the size, but also the shape and length of the fingers. If a man has chubby fingers that taper in at the end, then I bet my bottom dollar their penis is also chubbier at the base then tapers in at the top. Long, lanky thin fingers? Then long, lanky dick! Go on, test my theory.

Anyway, I digress, back to Alan. 9.30pm hit and I was desperately looking for an excuse to end the date. I checked my phone for the umpteenth time and saw a message from hot model guy. “Hey, I had fun last night but I don’t feel like we clicked. Have a good rest of the week.” I instantly felt my face drop. Alan must have seen it too. We didn’t click?! Mate, you practically pounced on me in the taxi! How much ‘clicking’ was needed?! Disappointment and frustration washed over me; any obligation I felt to stay any longer evaporated, I just wanted to go home. I told Alan I was tired and that we should call it a night. After the bill was paid, I got up from my seat and headed towards the exit. Alan quickly leapt up to follow me and started massaging my shoulders from behind. Oh God…the hands! I thought, repressing a shudder. Once outside Alan insisted that I catch a lift back home in his Uber. It made sense as his station was on the way to mine. I couldn’t think of a reason to decline… fuck sake. 

As we waited outside for the Uber to arrive, I must have been shivering because before I knew it Alan had wrapped his scarf around my shoulders. “Oh, thanks,” I said, giving him a half smile. Next thing I knew, Alan had enveloped me from behind in a tight hug and started swaying me from side to side. I froze. Dear God…make it stop! Againbeing too British to say anything, I awkwardly stood on the pavement, my arms dropped by my side, whilst Alan, completely unaware of my inner turmoil, continued to rock me like a baby. When the taxi eventually pulled up, I practically threw his arms off me and bolted inside. I placed the scarf on the middle seat to act as a barrier between us (there would be absolutely no sliding across the backseats on this date!). 

As soon as I closed the front door behind me, I got out my phone and texted hot model guy saying, “no problem”. At least he hadn’t ghosted me. I then constructed a message to Alan. I thanked him for the evening but explained that there was no spark for me. Sent. I breathed a sigh of relief. What a week. It felt like I had gone full circle; all that energy, money and the hangovers and I was right back to where I started. This dating malarkey was draining.

I decided to give Monday’s guy a second chance; he was attractive and seemed nice after all, maybe I was just tired at the time. We saw each other a couple more times, and by our third (and what would be our last date) he invited me round to his to ‘Netflix and Chill.’ However, this was taken in the literal sense. We laid on his bed fully clothed and watched an entire film, only pausing when I noticed that he’d fallen asleep…again. This was a third date; surely, we should be overcome with lust, ripping each other’s clothes off?! The film finished and I made a comment about heading off home soon. He nodded and gave me hug. A minute later and he started to kiss me, but I just felt like we were going through the motions. I opened my eyes and looked down to see one of his hands awkwardly squeezing my boob over my top. I felt like a human stress ball. Just close your eyes, Jess. He then decided to weave his hand down the collar of my top to grope my breasts; his elbow sticking out awkwardly in my face as he dry humped me over my jeans. This was the least sexy thing ever. After 15 minutes of this I gave up, thanked him for a nice evening and made my way home. He didn’t walk me to the bus stop. Again.

Come April I decided to take it easy and just date one guy at a time. I had matched with Malcolm, a lawyer who worked in the West End. Malcom was tall and kind of goofy but in a cute way and we immediately hit it off. For our second date we met in a bar off Oxford Street where in true classic Jess style I managed to lock myself in a toilet cubicle. After a panicked 15 minutes calling out to random women in the bathroom, I was eventually rescued by the bar staff. “I thought you’d had an accident or something…” said Malcolm, as I re-joined him, ever so slightly flustered. We then headed around the corner to Swingers crazy golf.

We had a fun evening; drinking and kissing in between playing the holes. As our timed golf session came to an end, Malcolm suggested going back to his. I quickly weighed up my options in my head. I didn’t want to sleep with Malcolm that night as I already knew he was off in a few days’ time for a solo holiday to Brazil. No way was I about to have sex with a guy before he went gallivanting off for three weeks; I did not need that kind of anxiety! But I also didn’t want the date to end, so I agreed to go back to Malcolm’s to hang out. That night, we stayed up to 4am chatting; we were completely naked in bed the whole time, but I was adamant that we weren’t going to have sex. And we didn’t. We eventually fell asleep spooning. The next morning Malcolm was very sweet, he let me use his toothbrush, ordered me an uber home and gave me a banana on my way out (not a sexual pun). He kissed me goodbye and said he’d see me when he was back from Brazil. That was the last time I saw Malcolm.

We exchanged a few messages whilst he was away and although Malcolm was friendly enough, I found it was always me that was initiating the conversation. As the days in April rolled by, the messages became fewer and fewer whilst each new day (according to my Instagram feed) saw Malcolm follow approximately 50 different Brazilian girls. I couldn’t blame him; he was obviously enjoying his trip. A lot. But I didn’t want to be just an option in a pool of women he had matched with on dating apps, in the UK or otherwise. So, I decided to date other men and make Malcolm the option instead. 

Throughout my two months of intensive dating I didn’t allow myself to get too close to anyone. Most dates ended with a kiss on the cheek, a few with a snog and only a couple went beyond first base. “You can’t catch feelings from the finger,” as my flatmate, Jasmine  said. And it was true. I didn’t sleep with anyone in five months. By having sex with any of these men I would have allowed myself to be vulnerable and I just wasn’t prepared to do that. So, I kept any exploits strictly PG.

I have a love/hate relationship with dating apps. On the one hand, it’s amazing to have access to all these seemingly eligible men at the swipe of a finger. If you wanted a date or shag one evening you were only a few clicks away from obtaining it. Genius. On the other hand, as with everything where there is too much choice, people tend not to put very much effort into it. There are always other options, endless conquests to be made, plenty more fish in the sea… So, why bother sticking with the mackerel you went on three dates with when you could be simultaneously dating cute cuttlefish, gorgeous guppy and sexy sea bream. Even if you did quite like the mackerel in the first place! Ok, enough about fish.

Gone are the days of men trying to woo a woman with surprise picnics, flowers and turning up in convertible cars to declare their undying love (see, Richard Gear in Pretty Woman). Men no longer make the effort. They are too busy lining up their next conquest, and it’s all in plain sight on Instagram. Apparently, the grass seems greener on a new girl’s profile. Rolls eyes. I wanted a man who walked me to the bus stop, who messaged to check I got home OK, who didn’t follow the other hundred girls they had matched with on Hinge. I wanted someone to prove to me that romance was not dead. And none of these guys I dated could.

The reality is that none of these men were right for me and I wasn’t willing to settle. Not anymore. I wanted someone who added to my life, supported me and would do the little things just to make me smile, because they wanted to and not because I asked them to. Someone who could make me feel wanted, secure and special whilst also setting my heart racing. I wanted a man with big hands! So, after a couple of months of dating, I made my peace that it would probably be a while until I met someone that could match up to that and that I may as well enjoy the upcoming summer being single. And then, as the cliché goes, when I was finally content in my own skin, when I least expected it… I met someone.

The Fuckboy Chronicles: Cameron

The whole concept of ‘sliding into the DMs’ cringes me out a bit. I’ve never done it myself but have received a fair few messages from spam accounts inviting me to follow X-rated profiles or the odd message from a middle-aged Asian bloke propositioning me with running away together to Hawaii to live on the fruits of the land and make sweet love under the stars every day. Seriously, I got sent that. So, it’s no surprise that most messages that crop up in my Instagram’s ‘requested messages’ folder tend to go ignored. 

February 2019. After my two-month social media and dating app hiatus, I eventually reactivated my Instagram and re-downloaded Hinge. After allowing myself the Christmas period to heal after all the Fuckboy drama at the end of last year, I was ready to try dating again. After a couple weeks back on Hinge, Cameron slid into my DMs. One scroll through his profile showed me that he was very good-looking and appeared normal enough. Apparently, he had come across my Hinge profile then decided to look me up on Instagram. We exchanged messages over a couple of days and I soon found out that he lived in Surrey but occasionally came into London for work, and even had a cat, of which he sent several photos. He asked if I wanted to meet for a drink and we arranged a date for the following Saturday evening.  

Saturday morning came and Cameron messaged asking if we were still on for our date. I replied saying yes and asked where we should meet. By 5pm Cameron still hadn’t replied. I text again, asking if we were still on as I would need to know what time to arrive and plan my evening around that. Cameron eventually replied with an apology, explaining something had come up with friends who had surprised him with a visit, and asking if we could reschedule for another day. I frowned, why did it take for me to message, for him to tell me that? “Sure. Just let me know if you want to meet another time,” I replied, unconvinced.

“I definitely do! What days are you free this week?” he text.

I listed the days I was free. Cameron read the message but didn’t reply. 

Five days passed and I didn’t hear anything else from Cameron, so I resolved that that was that. Just another guy who was all talk and couldn’t even commit to a drink. Then, unexpectedly on the Thursday morning (Valentine’s Day), whilst at work, my phone screen flashed up with a message. Cameron. He apologised for going off the radar, saying that he had been super busy with work but he was in London and was I by any chance free that evening for a drink? What? A first date on Valentine’s Day?! Maybe he hadn’t realised what day it was. I myself was fully aware of said day, being my first Valentine’s Day in years where I found myself single with close to zero romantic interest. 

I was surprised to hear from Cameron. I honestly thought that I had been ghosted and had already made my peace with that. My initial reaction was to ignore the message, but after screenshotting the text and sending it to my flatmates asking for their opinion, they said I should just go for it as it wasn’t like I had any other plans (brutal, but true). So that evening, I headed to The Northcote in Battersea to meet Cameron.

I walked through the pub door with the usual hum of nerves in my stomach, in the anticipation of meeting someone for the first time and knowing within the first three seconds whether I fancied them or not. I spotted Cameron casually sat on a barstool. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to face me. Ding fucking Dong. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy hair and a gorgeous smile, Cameron was hot.

We spent the next three hours chatting, drinking and flirting. At 10pm we decided to move down the road to another bar. The bar was dark and full of couples out celebrating Valentine’s Day. We found a table in a corner with a pile of stickers. I looked round the room to see people playing the ‘traffic light’ game. Red sticker for in a relationship, amber sticker for open (or willing to cheat, I guess) and green sticker for single. Cameron and I drunkenly started planting stickers on each other, on the back of our heads, across our mouths and even playfully on to each other’s crotches. I pulled a sticker off Cameron’s mouth and leaned in to kiss him. 

We continued to drink, kiss and dance until 1am when the bar lights came on, signalling the end of the night. We stumbled out on to the street and Cameron checked his phone. “Ah shit, I’ve missed my last train home,” he said, although seemingly completely unfazed. 

“Oh.” I replied. 

“Shall we pick up a bottle of wine and head back to yours?” Cameron suggested nonchalantly. 

I frowned. This wasn’t the way this date was meant to go. My last date was back at the end of November when arsehole, Aaron had done a runner five minutes after we’d had sex. It had knocked my confidence in men so much that I had promised myself once I started dating again I wouldn’t sleep with a guy on a first date. 

“Ok, but just to manage your expectations now, we are not doing anything. You can sleep on my sofa.” I said. 

“Sure,” replied Cameron, grinning. 

No, seriously I’m not having sex with you tonight. I’ve had a good time but if that’s what you’re after then I suggest you start walking back to Surrey now.” I said, crossing my arms. 

Cameron, sensing that I wasn’t joking, hastily nodded and said, “Of course! I just want to hang out with you a bit longer, is all.” 

We took an Uber back to my flat, to find my two flatmates, Jasmine and Tanya still up in the living room. Ah, he wouldn’t be able to sleep on the sofa then. After spending a few minutes chatting with the girls, Cameron and I headed upstairs. We kissed and had a bit of a fumble in bed, but I was adamant we were not going to have sex. Cameron tried, several times. Red flags all over the place of course, which I wilfully ignored.

I was tempted to sleep with him but the thought of what happened only a couple months prior with Aaron was enough to deter me, and my knickers remained firmly on. We stayed up cuddling and chatting for most the night, with Cameron telling me how I should come round to his house in Surrey for a ‘Come Dine with Me’ style evening, and how I could stay over and play with Bat Mouse (the name of his cat, not an euphemism.)

The morning came and so did a new wave of persistence from Cameron. “Oh, c’mon baby, it’s basically like our second date now,” cooed Cameron in my ear, whilst stoking my inner thigh.” Pah ha! Honestly, the lines some of these guys come up with.

“No, it’s not, but I am looking forward to an actual second date with you,” I replied, pushing his hand aside and getting up to shower. I got ready for work and showed Cameron out. Despite feeling tired and hungover, I felt a glow kissing Cameron goodbye; we’d had a fun first date and I was looking forward to seeing him again. 

Over the course of the day Cameron and I exchanged flirty messages, until I mentioned meeting up again. Cameron read the message but didn’t reply. I tried not to overthink it, reminding myself that it was a Friday night and he was probably busy out with friends. Saturday morning came and went and my gut feeling kicked in. It was Saturday evening before I heard from Cameron again. He mentioned that he’d been busy and made a light-hearted joke about his cat but he ignored my question about seeing each other again. This didn’t bode well. It wasn’t until the Sunday afternoon that everything clicked into place and made sense. I was mindlessly scrolling through my Instagram when I clicked on to a story Cameron had posted. Motherfucker. It was a picture of him at brunch sat opposite a girl, quite clearly on a date. The picture only showed the girl’s hands, but some quick detective work and I realised who the girl was.

Never underestimate a woman’s detective skills when it comes to social media. A mission usually begins with a gut feeling (which is almost always on the mark), taking onboard any previous comments the man has made, even if they seemed like the smallest of throw away comments at the time – a woman will mentally note these. She will then commence investigating. Starting with photos, then tagged photos, then profiles of other people also tagged in those photos, then profiles of their tagged friends, followed by photos of the tagged friend of a friend’s family members. Next thing you know you’re on the profile of the aunt of the primary school teacher to the cousin of the best friend of the girl who was tagged in one photo with the guy in question on a holiday to Zante back in 2009. Anyway, you get the gist, there are no limits to a woman’s investigatory skills; especially a woman scorned.

So, it was no surprise that it only took me a short while to find the girl from Cameron’s Instagram story. It was the same girl he’d mentioned in passing on our date. Apparently, someone he’d only been on three dates with, who had got upset because he wouldn’t go on holiday to Canada with her, so he called it off because “she’d gotten way too intense”. He had also made it seem like he’d had nothing more to do with the girl; simply a past romantic fling. Lies. Cameron was on date with this girl and had quite clearly been seeing her for some time. Typical. He obviously, like so many Fuckboys, wanted his cake and to eat it too, and I had just been his side serving of apple pie. Just a joyful convenience that he was in London on Valentines Day and wanted to make the most of his excursion out of Surrey. Thank God, I didn’t have sex with this prick.

Despite feeling disappointed and angry, I was thankful that I’d found this out now before I’d slept with him or developed any feelings. I unfollowed Cameron, deleted his number and have had no further contact with him since that day. I’m just sorry that I didn’t get to meet his cat. Cameron, however, continues to watch all my Instagram stories and occasionally likes my posts. Men never cease to baffle me.

I recently heard about the term ‘orbiting.’ This is used to describe how someone who has usually ‘ghosted’ you (although not always) but will continue to watch all your social media stories and/or like your posts but will never respond to your text or engage with you in any other way. Basically, they don’t want to date or talk to you but aren’t prepared to completely delete you out of their life. Personally, I think orbiting is a very male thing to do. I don’t know many women who have a desire to follow the every move of a man she has previously decided she is no longer interested in. Women tend to take the ‘two-fingers up and block’ approach. Seems far healthier and you get a better sense of closure. It’s funny how most of the Fuckboys I’ve dated have ghosted me and yet they are always the first to watch an Instagram story I post. Yeah, I don’t get it either.

In all honesty I think I was upset for the grand total of an hour after seeing Cameron’s story with the other girl. A few years ago, seeing something like that on social media would have floored me and left me devastated for days (or at least until I was interested in another boy). Nowadays it doesn’t surprise me, or it’s happened so often over the years that I’ve built up a kind of immunity to it. I mean you have to. I can’t just fall apart every time a guy I went on one date with decides to be a dick. Let’s be honest, I’d spend more time in pieces than I would actually being happy. 

Nope, these days I simply do not have the time or the energy to waste dwelling on the transgressions of Fuckboys, commitment-phobes and the emotionally unavailable. I spent so much time through my twenties worrying about if I was good enough, smart enough, cool enough to be with the guy in question at the time and never questioning if they were actually worth my time! I was always the one to ask the ‘so what are we?’ question and be acutely aware of not ‘putting pressure’ on the guy. So much so, that I once dated a guy for a year, A WHOLE YEAR before he ‘allowed’ me to be his girlfriend! I later found out that this was just him trying to justify cheating on me the whole time we were together. A charming bloke.

I don’t claim to be a perfect girlfriend, but I am loyal, kind and caring and would do almost anything for the man I love. It took years of men taking advantage of this and making me self-doubt, but I now know my worth, and any guy I choose to date should know it too. So, to all the men who ghosted me, cheated on me, or could never fully commit to me; it really is your loss – happy orbiting.

The Fuckboy Chronicles: Aaron

There’s only one thing worse than a Fuckboy, and that’s a Fuckboy masquerading as a nice boy. Or as I like to call them; a Fuckboy in sheep’s clothing. These particular men are the worst. At least Brandon and Chad owned their player identities. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than the Fuckboys that they were. With them, I knew to a certain extent what I was getting myself into, even if I tried to convince myself otherwise. But I didn’t see Aaron coming.

Late November 2018. It had been a week since Chad had ghosted me and I took myself home to my dad’s near the Cotswolds. I needed a weekend to get away from London and the men in it. Having had enough of the type of guys I kept meeting on dating apps, I flicked opened Hinge with every intention of deleting it, when I saw a message pop up at the top of the screen. Aaron. Curiosity getting the better of me, my thumb moved from the ‘deactivate account’ button to scrolling through his profile. Tall, athletic with attractive, sharp features, I was like a moth to dick sand, I mean a flame.

I replied to Aaron and very quickly we exchanged numbers. He was very charming, and after a weekend of intense messaging, he asked me out on a date. We arranged to meet on the Friday evening. In the week leading up to our first date, Aaron would message me constantly throughout the day. By the Tuesday afternoon he asked if he could call me that evening. I was a little taken back as I rarely even chatted on the phone to Dennis, my last boyfriend; never mind a guy I hadn’t even met yet. “Um…sure, why not?” I replied. Did people do this…talk on the phone before a first date? Surely, that’s what WhatsApp was invented for? What if he asks for my landline? I don’t have a landline! It’s 2018, no one does, Jess.

“Great, I’ll give you a call around 9pm,” he messaged.

By 8.30pm that evening I was a nervous wreck. I paced anxiously around the flat, constantly checking the time. More than once I checked to see if I’d accidentally put my phone on silent. Should I be ready and waiting in my bedroom for the call? Should I be busy cooking dinner or watching TV? What would we talk about? What if his voice sounded funny…oh God, what if my voice sounded funny?!

“Yeah it’s a little unorthodox,” said my flatmate, Jasmine, watching me go from sitting on the sofa staring at my phone on the coffee table, to abruptly standing and picking it up for no reason. “But, it’s quite nice if you think about it. He obviously just wants to get to know you,” she continued. I nodded in agreement.

9.02pm. I was laying on my bed when my phone rang. “Hello?” I nervously answered.

“Hey, Jess,” Aaron replied with a strong North London accent. “Wow, you sound posher than what I was expecting…I thought you were born in Essex?” he continued. I laughed, feeling instantly at ease. We spent the next two hours chatting and laughing. That night, I laid in my bed smiling to myself, replaying the phone conservation in my head, catching myself giggling out loud when I thought of something cheeky Aaron had said. Throughout the entire phone call he had made comments about introducing me to his friends and talking about places we could go together. Oh, so he’s looking for something with longevity. He said how much he disliked social media and didn’t have a Facebook or Instagram account. Great, I don’t have to stalk you or the girls whose pictures you like. Even though we hadn’t yet met, I lapped it all up, wanting to believe that there were men out there that weren’t just after one thing only. So fucking naive, Jess.

Over the following few days, Aaron continued to message me around the clock and when he wasn’t texting me, he’d call me. He called me when he was in the car on the way to work. He called when he got home from a dinner with friends. He even called me as he was walking out of a stadium after a football match. He’d make jokes and tell me things he obviously thought I wanted to hear. I wasn’t used to this kind of attention from a guy, but it felt refreshing to have someone take such an interest in me. 

Friday came and I’d never felt such a high expectation for a first date. The plan was to meet in a bar in Holborn for a couple drinks before going bowling. My nerves at finally meeting Aaron were off the scale. I sat at a table in the bar and watched as Aaron swaggered in. “Sorry I’m a bit late, I couldn’t find anywhere to park,” he said. I found it weird that he drove when we’d clearly be drinking, but quickly dismissed the thought. “No problem, I haven’t been here long myself,” I smiled. Aaron grinned back and pulled out a small vape pen, cursed an eye round the bar, and then shiftily took a puff. I blinked. I don’t smoke or vape myself but I’m pretty sure you didn’t do it inside? “Um, shall we order some drinks then?” I asked. Aaron nodded, tucked his vape pen in his jacket and beckoned a waiter over. 

After we’d ordered our drinks, the waiter asked if we’d like to see the food menu. Aaron said nothing and just flicked his wrist slightly, dismissing the waiter. I flushed red, embarrassed at his rude gesture. I thanked the waiter as he walked away, turning back to see Aaron puffing on his vape pen again. Seriously, dude? 

Despite his arrogant first impression, I was determined to give Aaron a chance. We had got on so well by phone after all. As we flirted over a couple of drinks, I began to warm to Aaron (trying to ignore his completely indiscreet puffs on his stupid vape pen.) He was also coughing quite a lot, claiming he was suffering from the beginnings of a cold. I asked if he was ok, and Aaron waved away my concern, claiming he was fine and had dosed up on paracetamol before coming. After we left the bar we headed to the bowling alley. 

By the time we’d finished bowling it had gone 10pm. “What would you like to do now? We could find a bar and go for a couple more drinks?” I asked, although thinking that he’d definitely have to have soft drinks because he was driving. 

“Sure, but let’s just pop to my car first, cos I’ve got some pic n mix for you,” Aaron said. Oh, I thought, this was because I’d made a reference to liking sweets in one of our phone conversations; that was nice of him. I nodded in agreement and Aaron swung his arm around my shoulders and led me down a residential street to where he’d parked.

Once in the parked car, we chatted some more whilst we ate the sweets. Aaron kept rubbing my knee and after about 10 minutes lent across his seat and kissed me. The kissing became quite heated and Aaron began running his hands through my hair and then down to my blouse, unbuttoning the top few buttons. I could see people walking past out of the corner of my eye, peering into the car. Nope, no, I’m a 30-year-old woman; I’m not about to have sex in a car parked down a street in central London! I pulled away from Aaron, saying just as much. His breathing still heavy, he suggested we go back to mine. I bit my lip. I hadn’t planned for my first date with Aaron ending up like this… I wasn’t sure if I was ready to do anything more than kiss him. Sensing my hesitation, Aaron said, “Look, we don’t have to do anything. I can just drop you home, maybe come in for a cup of tea and then I’ll just drive back to mine.” 

40 minutes later we arrived at my flat in South-West London. I made Aaron a peppermint tea and gave him some more paracetamol. No sooner had he finished his drink then he stood up and walked across the kitchen to me and started kissing my neck. He pulled my blouse down over my shoulders and unhooked my bra. I sighed, feeling myself give in. We headed upstairs to my bedroom and closed the door…

Afterwards, something had changed, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but Aaron’s demeanour was different. The sex had been good so I just put it down to him feeling under the weather. He got up from the bed straight away and started scrolling through his phone. “Everything OK?” I asked, leaning up on the bed.

“Yeah. Do you have any cough medicine?” he replied, rubbing his chest. 

“No, sorry, I don’t think I do,” I said, as I walked into the bathroom next door. I went to the toilet and checked the cupboards for any medicine. Three minutes later I walked back into the bedroom to find Aaron fully dressed, pulling his trainers on. “I’m going to drive to the nearest 24-hour pharmacy. Text me your postcode and I’ll come back afterwards,” he said, picking up his car keys. He felt that ill?

“Oh, OK…” I replied, taken back. We were literally having sex five minutes ago. I was still naked. Aaron grabbed his wallet and ran down the stairs before I could even lean in to kiss him.

1am. I sat on the sofa in my dressing gown waiting for Aaron. Another half an hour passed and I still hadn’t heard anything from him, my postcode remaining as two unread, grey ticks. I messaged asking if everything was OK. 

“Yep, all good. Got some medicine and just going to head back to mine to sleep it off. Didn’t want to keep you up all night with this cough,” he replied.

“Oh, OK. Well text me when you get home,” I messaged back. But I knew he wouldn’t. I took myself upstairs and curled up in the bed, feeling the shame wash over me.

I didn’t hear from Aaron again after that. Albeit there was no love lost; he was arrogant and rude, but I had never felt so manipulated and used. Had he planned for this all along? A week of buttering me up with messages and calls; telling me things he thought I wanted to hear, all with the intention of sleeping with me on the first date and doing a runner five minutes afterwards? That night as I lay in bed waiting for a message that would never come, I made a promise to myself. Never again would I sleep with a guy on a first date.

Now, I don’t have anything against sleeping with someone on a first date. There are all these stupid rules (no doubt made up by men) that if you do then you’re ‘too easy’ or you’re a ‘slut’ or they won’t want to date you after that. Which is a load of bullshit. I know loads of long standing couples that slept with each other on their first date. It’s also an individual’s prerogative whether male/female or otherwise when they first choose to sleep with someone. And if you’re both two (or three, if that’s your thing) consenting adults, then what’s the issue? ‘Slut-shaming’ is some of the worst kind of misogyny; it’s an out-dated, double-standards notion. Whether you’ve slept with two or 52 people, it does not define you or your worth.

Now, whilst I’m all for female sexual empowerment, I also realised that I was starting to get emotionally bruised by these Fuckboys who were only after one thing from me. So, with the exception of my one night of weakness with Brandon in the New Year, I didn’t have sex for five months. Oh sure, I dated. I dated a lot. After my two-month Hinge hiatus over Christmas and New Year, I re-downloaded it in February and dated a variety of different men; learning as much about myself as I did them. What I liked, what I didn’t like, what pushed my buttons and what I wasn’t willing to put up with. 

But I decided the next guy I’d sleep with would be someone who had gained my trust and showed me the respect I deserved. So, I dated, I blogged and my knickers remained firmly on. It’s amazing how much writing you can do when you’re not shagging.

The Man with the Mo

Beware the man with the mo, that cheeky little so and so.

He’ll take you out on a first date, surprising you with his hairy nose mate.

You’ll spend the next 4 hours drinking, laughing and interacting, despite his mouthbrow being awfully distracting.

What a lovely evening it will be, you won’t want it to end. It’ll become obvious this hairy dude is more than just a friend.

So into his pockets will go, his wallet and phone, he’ll hoist you up and carry you home.

He’ll tickle your top lip when he gives the tongue the slip. You’ll tell him watch himself, behave! But he still won’t bloody shave.

You’ll taste his drunken midnight snack – is that a Maccy D’s Big Mac?? You’ll get all fun and flirty and start to think a ‘tache could be kinda dirty…

Then you’ll get a surprising feeling, this 80s pornstar seems suddenly appealing. 

And so they grow, the feelings and the mo. You realise this man ain’t so bad; he’s just supporting his fellow bros.

– JLW, 2018

The Fuckboy Chronicles: Chad

End of October 2018. Tired of putting all my eggs in the extremely flimsy basket that was Brandon, I began dating other guys. I had a couple first dates with perfectly nice men but we had zero chemistry and the highlight of my evening would generally be heading home via McDonalds for mozzarella sticks. I was beginning to lose hope, when one evening I matched on Hinge with Chad. Tall (standard) but bearded (not my typical type); Chad and I had immediate texting chemistry. We bounced off each other with joke after joke and I would always catch myself grinning when he messaged. After a week or so we arranged a date. 

On Halloween I headed to the Brewdog on Battersea Rise and ordered drinks at the bar. Chad tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and was surprised at how attracted I was to him. We spent the next four hours chatting and laughing. Midnight hit and the bar was closing. Chad asked if I’d like to come back to his for a nightcap, and not wanting the date to end I accepted.

As we headed outside and down the street the heavens opened and it began to pour. I pulled my jacket over my head and tried to walk as fast as my heels would allow me. “Here, let me help you,” offered Chad, and next thing you know he had picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. Oh my. Chad then proceeded to fireman carry me in the rain the remaining journey to his house. It could have been a scene out of a Richard Curtis film. 

Less than 30 minutes in his house, Chad and I were kissing on his sofa then headed upstairs. I quickly scanned his bedroom as we undressed each other – navy sheets…three pillows (obviously)…clothes stacked up in piles (clean or dirty to be determined). Chad was very affectionate and showered my body in kisses, constantly asking what I liked and wanted. He was an unselfish lover; I’ll give him that. Afterwards he wrapped himself around me and we fell asleep.

I crept out of his room at 6am the next morning and ordered an Uber to take me home. “Been out trick or treating, have you love?” the driver asked, smirking in his rear view mirror. And there goes your tip and five star rating, I thought to myself. “Something like that,” I replied.

Later that day Chad sent me photographs of himself where he’d shaved his entire beard off and left just a moustache in aid of Movember. Now this seems like an irrelevant detail but you’ll see later how this was actually a pivotal point for what would be the making of ‘Classic Jess.’

Over the course of the next couple weeks Chad and I would text every day and have adult sleepovers. “I’d love to go out for dinner with you, but I’m just super busy at work,” he’d say. Dude, its London, we’re all fucking busy (rolls eyes). Chad would message me late at night on his way back from work saying how much he wanted to spend the night with me. “Sure, you’re welcome to come over,” I’d say, to which he’d always reply with some lame ass excuse that it would work better if I came to his. He’d plead until I caved, offering to even pay for my Uber. Did he ever reimburse me? Did he fuck. Are we all starting to notice the all too familiar symptoms? Red alert! Looks like we have another Fuckboy on our hands.

Now when you’re dealing with a Fuckboy you should presume that they are most probably sleeping with other people, to think otherwise would be naïve. And whilst I hate the thought of ‘sharing’ someone, I have to remind myself that a Fuckboy is never mine in the first place and push down any pangs of jealousy that may arise. I have attempted ‘to play the field’ myself – but this is mostly just talk. In reality I just can’t bring myself to sleep with more than one person at any given time. Despite my intentions, the fact remains that Brandon and Chad never crossed over. So where was I? Ah yes, Chad was probably sleeping with other women. If that was the case then safe sex should have been paramount. Cue classic Jess drama.

Chad had gone out of town for a few days to see family. My friend, Shirley came round my flat one evening to catch up. Shirley works in pharmaceuticals and is the type of person who will come out with random facts, which are often quite interesting, and usually a great conversation starter.

“Super gonorrhoea.” Stated, Shirley.

“What?”

“It’s a thing. Some guy came back from Southeast Asia with this new strain of gonorrhoea, which can’t be treated. Super Gonorrhoea.” 

What the fuck? And there’s no cure??” I asked, horrified.

“Nope. Antibiotics don’t work on it. I wonder if he’ll be quarantined whilst they figure out what to do.”

“Jeez.” I said, flabbergasted.

That night I couldn’t sleep. At 3am I began Googling symptoms of sexually transmitted infections from Southeast Asia. By 7am I was convinced I had super gonorrhoea; having developed phantom abdominal pains overnight. By 10am the panic had really set in and I had turned into a complete hypochondriac; almost in tears to my colleague, Margaret. By lunchtime I had phoned up the local sexual health clinic and booked myself into an emergency appointment.

“You can only come in for an express screening if you’re showing symptoms,” stated the receptionist.

“I am!” I exclaimed.

“What symptoms do you have?”

“ALL of them!” I wailed down the phone.

She paused. “Alright you can come in now then.” 

I arrived at the clinic and nervously sat in the waiting room until I was called in for my screening. The nurse asked me some standard questions including how many sexual partners I’d had in the last month. “Um…two” I answered truthfully, resisting the urge to blurt out “but only three in total over the last nine months before you start judging me!” She wasn’t judging me; she was just doing her job.

“Right, if you just pop up on the bed, we’ll do a full screening,” said the nurse. She began the internal examination. Lying on my back, legs up in stirrups I confessed my all-consuming fear, “I think I’ve contracted super gonorrhoea and it’s spread and now I have pelvic inflammatory disease,” I said, swallowing the urge to cry. The nurse looked up from in between my legs and blinked. “You don’t have PID,” she said. 

“I don’t?”

“No. If you had PID I wouldn’t be able to do what I’m doing right now without you screaming in pain.”

“Oh.”

The nurse finished her examination, took a couple of vaginal swabs and a blood sample. “You’ll get the results via text within 24 hours, so try not to worry in the meantime,” she said.

Later that night, I tossed and turned having nightmares about telling Brandon and Chad that we’d all contracted super gonorrhoea and that the three of us would have to be quarantined together for the rest of our lives. I woke up the next morning to a text message containing my results. Gulp. ‘All results negative.’ Relief washed over me. Oh thank fuck for that. The moral of this story kids, if you’re having casual sex then always use a condom. The fear, and indeed if you actually contracted anything is just not worth it. In London you can actually have a self-test kit posted to you, send back your samples and get the results back, all within five working days. I actually did one a couple weeks ago. Despite the fact that I had to get my friend, Caitlin, to ‘milk’ my finger for me (blood sample) because I was about to pass out, the whole process is pretty straightforward. 

Anyway, back to Chad. Completely blinded by his Fuckboy sorcery I continued to message him whilst he was away, even donating to his Movember fundraising page. Chad always appreciated my jokes and so I began writing a witty two-liner to accompany the donation. Next thing you know, I’d gotten completely carried away and the two-liner turned into a verse, which after 30 minutes evolved into a full-blown poem. 

“You did what?!” asked my sister, horrified. 

“I wrote a poem about his moustache.” I said, shrugging.

“Oh God…please tell me you didn’t send it to him??”

“Why not? It was funny…”

“So you sent it to him?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Jess.”

I didn’t see what the problem was here. It wasn’t a romantic poem declaring my undying love for him, it was meant to be funny. I went to Brighton at the end of that week for a 30thBirthday. I told a group of our friends about Chad and did a live reading of ‘The man with the mo’ whilst we sat pre-drinking in our Air BnB. 

“And you sent this to him?” someone asked.

“Yes, but…”

“Oh, Jess” chimed 15 people in unison.

Oh fuck, what had I done?

Chad returned to London and asked to see me that night. I went round his, obviously; Chad didn’t even know where I lived. Lying in bed, I told him about my STI drama, to which he replied, “Thank God I don’t need to get tested then.” I frowned. Surely he should take responsibility for his own sexual health and not just rely on my results. I then asked him what he thought about the poem I sent him. “It was really good…a bit creepy though.”

“Oh. It was meant to be funny. I wouldn’t take it too seriously,” I said.

“It was…I just don’t know why you wasted your time writing it.”

This boy was starting to piss me off. I decided to change the subject and asked him what his plans were for the rest of weekend. “I’ve got some work to catch up on… and I’m also going to a singles night tomorrow.” Why was he telling me this?

“Because, y’know… we’re both single,” he said, his eyes probing me.

I resisted rolling my eyes. I know that. JeezI send this boy one silly little poem and he thinks I’ve got plans to ensnare him in a relationship against his will. Don’t flatter yourself, Chad, my Uber account couldn’t take the expense. “Cool,” I said, “well, enjoy that.”

Over the days following that evening, Chad and I exchanged a few messages; but his replies became less frequent and blunter. Eventually he ghosted me. Typical. Whilst I was annoyed I hadn’t been the one to cut it off, I was also relieved I didn’t have to deal with his Fuckboy tendencies anymore. And what’s more, I’d discovered that I had a hidden talent. I could write poetry, who knew?

“Your poems are really good, Jess. You should write a blog about your experiences over your twenties and posts poems which help to illustrate it,” suggested my sister. I started floating the idea to a few close friends who all agreed that I should do it. So I took some time off social media over the Christmas and New Year period and began writing.

At first I was reluctant to launch the blog. I was worried about revealing my personal thoughts and feelings in a public domain. I was worried what my parents might think. I was also concerned about what it may potentially do to my dating life. But then I realised. If a man had a problem with the blog and the honest accounts of my life, if he found it weird or intimidating, then he wasn’t the right man for me anyway. And so ‘Classic Jess’ came to be. 

The Fuckboy Chronicles: Brandon

Fuckboy [fuck-boi]: ‘Asshole boy who is into strictly sexual relationships; he will lead a girl on and let her down, then apologise only to ask for “pics” once the girl has welcomed him back into her trust. Boys like this will pretend to genuinely care about the girl, but always fail to prove the supposed affection. He almost never makes plans because he has to hang out on his terms, which could be the most whimsical of times… He will always come crawling back because he is a horny prick and cannot withstand the dispossession of one of his baes because he has more than one, that’s for sure.’ – Urban Dictionary.

Now that we’re all clear on the definition, welcome to The Fuckboy Chronicles. A series of posts which highlight my experiences of this particular specimen of man. We all know a Fuckboy, most of us have been unlucky enough to meet more than one in our lifetime. Hell, maybe you’re even a Fuckboy! Over the past year of being single, I have had the pleasure of meeting a handful of them, so let’s get started with the first…

October 2018. Since Hinge Guy had stood me up a couple months prior, I’d retreated back into my man-free protective bubble. I reasoned with myself that I didn’t have time to date. The end of the summer saw me turn 30, go on holiday to Dubai, and have a big party with family and friends. My sister also got married, where I was both the maid of honour and makeup artist. I was way too busy to date and that was just fine. I genuinely felt I was at my most content, confident and sexiest than I had been in a long time, and the best thing was that a man had nothing to do with it. However, women have certain needs and over the past eight months the only intimate contact I’d had was my one night with the Adonis, so I decided to re-download Hinge. Enter Brandon.

Brandon was tall, handsome (are you noticing a theme here?) and had a sort of laidback, couldn’t be bothered nonchalance about him. We matched on Hinge just before my sister’s wedding and arranged a date for the day after. I had already decided that if I fancied this guy there was a strong likelihood I was going to spend the night with him. Needs, people, needs. I arrived at a pub in Streatham and watched as Brandon walked through the door. Ding. Dong. Decision already made. We spent a couple hours in the pub chatting and flirting before heading back to his to ‘watch a film’. We spent a whole five minutes watching Netflix in his room (such a cliché I know) before we started kissing, the laptop left discarded on the other side of the bed…

Now let’s talk about boys’ bedding for a minute. Over the years, I’ve seen my fair share of boys’ beds. Correct me if I’m wrong but why is it that they are always faded grey or navy sheets (complete with questionable stains), which look like they were bought by their mum 10 years ago when they first left home. And don’t even get me started on the pillows. Flat, yet somehow lumpy, pieces of foam wrapped in mismatched pillowcases; I swear they must all suffer with chronic neck stiffness. Plus there’s always an odd number. Three pillows? I swear pillows come in pairs as standard, no? I wonder what happened to the fourth… did it disintegrate over the years in their pit or did they originally just have the two, and one time stole the third from a housemate to dry hump one night? Never mind the fact that their bed would look uneven when made (LOL), three pillows is just downright selfish when it comes to sharing a bed. Single men of London, hear me when I say, nothing will turn a girl on more than if you have clean, white sheets and FOUR matching plump pillows. You want a blowjob, you say? Then I would invest in some tasteful scatter cushions and a nice knitted throw too.

Anyway, I digress. Brandon and I did indeed spend that night together. The sex was good and it felt nice to have physical contact with a man again. However, after that night I noticed a decline in Brandon’s messages. He only text when he wanted something (I wonder what). We had a kind of unspoken agreement where I would go his (usually on a Sunday evening), have sex, watch a film together and go to sleep (cuddles optional). The next morning I would kiss him goodbye and head to work, and I wouldn’t hear from him for another week/fortnight before he’d message me again. And repeat. 

Now this kind of arrangement is all well and good if there is an equal amount of effort from both sides, but there wasn’t. Brandon began displaying typical Fuckboy behaviour. He would never commit to plans with me, it was always a last minute: “Hey, what are you up to tonight?” I was always expected to go his, God forbid him actually making the effort to jump in an Uber to mine. And when I turned up I’d never even get offered a glass of water; I’d have to hope he’d left a gym water bottle on the side or die of thirst. 

One time he invited me over and when I texted to say I was on my way, he told me to hold off for a minute because he had to pop out. I assumed 40 minutes at most; he probably just needed to grab some food (Ooo, could he actually be making me dinner?!) from the shop, right? WRONG. Three hours later, I still hadn’t heard from him, with no answers to my call or messages. Finally at 9pm that night he messaged to say, “Sorry, I fell asleep. My bad.” “YOU FELL ASLEEP!?” Rachel from Friends voice echoed in my head. Meanwhile, I had been sat at home waiting like a mug. What a waste of makeup, shaving foam and a Sunday afternoon.

You’d think that would have been the end of Brandon, right? Wrong again. Any self-respecting human would have cut off contact then and there. Nope, instead a fortnight goes by and he messages me again. I give him some stick for messing me around, to which he acts shocked and goes on to defend himself, saying how he would ‘’never intentionally mug me off.’ Obviously I lap this all up and next thing you know BOOM! I’m swallowed up in his dick sand again. And repeat.

I see Brandon on and off over the course of October and November. The messages still come every fortnight but the meet ups less frequent. I was tired of dropping everything and going over at his beck and call so I mostly declined his last minute offers, suggesting alternative days instead; days that actually worked for me. But being a classic Fuckboy, Brandon couldn’t even commit to a shag, never mind a drink. So I began dating other guys; men that actually wanted to go out with me and took an interest in me. However, they were either a string of first dates where I had zero interest or they were guys like Brandon. I was a self-diagnosed Fuckboy addict. By December I’d had enough of men altogether, deleted Hinge (again) and deactivated my social media apps.

2019 came and so did my long list of New Year’s resolutions which included leaving all 2018 men back where they belonged – in 2018. My sister scoffed at this but I was adamant. This resolution lasted all of 48 hours. Brandon had been messaging me over the Christmas and New Year period and come 2nd January I cracked. After my first day back at work I went home, showered, shaved my legs, blow dried my hair and did my makeup. Feeling particularly daring that day, I put on some sexy lingerie, heels and borrowed my flatmate’s long trench coat. It was only as I left the flat that I realised that it didn’t have any buttons. Sure. I awkwardly wrapped the coat around myself as I got into an Uber, convinced the driver thought I was a sex worker. 

20 minutes later I arrived in Streatham and awkwardly stumbled out of the car in my stilettos. One hand holding the coat together, the other clutching an overnight rucksack. Sexy. As I arrived at his front porch, Brandon was already at the door waiting for me, idly playing on his phone. I opened the front gate, composed myself into a seductive stance (I think), took a deep breath and flashed open my coat. “Happy New Year,” I said, in what I hoped was a husky, Marilyn Monroe-esque voice. Brandon looked up and grinned. “Indeed it is, come on in,” he said and I quickly tottered inside before his neighbours could get an eyeful.

We had a good time that evening and Brandon even spooned me the entire night (that hadn’t happened before.) I woke up the next morning and got dressed for work only to realise in all my excitement that I’d forgotten to pack a top. Fuck. I texted my co-worker, Margaret explaining what had happened and begging her to save my dignity. I travelled on the tube in trousers, my bra and the button-less trench coat. I walked into work and Margaret handed me a novelty Christmas jumper. It was 3rd January. “Cheers,” I said as she grinned at me. 

Only three days went by before Brandon messaged me again. So then I wondered…could Brandon actually like me and could he actually want to date me? Maybe… Eh, WRONG! He stopped messaging again and the fortnightly ghosting/texting cycle resumed. So naïve, Jess. The last time Brandon and I messaged I received the extremely appealing offer of going over to his for a ‘good spanking’ for a couple hours on a Saturday afternoon before he left London to go see his family. Surprisingly enough I declined that particular offer and I haven’t seen Brandon since. 

Now I’m not saying Brandon is a bad person, he just was never going to give me what I wanted and quite frankly what I think I deserve. Maybe he thought if he were too nice to me I’d get the wrong idea and want him to be my boyfriend. The fact of the matter is I didn’t want a relationship with him or anybody else at that time, I just wanted to find someone with whom I could occasionally hang out and have some good sex. Is that really too much to ask?! I don’t want a Fuckboy. I want a boy I can fuck who is genuinely nice, interested in me, and respects me enough to be honest and not ghost me. Can I get an ‘Amen sister!’

Welcome to Hinge

August 2018. It had been a couple weeks since my night with The Adonis and my newfound self-confidence saw me download the latest dating app, Hinge. I had actively avoided dating apps for the previous five months but one Saturday evening I took the plunge and matched with my first guy.

Semi obsessed with racing cars, multiple gym selfies and the obligatory photo with a cute puppy; he was your typical basic man of the dating app world. The conversation was mediocre at best, but it wasn’t like this guy was going to be my next boyfriend or anything. Plus, I’m a sucker for a tall and handsome man.

I agreed to meet him for a drink on the next Sunday, my first proper date since my break up with Dennis. Sunday evening came and I’d bought a new top for the occasion, blow-dried my hair, made myself up and left to get the bus to Clapham Common. En route I was surprised to see Hinge Guy’s Instagram story from only an hour before geotagging himself in Bicester Village – 50 miles from London. Hmm, that’s cutting it a bit fine before our date I thought, but whatever he’s an adult, I’m sure he can effectively manage his own time. Besides, he’d been messaging me only the night before saying how much he was looking forward to meeting me.

I arrived at No.32 the Old Town and my female intuition instantly kicked in. Despite us having regular text conservations throughout the week, Hinge Guy hadn’t read my latest WhatsApp message from half an hour before letting him know I was on my way. Being a Sunday the bar wasn’t particularly busy and as I tottered from downstairs to the second floor it felt like that every head which turned my way knew what I already knew. I had been stood up.

I quickly hurried out of the front door and whipped out my phone, deciding to call him. It rang out until answerphone, fuck sake. Feeling the upset and embarrassment beginning to rise up in my chest, I trudged across the Common in my heels to a park bench. He still hadn’t read my message. I called my sister telling her what had happened, she reasoned that maybe he was running late and that I should wait it out another 15 minutes. Despite knowing in my gut that this definitely wasn’t the case I waited on the bench, staring at the unread message on my screen. 

It was a quiet summer evening, to my right a couple of homeless men drunkenly rambled down the Common and there to my left sat on the end of the bench was a giant black crow sinisterly eyeing me up. Great. ‘Stupid bad omen,’ I thought to myself, snubbing the crow and defiantly crossing my arms, tutting. Typical, just bloody typical, my first actual date in months since my break up with Dennis and I get bloody stood up.

It got to 7.30pm, half an hour after my date was due to start. I checked the message again, still unread, however this time Hinge Guy was ‘online’, my text remaining as two little grey ticks – a WhatsApp slap in the face. Feeling the anger rise up and join its ugly mates, Embarrassment and Disappointment, I picked up my handbag and threw the crow one last look of disdain before stomping towards the bus stop as fast as my five-inch heels would carry me.

Sat on the top deck of the bus, the full effect of humiliation swelled up inside me. I bit my quivering bottom lip, determined not to cry until I’d reached home. 30 minutes later, I closed the front door and finally let hot tears of shame roll down my face. Fucking Hinge…fucking men…fucking crow, I bitterly thought, dragging myself up the stairs and into the living room. My wonderful flatmates took one look at my patchy face and bloodshot eyes and launched into furious exclamations about how much of a dick Hinge Guy was and enveloping me in tight hugs, insisting it was his loss anyway. 

Two hours, one rom-com, a bottle of wine, a bar of chocolate and (several) rants later, I felt a lot better. Curled up in pyjamas on the sofa with my flatmates I’d given up looking at the still unread message and was aimlessly flicking through my social media apps. I tapped open Instagram and scrolled through my feed… Hmm, so Hinge Guy couldn’t do me the courtesy of at least texting me to cancel our date but he could find the time to like pictures of Kylie Jenner. So he wasn’t dead then. I sighed. I unfollowed him on Instagram and opened my WhatsApp and composed a message telling him he was rude and shouldn’t waste other people’s time in future. Adding for good measure that maybe that was how he was brought up but it certainly wasn’t how I was. Good. Sent. I took myself upstairs, washed off what was remaining of my makeup and brushed my teeth.

I climbed into bed, flicked opened Hinge and deactivated my account. Fuck. That. I thought, and fell promptly asleep.

The Dating App Poem

Praise be for the dating app, I’m ready to find a handsome chap

I don’t want another Sunday night alone, it’s time to download Tinder on my phone

If I Happn to come across the one, I’ll promise more than just sexy time fun

I’ll swipe left past all the crazies, I’ll vet them all until I’ve found you baby

Fuckboys need not apply; can’t you tell I’m searching for a good wholesome guy?

I’ve had enough of your shit, I’m taking a stand, I won’t get swallowed up in your stupid dick sand

No I don’t fancy coming over to Netflix and chill, your only concern’s whether I’m on the pill

So I’ll Bumble my way through all the eligible men, just like Barbie looking for her Ken

OK Cupid it’s time to strike, aim that romantic arrow at my Magic Mike

I’ll Hinge – I mean hedge my bets on finding true love, in the words of The Weather Girls let it rain men from above

But if I have to wait for a bit that’s fine too, after all I’ve got a lifetime to spend with my boo

So in the meantime I’ll just continue to swipe until I grow tired of this dating app hype

I’ll keep on dating all the Tom, Dick and Harrys until I find the man I’m going to marry

– JLW, 2019