The night after my date with the young Jaguar guy, I went out clubbing with my friend. One thing I’m enjoying about being single again, is having the freedom to go clubbing again (although it took a while to find friends my age who want to come with me).
The night was fun. It was still my period and when I was getting ready to go out, I realised I had run out of sanitary products in my bathroom. However, I knew I had some in the glove box of my car, so I planned to put some in my handbag when I passed my car on the way to the tube. However, I promptly forgot to do this, and only realised when I was on the tube. I didn’t pass any shops on the way to the club, and the club toilets didn’t have any machines (many of the cubicles barely had doors).
The situation was becoming critical when I got to the club, so in a toilet cubicle I fashioned some kind of sanitary product out of toilet paper.
This seemed to work OK, so I cracked on with dancing. Since I am in my 30s now, I had crammed into my handbag the book I’m reading for my book group, to read on the night bus home, and my friend asked the DJ to turn the music down.
After a while, I was dancing, and locked eyes with a ridiculously handsome man. He could have been a male model. And he definitely knew it.
We had a bit of a snog and then carried on dancing together. I was probably being a total dick, but I felt like he was being very cocky and I really enjoyed not making things too easy for him.
When the club was closing, I suddenly felt the makeshift sanitary product had shifted and was now halfway across my bum cheek. I thought ‘if he gropes my bum again, which he almost certainly will, he’s going to think my bum is a very strange shape’.
Luckily, he got distracted by his jacket ‘going missing’, which he was very upset about, because it’s apparently a NICE JACKET. So I was able to do some surreptitious underwear rearrangement while he fussed about this.
His jacket turned out to be in the cloak room. Who would have thought to look there.
By the time we got outside, it had transpired he was a) smashed and b) a bit of a buffoon. He suddenly seemed a lot more drunk than he had on the dance floor. It was painful watching him trying to use his phone correctly to save my number. Lots of “isn’t it… sorry to interfere, but don’t you just have to press ‘Create new contact’… no… go back…”.
The Sunday morning after, Young Jaguar texted me saying he was hungover after his Saturday night. He then texted some photos of himself in bed, looking tired and hungover but alluring.
Is this a thing now?
He then asked if I wanted to go round.
On the one hand, it was nice he was inviting me round, but it felt like I’d very much be going round just for sex. There was still the menstrual barrier to doing that, but also it didn’t feel right. Maybe my disasters with Daniel had put me off casual sex a bit.
I replied saying “Yeah, I guess what I’d like ideally is to meet up again in a venue that is a bit less sex-orientated (ie not one of our bedrooms).”
At first he took a while to reply, and I felt a bit sad, thinking I might’ve ruined things by not wanting to pop round for sex.
But then he sent me a message asking if I like Thai food, and we half-arranged to go for dinner one evening soon.
One evening the following Wednesday, we were texting each other to arrange our next date. It turned out there wasn’t an evening we were both free for ages, but we were both free that night. He said he was ‘too tired’ to go out for dinner, but asked if I wanted to go round and ‘chill’ at his.
I thought ‘fuck it, why not?’
I had a quick shower first, and thought ‘is this a bootie call?’ I still didn’t want to sleep with him – logistically, it was still not the ideal time of the month. My periods are pretty light but they go on forever, and just when you think it’s finally ended, it suddenly springs back into life to have a final burst on its banjo (which I discovered to my peril during my first ever sexual experience, aged 16, which culminated in the boy I was going out with saying “should I be able to taste blood?”).
(I swear I’ll stop talking about my periods soon.)
I got the tube a couple of stops to where he lives. I listened to the Archers podcast on the way. I never used to listen to the Archers, but I got hooked after the domestic abuse storyline with Helen Archer.
As I walked to his flat, I thought ‘I’m probably the only person in London right now, that is listening to the Archers, on their way to (kind of) a bootie call.’
I felt a bit nervous as I rang the doorbell of his flat. He opened the door and gave me a hug, which I liked. I prefer a hug to the air-kiss you often get on dates.
We sat and watched TV in his flat, and it felt fun and easy to chat to him. After not very long, he turned and kissed me, and the kiss went on for ages. I had a can of Strongbow in my hand, and had a dilemma about whether to break away from the kiss and put it down safely, or whether to try and put it down whilst simultaneously continuing to kiss him, but risk spilling it.
Once the can of Strongbow was safely on the coffee table, the kissing developed into could only be described as Heavy Petting. Especially if we were doing it on a swimming pool poster in the 80s.
Again, I had to keep reinforcing the fact I didn’t want to have sex, which got a bit wearing, but generally it was nice kissing and quite hot. He’s a handsome chap and seems like a nice person. His technical skills at everything we had done so far seemed fine. It’s nice just fancying someone and them fancying you and there not being any drama or silliness.
Initially I had thought we might not have much in common, and I started to think this more though. At one point, for some reason I launched into a speech about feminism which he didn’t really seem to enjoy (he didn’t seem like a misogynist hearing a speech about feminism, he just seemed like someone with absolutely no interest in hearing a speech about feminism).
I got up to go at about 11pm. We kissed by his front door quite passionately, and that was a good kiss. He had a final stab at seeing how far he could push the boundaries of what I wanted to do, and I got caught up in the moment, and let’s just say his fingers ended up spending a few moments in my…, well, my 80s swimming pool.
I walked back to the tube. I think he should’ve walked me to the tube really, as the journey involved walking down a dark alley for ages, but I got home safely.
We texted each other about the moment by the door quite a lot over the next week.
Things I regret saying:
We were talking about popular crime things like Serial and Making a Murderer. I thought of a pithy observation about the recent court case on the Archers. This is how that conversation should have gone:
Me: Do you listen to the Archers?
Him: What’s the Archers?
Me: oh, it doesn’t matter.
This is how it actually went:
Me: Do you listen to the Archers?
Him: What’s the Archers?
Me: Oh it’s this thing Radio 4… (a 10 minute description of what the Archers is).
Me: So anyway, there’s this lady on it called Helen… (a 10 minute description of the domestic abuse storyline)
Me: (the pithy observation).
The pithy observation had really lost its magic by then.