My sober date with the Whistle-blower

One of my favourite people in the world is my friend Ruth (not her real name). She sometimes gets words a bit mixed up. I had been texting her about the Whippersnapper, and when we next met, she said “so tell me what’s happening with the Whistle-blower!” and I thought I’m definitely going to start calling him that.

The day after my first date with Whippersnapper, work was a bit of a struggle. I said to my work colleague that I wouldn’t tell Whippersnapper I was sick on the way home, because it wouldn’t give the right impression.

However, by that evening, he texted asking about my day, and I thought fuck it and told him how hungover I’d been.

He sent a nice message back, asking if he was a bad influence, and I said “Not your fault”, and told him some other anecdotes involving me being sick in inappropriate places.

He replied saying that I was literally making him laugh out loud. Then he said I was good kisser, that our date was ‘awesome’, and “so funny and you’re so intelligent. And gorgeous. X”.

I sat on my sofa beaming, feeling my colour returning for the first time that day.

Over the next couple of weeks, we texted each other every day. He always reacted to my boring anecdotes like they were absolutely fascinating, and I never felt worried about telling him stories that showed me in an embarrassing light (like when I took my car to the garage because the engine was making a worrying rattle sound, and the mechanic asked me to replicate it. He meant “can you turn the engine on now, so it does it?” but I thought he meant “can you do an impression of it?”).

One evening we were texting each other about writing, and he told me he writes poetry. I said “I bet that makes ladies’ underwear fall off, when you tell them that!”.

He said he usually doesn’t tell anyone, but didn’t mind telling me because “we have a lovely connection, I think!”. My face looked exactly like the blushing, smiling emoji.

However, like with arranging the first date, time was ticking on and a second date hadn’t been arranged yet.

A week went by, so I took the bull by the horns and tagged a nonchalant “Oh and when did you want to meet up again?” onto the end of a message about something else. We were both busy a lot, especially as I was going away for the weekend, so we planned our second date for the following Tuesday.

He said he had ‘work drinks’ on Wednesday AND the Friday. I texted one of my friends who doesn’t work in mental health, to get another perspective: “no workplace has work drinks twice in one week, right? Do you think his ‘work drinks’ are dates?”. She replied saying bankers might have work drinks twice in one week. We agreed we didn’t know how sociable Data Analysts were (despite the name of my blog).

It felt like we really got to know each other over the next week of in-depth texting. I went to stay with my parents for the weekend, and he said their house sounded like a ‘kooky intellectual paradise”. We talked about mental health more as I talked about my job, and he said insightful things. We started to say how much we were looking forward to seeing each other and even a bit about wishing we were in bed.

The last morning of my weekend at my parents’, I was lying in bed, about to go running. We were texting each other about London and the tube, and somehow, it escalated into Underground sex puns. Obviously Cockfosters and Hornchurch got quite a lot of airtime. We talked about him topping up my Oyster.

I said I’d like him to give me a good, hard replacement bus service.

He said “I can’t wait to taste you”.

“Gosh. That’s not an Underground pun.” I replied.

The day before our date, I was having a drink with Ruth, talking about him, when the Whistle-blower himself texted me. He said we could still meet, but he had a ‘drinking ban’.

Ruth and I spent ages trying to decode this. Did he want to cancel? Did he did still like me? Did he think I was an alcoholic?

Ruth just thought it meant he still wanted to meet, but couldn’t drink.

He turned out to be on antibiotics.

We arranged to go for dinner, even though I find it difficult to eat in front of people I fancy. He booked a table at a pizza restaurant he liked.

As usual, I was about 10 minutes late. I suggested he go on to the restaurant, because of the booking, and I would meet him there, instead of the station.

I got the restaurant, and strode in, saying “I think my friend is already here” to the waitress. After doing a lap of the restaurant, he was nowhere to be seen. I sheepishly went back outside, and there he was. I’m not sure how we missed each other. I went over to him, and started to say “I thought you were inside, so I went in…”

He started to give me a hug and kiss on the cheek at the same time as I started talking. For some reason I was really committed to finishing my sentence, so I stood bolt upright like a broom, ignored the hug and pointlessly carried on talking “…but you weren’t there, so then I came out here, and there you were.”

I noticed he was wearing a coat that looked identical to one that my ex-boyfriend, who died, had. It was a nice blast from the past.

We went inside and were shown to our table. We both ordered soft drinks, as I had decided not to drink either. This was because after our first date, I wanted him to see that I can behave with a bit of decorum sometimes.

For a slight moment, I felt like a bit uneasy.

Shit, we’re really doing this. Sober. 

Then, we very quickly settled into it and had a lovely time.

We chatted about all kinds of things. We talked about the age gap for the first time. He said he prefers older women because we’re more ‘confident, independent and mature’. I was surprised – I assumed he dated women his own age and that I had slipped under the radar.

We shared dating experiences. Somehow, despite being sober, I told him all of my most embarrassing stories, including:

  • the date where I drank so much I fell asleep in the toilets, and came back 20 minutes later, with my watch imprinted on my forehead
  • the date I had in St. James’s Park, where I had a wee under a tree and somehow got menstrual blood on my skirt. I then incorrectly applied some GCSE science to the situation and thought if I sprayed body spray onto the blood, some perfume chemical would break down the blood molecules. Unfortunately, this turned out to be total bollocks and I was left with an even bigger blood stain on my skirt, that smelled nice
  • I had already told him about my nightmare Brazilian wax, but I went into even more detail
  • the fact, even though I’m generally considered to be very mild-mannered, I once broke my hand punching a sofa.

We went to a pub after we finished eating. There were big screens with a football match on. I was very impressed, because he had told me he was a football fan, but not once did he surreptitiously glance at the screen once when I was talking.

We walked back to the tube together, and he suggested walking through this little park. I hoped he had suggested it because it was a quieter place for a kiss.

We had got about halfway across this garden and the kiss wasn’t forthcoming. I tried everything I could to spur it on. I went a bit monosyllabic so I wouldn’t be mid-sentence at the vital moment.

Come on! Please kiss me. 

We both slowed down our pace, and then he stopped.

And then he kissed me!

I think it was the best kiss I have ever had. And I have had A LOT.

It was really, really slow and controlled. I realise that ‘slow and controlled’ is how you might describe the explosion of an abandoned PE kit at Euston, rather than a sexy kiss, but it was. He had his hand on my waist, and at first, our lips hardly moved. I was thinking “I really want him to put his tongue in, and I know he will, I just don’t know when”. He moved his hand up to my face.

I’m a big fan of a some gentle lip-biting. Not everyone is. Occasionally, I’ve been kissing a boy, and they’ve reacted like they thought the lip-biting was an accident.

A little while into the kiss, he gently bit my lip and I loved it. I then bit his lip, and as I did it, I felt some slight activity in his crotch area.

“That was a really good kiss.” I said, when we finally broke away.

“It was.” He agreed. “I’d been wanting to do that all night.”

We held hands as we walked back to the tube.

On the way home, I thought about all the embarrassing things I told him. I generally don’t mind embarrassing myself for the sake of a good story, but this was a lot of bad information, even for me. I thought I told embarrassing stories about myself because having a drink affected my filter, but this time I was sober.

I think it was because I felt so comfortable with him. Dating usually makes you want to pretend to be a slightly better version of yourself.

But Whippersnapper made me want to be the best version of exactly the person I am (sorry, that’s even more nauseating than my period stories).

 

 

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2 thoughts on “My sober date with the Whistle-blower

  1. Pingback: A well-dressed Where’s Wally | Dater Analysis

  2. Pingback: Post c**tgate: the Brexit of relationships | Dater Analysis

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