The Seven Plagues of London

It’s hard to imagine a date with more anticipation than my fourth date with Whippersnapper. It had been two weeks since our third date. It felt like things between us really deepened in that fortnight, because of him being so open about his sexual health problems, and me supporting him through it. We knew we fancied each other and talked a lot about exactly what we wanted to do to each other – the only thing left was to do it.

I’d been counting down the days to seeing him for a while, so it was nice when he started doing it too. He would often text me in the morning, on his way to work, and end the conversation saying things like “also – 5 days!”

I had a really stressful week at work, involving a trip to accident and emergency (not for me), which had repercussions, and I ended up working very late at home a lot.

About 3 days before the Big Day, I got home, opened my front door and said out loud “you are kidding me!”.

The day before, there had been a couple of big flies in my hallway. That day, there must have been about thirty of them. The walls of the hallway, which I share with the flat below, were covered in massive flies.

Whippersnapper has a phobia of flies. On our third date, he’d kept saying “it’s their eyes… and THAT TUBE!” when he was trying to explain it, and I kept saying “ah, the proboscis.”


It felt like there had been so many obstacles to having sex with him, I couldn’t believe there was now a fly infestation in my hallway. I had visions of him teetering on the threshold of my home, looking at the flies and then running away.

We’d had co-habiting ex-boyfriends, herpes, his current genital skin infection, and now this infestation of flies. I felt like I was living a modern day version of the Seven Plagues of Egypt.

Normally I would have a real dilemma about killing another living creature, but that night I had no qualms about getting the Henry Hoover out. There was no way I was letting those fuckers stand in the way of me shagging Whippersnapper.

Quite a few flies had got into my flat, so I went around with the Henry, vacuuming them up. Although they were massive, they weren’t very sophisticated, so they would just stand there on wall, sadly thinking “…oh” as the nozzle approached them, and they got sucked into the vacuum.

After de-flying the flat, I wrestled Henry down the stairs and started work in the hallway.

For the rest of the week, I was constantly getting the vacuum out; every time I had just put Henry away, I’d find another fly.

Luckily, they seemed to go as quickly as they’d arrived. Two days before the date I opened the front door to find another thirty flies in the hallway, but half of them were dead, and the day before the date, I opened the door to find all the new flies were dead.

I was frantically busy with preparations for the date.

I wrote in another post about exorcising the flat of my ex-boyfriend, in preparation for the Whippersnapper’s visit, and then of course there was the amateur pest control. On top of that, there was a lot of body hair admin, selecting the perfect outfit, perfecting the ideal recipe and creating a playlist that was both seductive and made me seem cool.

This was my to-do list:


The night before, Whippersnapper (WS) was out with friends. I had just fallen asleep when I got this message, at about half past midnight:

“You know, that first date and especially the last date was one of the best nights out I’ve ever had. Tomorrow is here now. I cannot wait. Good night lovely x”

I sleepily replied “you absolute sweetie. 19 hours xxx”

“19 hours xxxx”. He replied.

The day of the date, I had a work Away Day. I must admit, quite often my mind meandered away from the PowerPoint, and onto scenes I hoped might happen that night.

Everyone was going for drinks at the end of the Away Day. It took all my self-control not to say “I can’t, because I’m off to shag the shit out of a 25-year-old” when various colleagues asked if I was joining them.

When home time finally arrived, I drove home, and was shocked to see my street had been closed by the police, because someone had been stabbed. Although I had to park somewhere else, luckily, my flat was just on the right side of the ‘Police line Do Not Cross’ tape.

I nervously did my final makeup application and final tidying, and tried to arrange myself in casual position on the sofa.

He texted me to say he was nearly there. We’d arranged to meet at my nearest station, so I took deep breaths, put my coat on and had my final Smints.

I got to the station and waited. I’d only ever seen him in smart work clothes, but he’d hinted he was a slightly unconventional dresser, so I was a bit apprehensive about seeing him in his civvies.

A train pulled in. I saw him walking up the steps and over to the ticket barriers. I needn’t have worried – he looked so achingly cool in his leather jacket, I felt a bit of fluttering in my nether regions.

We had a lovely, genteel kiss and then walked back to my flat, holding hands. For some reason, I embarked on a long rambling speech about a tall office block near the station, and the nature of the work they do there.

Stop talking.

We got to my flat, which he said smelled nice. I couldn’t believe he was finally in my home! He said it was just like he would’ve expected, and all my furniture was very ‘me’.

There was a hint of blue police car light flickering into my kitchen, so I apologised for the stabbing that had slightly disrupted the ambience.

I have a sugar bowl which I bought from an art gallery, which I absolutely love, because it has a weird, pop-art style face on it. When I bought it I thought oh my god, when anyone comes to my house now, they’re going to say “woah! look at your amazing sugar bowl!”. 

But no one ever really noticed it. I thought about how to make friends with more people who take sugar. I was really excited when my ex-boyfriend’s stepdad came around to help lay our kitchen floor, because I knew he took sugar, but he is not the kind of man to be impressed by a sugar bowl from an art gallery.

As soon as WS walked into my kitchen that night, he said “Wow! Look at your sugar bowl!”.

I told him about the flies, which had now gone, and his eyes were like saucers. We poured out glasses of wine, and I was about to start cooking, but then I decided to kiss him first.

That kiss. That kiss completely reflected two weeks of stored up sexual tension. Considering he was a self-confessed former rogue, his hands had been very well-behaved on our previous dates, always remaining in romantic places like my waist or my hair. This time, in my kitchen, he gave my bum a good feel, and then his hands moved to my chest area. It probably would’ve felt great, but I was wearing a bra with so much padding, I hardly felt a thing. His fingers started snuffling around the top of my shirt, obviously trying to find an entrance. It was an unusual shirt with no buttons, which crossed over and tied up at the side.

It was tempting to abandon dinner and continue that kiss, but my head didn’t quite feel ready yet, even if my loins were. I pulled away and explained how my shirt worked, but said “I should probably crack on with cooking”.

I was making chicken breasts stuffed with garlic and herb cheese and sun-dried tomatoes, with a honey and balsamic glaze, crushed potatoes and either a salad or steamed vegetables, his choice (he chose a salad). He sat in my kitchen and we chatted about all kinds of different things while I cooked, and drank wine.

It felt at the same time ridiculously exciting, but also, completely natural.

We ate our dinner (he was more effusive about the crushed potatoes than the chicken, but broadly positive) and then we moved onto the sofa. The playlist was seeming to go down well.

Somehow it came up in conversation that I felt a bit insecure, about the possibility of him having sex with me and then deciding he did want to be a rogue again. He said “I’m not going to do that. How can I reassure you – shall we arrange our next date now?”. So we did.

The kissing started to get out of hand. He managed to undo my top this time. Part of me was conscious that this lovely, anticipation stage would be over once we finally had sex, and I didn’t really want it to be over. But on the other hand, I absolutely did.

“Shall we go upstairs?” I said, and we did.

Usually when the Official Disrobing occurs with someone for the first time, I feel at least some negative feelings, sometimes Catholic guilt, sometimes thinking Actually, did I definitely want to do this? or just feeling unpleasantly nervous, but with WS, when clothes started to be removed, I just felt like Of course we’re doing this!

Some parts of the sex were the best I’ve ever had. There are some things he is especially good at. Some parts were the usual, not perfect, nervous, fumbly, first-time sex you would expect. Which was also perfect, in its own way.

We lay and hugged and talked for hours afterwards. He said “it was everything I hoped it would be”. We talked about things from our past, we talked about films, we talked about the nature of evil and we talked about which is best out of tea and coffee.

I realised I didn’t need to worry about the lovely anticipation being over, because this was even better. It felt like a relief to be on to the next lovely stage, closer and more relaxed.

In case you’re wondering, he did complete the transaction on my breasts.

And, reader, I didn’t catch breast herpes.


8 thoughts on “The Seven Plagues of London

  1. Pingback: Post-date paranoia in Portugal | Dater Analysis

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  3. Lovely, lovely, lovely post, Ms. DA. And, such erudition: literary evocations ranging from the Passover Hagaddah to Aristophanes, Fielding (Henry [but, sure, plenty of Helen, as well]), Bellow, Richler, Colette and a sly Brontëan closer. Content, style, expression, courageous and generous honesty—first rate, stem to stern! ✨

    Liked by 1 person

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