To set the scene we meet at the Middle Park Hotel – the old Gunn Island, I miss the Gunn, pretty sure we were paying for that monogrammed carpet with the sixty-dollar-a-bottle-sav-whaaa-blanc. We grabbed a bottle of upper-middle-class and sat outside. I’d met this one at a bar after a disaster-speed-date-athon. Four bubblies down, my name-badge-whoops-still-on and he’d charmed the hair extensions off me. We exchanged numbers and a few sms’s later had arranged to meet in broad daylight.
Within the first few minutes he answers his phone. He did ask, bless his mild manners, yet I could hear loud and clear what he was saying: “What am I doing Saturday night? Well we’re going for a midnight naked swim aren’t we?… Oh, I’d better go… yeah I’m on a date.” Mmm k. I smile this one off as it’s getting chilly and we move inside, not before he grabs me around the waist and says “Oh you’re realllllllly curvy” while I squirm away like Penelope Pussycat from Pepé Le Pew.
We’re seated now and it’s time for some of the two-glasses-I’ve-skolled-down-conversation but not before I notice his t-shirt is on inside out. No, really I’ve had a good look, it’s not one of those stupid-seams-on-the-outside-design, it’s definitely on inside out – so I blurt it out: “Your T-shirt’s on inside out.” He offers immediately to take it off, right there in the Middle-Park-Posh-Hotel, and turn it round the right way. I should mention this guy was incredibly guns-baby-well-built and later heard from a male friend this is a tactic for men to show off their body. I’m guessing Superman wears his undies on the outside for similar reasons. “Oh what are these doing out here?! Silly me!” It’s like a girl version of short skirt and ‘Can you touch your toes?’
Moving right along, next up he tells me he’s a virgin and waiting for the ‘right one’. Cue ridiculous laughter from me but then claims he can prove it: “I’ve got a huge tattoo of a radiant sun on my back, symbolising warmth, heat and my Buddha non-sex lifestyle and I can show it to your right now!?” Yup, this one was definitely aiming for an off-with-the-shirt-date. I assured him I believed him and didn’t need to see proof (I’d check on Facebook later). And soon as I started to feel mean for laughing he said he was lying about the whole no-sex thing and had dropped acid on the night we’d met. Oh-kay.
He starts talking about his Dad being a boxer (punching people, not the dog) and I start to glaze over a bit till he wakes me back up asking if I thought he was a womanizer. Seriously I’d used all my girly-giggle-cards at this point. And just said with a big loud smile “YES!”.
We’d finished the wine and decide to move onto the Spanish tapas place across the road – how many of you are wondering why I haven’t left yet? Well I’ve got front row tickets to this car-crash and I want to see the airbags explode and jaws of life rip him open before I’m done.
We’re seated and have a female waitress, of course. He starts flirting outrageously with her, of course. He then asks if he can take coffee to a table for her, which he-flipping-does, of course. He asks for her number cough, I mean the restaurants number because he’d love a part time job. And by golly is she loving this! Picture: skanky waitress with her crop top tummie showing, flaking Safeway eyeliner batting along with gyrating her hips suggestively at him.
I’m not really sure what to make of this sudden third-wheel-of-a-date but I get her to go away and get the conversation back up and running and he doesn’t waste a kooky second – next request: Can I ring his manager now. Yes, right now, and pretend to be a future employer looking for a reference and see what his manager has to say about him. I say “Err no.” and he gets quite argumentative and annoyed with me. Thank goodness the food has arrived – ahh potatoes bravas more like Lorenza is bravas!
We get through the meal – some more eye collaboration from him and waitress and he drops me home with:
HIM: “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
ME: “Oh I won’t call you…” He looks a bit confused.
HIM: “Why did you say that?”
ME: “Because you’re the boy.” I’m already out of the car at this point so I slam the door not wanting to carry on this kindergarten conversation a second longer. If you’re wondering what I meant with my answer though – RULE: the boy is meant to call the girl not the other way round – but I most likely confused the inside-shirt-maybe-pants-next-time hell out of him.
Love may be a fine wine but all I appear to be drinking is Where-did-all-normal-ones-Merlot.