BY: Anthony Gilét

So it’d been a while since I last had a date, and it was time to get back out there. Since realising what I want, surely dates would start going better now, right? Right?

Unless I’m proper into a guy and am sure we’re gonna have great sex, turning up to stranger’s houses is currently out the question. So going for drinks was the audition process to finding the Friend With Benefits. I agreed to meet a guy off Grindr locally after work.

He looked like his photos when he met me; he wasn’t ugly but he wasn’t gorgeous – so we’ll leave it down to banter and sexual chemistry, I’d thought.

He was one of those guys that frequently used “mate” in his messages but you could tell had never said it out loud in his life. He liked to think he was masculine enough, but ain’t nobody from Yorkshire even got the slightest bit of swag.


After our first couple drinks we moved on to the next pub, and I mentioned that I needed a shop to buy cigarettes. He shot me a quick side-eye and lip curl that expressed his distain for smokers. So I sent him one right back that said
‘you telling me with those teeth, that you ain’t a smoker?’
Girl, how you gonna throw shade at me for having a fag with my pint when your teeth are in worse condition than Jenna Jameson’s pussy?


We discussed our interest in Disney films, followed by our interest in eventually finding a monogamous relationship.
“I want the Disney fairy tale. I want my Prince.”
Ew. I winced as my date suddenly turned into a 13-year old girl. No wait, even they wouldn’t say something so vomit-inducing. Well you know what girl, you wanted a Prince? Well, you got Maleficient, you cunt.

This wasn’t even supposed to be a potential relationship. This was supposed to be a prelude to sex while I decided if I fancied you enough to bang you. But those gravestones in your gums ruined that straight up.

“I’m really intrigued to know who that is on your screensaver…” I pried, after seeing a bare torso poking out from beneath his app icons.
“It’s Tom Daley.” OF COURSE it is.

Screen Shot 2014-08-16 at 01.09.17

Naturally I was tweeting from the toilet.

“You come across as the type of person that’s body is their temple?” he suggested.
No. If my body was a temple I wouldn’t have been bulimic for six years, taken crazy cocktails of drugs and get regular sunbeds.

Although perhaps I can understand the presumption coming from somebody who’s body is a landfill.

So basically you’ve sat there and made countless snap judgements (OK, so I made that one about him smoking, but that was hard not to) about someone whose actually a good person. So good a person in fact, I didn’t mention your ridiculous shirt/belt/shoes combination that had you worn to Fashion Week, you’d have probably been pelted with celery sticks.

He continued to tell me that the person I appeared to be online was different to the person I was in reality.
“You come across like you’re not online much, and you’re not really bothered by the whole thing, which is sexy.”
I’m not bothered. I literally hardly use my Grindr unless I’m chatting to some hot man – so hence why I ignored a few of your messages. Continue…

“In real life, you’re very much out there.”


So clearly she was expecting some meek little door mouse from zone 3 to turn up and be in awe at how many people he manages at work. lol. I’ve never once used the term “lol” in a blog post, but that is quite frankly all that comes to mind. Like he could pull some hot boy ten years his junior with his pay packet; bitch please – I’m gonna earn my own just fine.

But seen as how many holidays a year he takes or numbers of staff had failed to impress me, he decides to start psycho analysing me.
“I can’t work you out. I think you put on a bravado that isn’t you, because everything else about you doesn’t suggest this camp persona.”

Do you know what, go fuck yourself. Who are you to say I’m putting on a bravado “mate”.

Then asking if this ‘persona’ makes me happy; listen bruv, I don’t need therapy so stop tryna act like a counsellor. The same way I wouldn’t mention that hemorrhoid on the side of your nose; that’s up to your dermatologist.


Why you gonna sit and try take me down because YOU feel self-conscious. Knob.
I almost grabbed my bag and sashayed out the bar just then, but was no way giving him any satisfaction of breaking a character clearly much stronger he was.
Instead of bitching about how disappointed you are, perhaps you should be thankful that you’re on a date with someone completely out of your league. Maybe this is why one is 35 and alone.

When I came back from the toilet, things were more awkward than that time Gaga tried to kiss Britney.


“Shall we make a move then?” I suggested, lest I waste anymore of my time with someone that didn’t appreciate it. We walked to the train station and I kissed him on the cheek.


And even then he tried slyly go for the lips. You know why? ‘Cause even though you negatively deconstrcuted every bit of my personality – you still wanted a piece.

Then I said goodbye… for good. And as I disappeared under the railway bridge he was forgotten about. OK, after a 50-minute rant to my sister and a cathartic blog post, then he was forgotten about.

And to think when I got home I comfort ate. Four whole Harbios. After all, wouldn’t wanna ruin my “temple”.

Other posts you might like:
>> Dating Tales: Hot Vauxhall Mess
>> DATING TALES: A “Breakthrough” At Breakfast
>> DATING TALES: The Bomb That Kept Exploding