Sadly, I’m now beginning to learn there is truth in the age old adage; ‘all the good ones are taken’. Though the saying should now be updated to include that all the ‘completely average’ and ‘just about passable’ ones have also been snapped up too. Leaving us poor singletons with a choice more dire than a ‘half off’ Tesco Value chilled cabinet. I’m dangerously close to stumbling into Carrie Bradshaw territory here, in terms of the ‘whiny bitch Richter scale’ but I am literally so over the legions of pasta-brained male narcissists, posing as the best their sex has to offer. *And Breathe*
‘So what’s his name?’ I hear you ask. Reader, knowing me, (as you do) to be nothing but an unshakable pillar of discretion, I won’t put this unidentified gentleman on blast by giving such a personal detail away. However, I will give you enough dirt to satiate your inner voyeur, or at the very least give your tired eyes a well earned five-minute rest from the torrid business of Instagram stalking.
After my hell date with ‘John’ my karmatic guidance system seemed to indicate that there were no new depths for me to plummet to, in the losing game of Love Russian Roulette. Apparently, much like Google Maps and Satellite Navigation devices, the Gods of Karma can also be inaccurate; or in my case completely wrong.
Technically my meeting with ‘Boris’ wasn’t actually an official date, it was more a chance encounter. We’d met the week before in Starbucks (where else?) after I’d asked him to babysit my MacBook while I visited the restroom. When I came back we did the whole you’re creative, I’m creative, let’s talk thing, and Boris seemed to be a nice enough sort. On my bus ride home, I sent him a text asking where I could learn more about his business. The reply for which came an unduly prolonged, hour and twenty minutes later. This to me, marked Boris out as a game-player of epic proportions, and immediately my interest in him waned. Just in case you were wondering, I did not respond to this last text, and heard nothing from Boris for an entire week. By which point I had sent him to the final resting place for failed paramours; ‘The Island of Lost Men’. But, our love for over-priced coffee was to reunite us the following Tuesday, and I was left to the torturing tinkering will of the Arabica Gods.
I joined Boris at the table, and being the chipper sort that I am, made light of his week long disappearing act, by asking him ‘which limb he had been in danger of losing’ and ‘if he had managed to find a cure for cancer.’ As Boris laughed along to my bespoke comedy routine, I first told him that I’d love a sip of what had been, in the now empty cup, that sat on the table. * Crickets * I then said that I’d love a coffee. * Crickets * By this point, I threw in the towel and bought the bloody drink myself. After schlepping to the counter and back, Boris was, I believe midway through a business call, okay fine. The call was proceeded by texting and a spell of business calendar organisation; all while I sat in silence at the other end of a table drinking the coffee I payed for. I flat out told him that the situation was erring on the side of weird and that I really did have better things to do with my day. To which he responded by asking me to show him pictures of myself (strange I know). As I scrolled through the pictures on my phone, little did I know that my afternoon was about to get weirder. It became increasingly and worryingly clear that dear old Boris, was particularly keen to see photographs that captured the image of my body, and not those that captured solely my face. Having now judged Boris to be a pervert, he confirmed my worst fears by making a comment about the virtues of my chest and asking if he could run his fingers through my hair. Wanting to put a swift end to my stay at Bates Motel, I accepted Boris’s suggestion of ‘going for a walk’. Which in my head went a little differently, namely with me doing an Usain Bolt.
Our walk contained horrors as yet unknown to me. Boris trying to hold my hand; me trying my best not to. Boris demanding a hug from me; me trying my best not to. The hugging thing was seriously perturbing as the lecherous Boris Kept asking me to hug him over and over again, as apparently I wasn’t doing it ‘right’. After several thwarted attempts at kissing my neck (revolting I know) Boris asked if I wanted to sit on a wooden stump in a children’s park, you couldn’t make this stuff up. He then invited himself round to my flat, saying that he could see me tomorrow before his meeting. Lucky me, just what every woman wants, a complete stranger in her home. By this point I was more than ready to ditch this bozo and marched off leaving Boris in my wake. He insisted on waiting with me at the bus stop, owing to the fact that it would be the only way he would get a goodbye kiss. Realising that his long awaited kiss, would be a ‘no show’, Boris tried to bully me into the promise of lip locking at our next meeting. Needless to say after waiving goodbye to him from the safety of a moving bus, I never want to see Boris again, despite his undignified texted pleas.
At this point, I’m completely ready to call it a day with men. Sign me up to be the old lady who wears pink everyday, who lives with a menagerie of animals and whose decomposing body is eventually found to have been grotesquely gnawed at by her gaggle of cats. Franky it would be less painful…