I went out with a banker about a month ago, had a great date, then he was away, he got back to sunny London on Monday and it's been go go go. Note to self: Always be wary of saucy correspondence before actually having sex or at least a smidgen of heavy petting.
This afternoon consisted of (for me at least): Defuzzing all the important areas, a long soak in the bath, a super luxurious hair conditioning thingymajig and some new underwear and lipstick shopping. I was uber-excited about the date. I looked the right amount of polished without seeming that I had in fact spent hours in preparation.
The first date ended with thirty minutes of hard-core snogging and I stopped myself from going back to his because, yes, I used these words, "I'm not that kind of girl*"
Tonight, I get to the bar a couple of minutes late, a little out of breath (you try walking briskly in five inch heels) and then it happened, he went to kiss me and I gave him my cheek, I realise in horror that I don't fancy him. Aaarrrrrrgggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
All of my recollections of him were after at least one (at least three) bottle of wine had been consumed. I quickly took a sip of the very expensive wine he has already ordered, I smiled and laughed politely at his stories and jokes, but internally began to panic. How had I fantasised about this man? He kept stroking my leg and cheek, and with all my strength held back from shouting for him to get his hands off me.
It seems I am a tease. But a very unintentional one.
As we drink more, he starts to look cuter and his sexual innuendoes are nearly working but not enough. After dinner - we split the bill - I suggest to call it a night. A quick kiss on the cheek and I am in a taxi. Alone.
It took me over four hours to get ready for a ninety minute dinner. If my sex life continues like this, my hymen might just grow back.
*Who am I kidding with this line - however sometimes I like to create an illusion of respectability!