A few years ago I went on a couple of dates with a guy I met on Tinder. He seemed like quite a cool guy, but there was something a little off. After a while I realised I just couldn’t crack the surface, I couldn’t get a sense of his background, friends, family etc…Light-hearted chat is all good to a point, but you can only go so far with it. Eventually, I decided to investigate …by googling him 🙂 turns out he was wanted for questioning in the States. His friend had been arrested for trying to make explosives, and there seemed to be a concern that my date had been involved in it when they were flatting together in the States.
So I concluded (with my friends, obvs ;)) that not only was he not a keeper …but he was also an idiot for trying to be secretive at the same time as giving his real name to a random tinder date!
I have a very short worst date story that still leaves me confused with what the hell was he thinking. I was living in London and went on a Tinder date with some guy who worked in the centre. During our date, he thought it would be an excellent idea to tell me he’d had sex with all the women in his office. Wtf.
Following a massive night of clubbing and very little sleep, I went to visit a guy whom I had been on a couple of dates. He could tell I was a bit worse-for-wear, so invited me to have a nap in his bed before we headed out for the evening.
After an hour or two, I woke up and found I had sweated profusely and the bedding was soaking wet. It looked like a snow-angel, but rather than snow, it was a revolting sweaty imprint of my body on the sheets and pillow. As we were heading out, I turned the bed down, so it could air and dry and left the bedroom light off to avoid drawing attention to the stain.
We returned to his property a couple of hours later and went to get into bed. Entering the room, I was happy to observe the head end of the sheets and pillow had nicely dried. Unfortunately, I hadn’t folded the duvet all the way down; there was still a significant wet patch in the middle of the bed. Now the scene was even worse as it appeared that I had wet the bed!
Mortified the guy thought I didn’t have bladder control, I was quick to apologise and explain what had happened while I assisted him in changing the bedding. I have been invited back and have stayed over again, so thankfully I think he accepted my explanation.
The Marketer is tall, German, handsome and very well endowed. So, I didn’t mind when things deteriorated from dating to booty calls. I mean, I would have preferred to have been girlfriend material, rather than the 1:00 am afterthought, but I could appreciate that he was out of my league (he claimed to have previously dated Kelly Brook), so I was happy just to have been invited at all.
On this fateful night, I was ushered upstairs to his room and undressed as we kissed. He pulled down his trousers and undergarments and I began to give him a blowjob. After a few strokes, I felt his hand on the back of my head, encouraging me to perform the act in a more rigorous manner.
What happened next should be a warning to men to never push a person’s head up and down while they are performing an oral act on you. After a few minutes, the Marketer was really going for it, pushing with such force that I was deep-throating his penis. Then, with one particularly mighty push, his cock went the wrong side of my tongue and my frenulum* ripped!
I began gagging as blood began to pool at the bottom of my mouth, which triggered Marketer to release the back of my head. He is a very lucky that my knee jerk reaction wasn’t to bite down on his penis. Like the little train that could, I downed my glass of wine and then went on to finish the (blow) job.
The extent of the injury wasn’t realised till the following day. When I woke up, the blood in my mouth had congealed, glueing my tongue to the bottom of my mouth. To heal the wound, I had to gargle with salt water and only eat soft food for two weeks. To this day, I am still able to stick my tongue out about 2cm further than before the incident.
* Frenulum – the membrane extending from the floor of the mouth to the midline of the underside of the tongue.
Train Driver didn’t live in London. So, it was a nice surprised when he messaged me to say he would be in town for the evening. I hadn’t made plans, but another guy from a dating app had suggested hanging out. However, I opted to seize the opportunity and meet the out-of-towner.
Rather aptly we met outside Clapham Junction station and walked a small distance to Northcote Records. After purchasing a round of drinks, I reached the table and Train Driver informed me that he couldn’t stay for long as he needed to get home for a babysitter. I found this a little off-putting – not that he had a child, but that he was cutting the date short before it had even started.
Conversation after that was a little stunted, so it was a happy interruption when Train Driver received a call and headed outside to take it. During the interlude, I decided to log into the dating app on my phone and see if the other guy was available for a date later that evening. My message read something like, “The date I’m on isn’t going well and is about to end, so would you like to meet for a drink?”
After hitting send, I casually checked my news feed. As I was scrolling through the latest articles, it suddenly hit me that I had sent the message to Train Driver – the guy I was currently on a date with. As you’re unable to retract a message on the dating app, I decided to block him. This way a notification of the message may have come up on his screen, but he wouldn’t be able to see the full message. I then took the remaining half bottle of wine, my glass coat and bag, and hid in the lavatories for 30 minutes until I am sure he was gone.
While swiping through the photos on my dating app, there are certain image characteristics I look out for that will almost certainly get the potential suitor binned. For example, if all their photos are group shots, you can never be entirely sure which person they are. If the person has a child or baby in the photo, I will usually refer to their written bio to see if they have kids. If they look significantly different in their selection of profile photos (e.g. haircut, weight, complexation), in my experience it tends to be because they have used shots from years ago displaying how they would like to be perceived, rather than what they actually look like now.
So, when I came across the profile of a Hedge Fund manager, I was happy that there was none of the usual tell-tale attributes that I look to avoid in his pics.
After briefly chatted via the app, we met up for a drink within a few days. Meeting outside a tube station in January, we were both adoring our winter gear. I was in down jacket and scarf and he was sporting a rather fetching sheepskin coat and a hat. I was glad to discover that Hedge Fund was quite tall and potentially more attractive than his profile suggested.
We chatted as we walked to a bar he’d selected and, as we strolled in, I indicated that he should secure a table while I purchased a round of drinks. After a few minutes, I returned from the bar to find Hedge Fund sitting at table, having removed his outerwear.
My eyes panned upwards and saw that he was bald on top, with hair remaining at the sides of his head – a style not dissimilar to Homer Simpson. Surely if you only have so little hair left, you should buzz it off with a razor, right? However, the most prominent thing I noticed was a very large raised mole that seemed to move in synchronicity with his eyebrows. Think Enrique Iglesias meets the film ‘How To Get Ahead In Advertising’.
My internal monologue was very much reminiscent of Austin Powers. “Mole… Mole… Moley, moley, moley, moley.” Luckily, as I am a woman in my early thirties, I was able to contain the insensitive thoughts and tried to continue the date without acknowledgement of the third party at our table – the Mole!
We were having a nice evening, but my eyes couldn’t resist the occasional sneaky peak at the mole-strosity. I suggested we grabbed some food to provide me with something alternative to look at, rather than observing the mole adding gesticulation as Hedge Fund spoke. As chance would have it, the restaurant sat us at a table where we were seated beside one aother. Though I no longer had the mole in my eye line, I could now see it in profile and the mole seemed to have had features all of it’s own – as if Hedge Fund had a second smaller face sprouting from his forehead. We wound the date up shortly after we finished the meal.
Now I am happy to concede that I am (perhaps) more superficial than I had previously thought. However, I went back and reviewed Hedge Fund’s profile and noticed that he is wearing a hat in all his photos. In my view, he has mis-sold himself and I don’t think I would have been so fascinated by the mole had it been pre-disclosed. Though I guess there is no way of proving this and I may have sacked him straight off had it been visible in his pictures.
In any case, I now have an additional criteria when reviewing dating app profiles – Guy must not be wearing a hat in all of their pics.