Exactly a week after his wife told him that she was leaving him - the verbal equivalent of her reaching into his chest with her long, cruel fingers, tearing out his beating heart and hurling it against the nearest wall with a 'splut!' - Fred* goes out on a hot date. Once again, I'm partially culpable, as I'm the one who told him of PlentyofFish when we did lunch to discuss the crumbling pillars of his present existence . "Do you think it'd be wrong of me to sign up?" When he called Daphne* a couple of days after fleeing to Cambridge, she told him that she was leaving him before she has a chance to betray him with the guy she's developed feelings for, making it sound like she was doing Fred* a favour. "Well, considering that Daphne* has made it clear that a reconcilliation is highly unlikely...I think it's perfectly fine." Rebound city, of course, but at least he might have fun. Mind you, the first time he was on the rebound, aged sixteen, he ended up with me. But that's another story...
I decide to go on a hot date as well. In his photos, my date looks possibly ginger ('auburn' being the PC term) and 'possibly Irish' (Gabriel's* comment, insinuating that all red-headed people originate in the land of Guinness). He is, however, articulate, intelligent and baits me with just a tiny bit of flattery:
"I was impressed by your well-written and frank profile - you are clearly more intelligent and self-aware that the majority of the people I've seen on here, and the bit about finding humour in most situations is me down to a tee."
He then shows some insight into my psyche, adding a little challenge that I'd have difficulty resisting:
"If we do go on a date though, be aware that I will be trying to subvert your good manners, asking you impertinent questions and doing my best to provoke you into showing bad behaviour."
His profile showcases a self-deprecating sense of humour, a quiet self-assuredness coupled with a complete absense of cockiness, which I like, and an excellent command of the English language: three things which set him apart from majority of PlentyofFish minnows, whose profiles start with "Erm, not sure what to put here" or who say: "I like all the usual things. If you want to know more, email me." What's the point of having a profile at all if you don't give the other party any reason to get in touch with you?
Actually, the women's profiles are as bad as the men's. Gabriel* and I have a point-scoring system: when surfing, we get points for coming across such recurring gems as ' having a laugh', 'hanging out with friends' and 'curling up on the sofa with a bottle of wine and a DVD' in the Interests box. I have to admit that my profile is really profound and engaging by comparison. Which isn't saying much.
At exactly 6pm, I tottered into B-Bar, having loitered outside for several minutes, cursing my punctuality and not wanting to be the first one there. That would've sent signals of unnecessary eagerness, and I was keen to come across as a cool operator.
When I spotted my date, I was instantly mesmerised by the cardigan. It was composed of horizontal yellow, grey and white stripes, and went with absolutely nothing. There was a sign on the door, stating that a 'formal dress code' is enforced inside. He clearly managed to avoid detection. Still, on him, the cardigan seemed right. I have nothing against man-cardi wearers, though I hasten to add that only people with unique style can pull it off. Case in point: my friend Saturnus*, looking resplendent in his cardi, the woolen garment accentuating his lithe, muscled figure perfectly. With most other people, it's hit-and-miss.
I was highly amused when my date explained to me that one of the perks of living with a female housemate (his ex-girlfriend) is getting good advice on what to wear. "So you forgot to seek her advice on this occasion?" I asked him silently. I, of course, having cornered the market on sartorial eloquence, was wearing what amounted to the United Nations of the garment world: pinstripe trousers (from Thailand), leather boots (from Brazil), my "Damn, I'm Good!" top (from Spain) and my tour-de-force: a black heavy Soviet naval officer's overcoat with two rows of gold buttons, meant for a six-foot tall male (hence the rolled-up sleeves).
Conversation flowed freely, as did the wine, and my eyes soon acquired that feverish gleam that I get after one drink too many (i.e. two). My date was exactly the same, confessing that he, too, is a complete lightweight and a cheap date as far as drinks are concerned. He seemed relaxed and in a short space of time I learned some factual information: that he is a computer software designer, that he works from home, that he's a Londoner...but more importantly, I learned that he is very self-aware indeed, and has an accurate and well-balanced view of how other people perceive him.
He asked me many questions about myself, listened attentively as I chatted animatedly about my work in Ukraine and about my death row pen pals, and when we got onto the subject of chemical addiction, put forward the view that drugs should be legalised in order to cut out the criminal middlemen, that all stigma should be removed from addiction in order to allow people seek treatment for it freely, without the fear of being judged, and that all the money saved by not having to pursue drug dealers can instead by channeled into medical and psychiatric treatment of addicts, thus curbing both addiction and public spending. He admitted that that was quite a risque thing to come out with on a first date, but it was fine by me: it was my own view, only far more eloquently put.
Things were going well, so I suggested getting some food. He was happy to accept my recommendation of Asia - my mothership, my home away from home. He also made the excellent suggestion of sharing both the starters and the mains. I love sampling different dishes and I love sharing, as long as I get the lion's share. I was mindful of my manners on this occasion, and made sure I didn't outeat him. At the end of the meal, he insisted on paying the bill. Anyone who pays for my food is alright in my book. Chivalry is clearly not dead.
Seriously, though, over the tandoori chicken and the Bengali monkfish curry, it became apparent how similar we are in many different respects - in how we view the world, what we find humour in, what bothers us. And there lies the problem: he is a lot like me. For goodness' sake, like myself, he's even gone out with flawed girls, making them his 'projects', trying to instill in them positive qualities that he felt they were capable of with enough nurturing. Like me, he failed. Talk about a mirror image. I liked him a lot, and got on very well with him, but there was no instantaneous spark, and I don't know if more will come in time, or even whether I'll allow myself to stick around long enough to find that out.
It's something I've been pondering ever since my first relationship, aged sixteen, where it became apparent after three days of going out with Fred* that our relationship was based on nothing more than a mutual liking of Terry Pratchett novels, James Bond Films, funny one-liners, and a healthy dose of emotional turmoil (Fred* had just broken up with his first girlfriend who then proceeded to stalk him). Still, I wondered if our relationship would grow in time, and stuck around, thinking that I might uncover hidden depths. They never materialised, and after five weeks, I got dumped. I was fuming over the fact that I was the dumpee rather than the dumper, especially since I was the one who originally figured out that our relationship wasn't going anywhere. I should've struck out at him pre-emptively.
At the end of the evening, when my date and I were parting, I panicked and shook his hand, as if he were Delroy the Soap Boy, a Darwinian dead end. Instant mortification. We had by then agreed on a second date, though the poor guy must've felt awful, and now I'm not sure how to rectify the situation.
Is romance and a lasting relationship possible even if there's no instant sexual attraction? Why do intelligent, self-aware women go for arrogant, insecure, problematic Alpha males rather than for self-assured, reliable, caring Beta males?
Answers to that, and more, coming up shortly.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Sunday, 14 February 2010
A marriage unravels.
Nothing like a Valentine's Day disaster to reflect on the failures of the institution of marriage. The rumours are true. It seems to be the end of the line for Fred* and Daphne*, which brings the total of my under-thirty divorced friends to four. Admittedly, Hector* had an ill-conceived quickie wedding at Gretna Green at the age of twenty and Sappho* originally married the wrong gender, but still, two divorces in the space of several months…A shell-shocked and despondent Fred* had dinner at our house last night and told us the following story:
"When I flew home from Afghanistan, I called Daphne* from the airport and told her I'll be a little late. She said: "We need to talk." There was a strange note in her voice. At home, she told me that she's been unhappy for a long time, that we have nothing in common. She made a list of my character flaws and told me that I haven't been supportive of her. I admit that while I'm not perfect, or always easy to live with, I'm willing to try and change, but Daphne* doesn't want to work things out. She just wants to leave. She also told me that there's this guy from work that she really really likes. She'll be staying with him."
Now, I appreciate how difficult it must be to live together if you like watching quality TV shows as “America’s Next Top Model” and “Big Brother” while your husband prefers such drivel as the History Channel, but that hardly amounts to irreconcilable differences. As for him being away for months at a time and therefore not being supportive enough, not being able to clean the snow off the car, meaning Daphne* was stuck at home for days, Fred* did warn Daphne* about the implications of his RAF job the night before they got married. He asked her if she still wanted to go through with it, and she said she didn’t want to talk about it. She knew what she was in for, even if hadn’t completely sunk in at the time. During their marriage, she even told us how great it was: on one hand, she had her independence, and on the other, she had the best of Fred* when he was at home. One of the strongest marriages I know was based around the husband being abroad for months at a time, while the wife pursued a teaching career at home, yet such was the bond between them that the absences made the relationship stronger rather than weaker.
Communication played a big part in that, of course. Knowing the other person, being able to get inside their head. I’m not convinced that Fred* and Daphne* ever had that kind of insight into each other. They seemed loved-up during our group gatherings, but how much of that was for appearances’ sake, at least on Daphne’s part, is anyone’s guess, just as their numerous Facebook messages of affection for one another perhaps sought to convey love that was lacking.
When Daphne* recited Fred’s* litany of sins, she mentioned the guy she’s moving in with as a friend, a by-the-way, but I’m inclined to believe that he’s the main reason, that she used Fred’s* shortcomings to convince herself that she has no alternative but to leave. I don’t imagine for a second that Fred* was easy live with all the time, given his aloofness, insecurities and the occasional tantrum, but to just dump the guy like that, rather than considering alternatives, like taking up a mutual hobby or going to relationship counselling? When Delilah* screwed up, she at least acknowledged that she made a monumental mistake and worked hard at trying to patch up her marriage with Gabriel*, whereas Daphne* doesn’t even wish to try.
There are several reasons why I dislike the institution of marriage. One is my mother bearing her marriage to my father with the stoicism of a martyr, referring to it as her ‘cross to bear’. The other is the lack of seriousness with which so many people seem to treat it. I haven’t led an entirely blameless life and have been involved with a couple of married men in the past, though not entirely by choice: the first one was a lapsed Jehovah’s Witness who wasn’t entirely upfront with me. A work colleague tipped me off that the guy was married with kids and I did what any sensible eighteen year old would do under the circumstances: I decided to go undercover, infiltrate the local Jehovah's Witness sect and find out whether the rumours were true. I knew that Antonio didn't attend the services at the local Kingdom Hall, so I ventured in under my alter-ego's name: K, speaking with a dodgy American accent (supposedly from New Jersey), and claiming to be interested in what being a Witness was all about. "I had this great friend at school, Amy, and she told me how wonderful it was being a Witness so I decided to find out what it's like."
I wasn't totally lying: I did, in fact, know a Witness called Amy at school and I almost got rumbled, because it turned out that her family belonged to this congregation. If she'd actually come along, she would have blown my cover and questions would have been asked. As it is I was lucky: I sat through two sermons - one on the evils on masturbation and the other on avoiding association with 'people of the world', i.e non-Witnesses before I ended up meeting my lover's wife, children, mother-in-law, brother-in-law...One of the nice ladies wanted to know my address so that they could organise a Bible study session. I panicked and gave her Sappho's* address; I could just imagine Sappho's* uncouth stepfather telling the Witnesses where to go. I spent the next several years ducking out of sight whenever I came across Witnesses in town. I was furious when I found out the truth about Antonio, but emotionally in too deep by then. It took me three years to shake him off completely.
The second married man I met online; he was completely upfront with me about his situation and at the time I was looking for something completely at arm’s length, so we saw each other for a few months. What the two relationships had in common is that neither one was really going anywhere. I don't judge people for physical infidelity because I appreciate how complex relationships can be and that even the strongest of marriages and relationships can have their problems, but I do see married/attached men as fair game provided they make themselves available; chasing unwilling attached parties is really bad form, as far as I'm concerned. I do judge people who lie to me or people who play around and have the cheek to complain like heck about their partners. That's one of the reasons why I ditched my dial-a-shag; I became more agony aunt than lover and I felt sorry for his long-term girlfriend/ mother of his children after he described her in less-than-flattering terms and complained about how unhappy he was with her, yet didn't have the guts to leave, thus allowing her to find someone who would perhaps appreciate her.
I, personally, would find it very difficult to get married because I’m quite cynical about human ability to only ever love person in their lifetime, and I'm not convinced that monogamy is the natural human state. I think that some people are fortunate enough to meet someone that they are happy with for life. As for the rest of us, I still haven’t made up my mind about whether the imposition of artificial monogamy on natural human impulses is a good thing or not. Perhaps I’m simply not possessive by nature or perhaps I’m yet to meet someone who would captivate me so entirely. Either way, I respect people who do take marriage seriously, and if I contemplated marriage, I’d take it very seriously myself and not make the promise that I would love them for the rest of my life and be with them for the rest of my life unless I was absolutely sure. For Fred* and Daphne*, ‘forever’ amounted to three years. It remains to be seen whether or not Fred* will ever get over it.
"When I flew home from Afghanistan, I called Daphne* from the airport and told her I'll be a little late. She said: "We need to talk." There was a strange note in her voice. At home, she told me that she's been unhappy for a long time, that we have nothing in common. She made a list of my character flaws and told me that I haven't been supportive of her. I admit that while I'm not perfect, or always easy to live with, I'm willing to try and change, but Daphne* doesn't want to work things out. She just wants to leave. She also told me that there's this guy from work that she really really likes. She'll be staying with him."
Now, I appreciate how difficult it must be to live together if you like watching quality TV shows as “America’s Next Top Model” and “Big Brother” while your husband prefers such drivel as the History Channel, but that hardly amounts to irreconcilable differences. As for him being away for months at a time and therefore not being supportive enough, not being able to clean the snow off the car, meaning Daphne* was stuck at home for days, Fred* did warn Daphne* about the implications of his RAF job the night before they got married. He asked her if she still wanted to go through with it, and she said she didn’t want to talk about it. She knew what she was in for, even if hadn’t completely sunk in at the time. During their marriage, she even told us how great it was: on one hand, she had her independence, and on the other, she had the best of Fred* when he was at home. One of the strongest marriages I know was based around the husband being abroad for months at a time, while the wife pursued a teaching career at home, yet such was the bond between them that the absences made the relationship stronger rather than weaker.
Communication played a big part in that, of course. Knowing the other person, being able to get inside their head. I’m not convinced that Fred* and Daphne* ever had that kind of insight into each other. They seemed loved-up during our group gatherings, but how much of that was for appearances’ sake, at least on Daphne’s part, is anyone’s guess, just as their numerous Facebook messages of affection for one another perhaps sought to convey love that was lacking.
When Daphne* recited Fred’s* litany of sins, she mentioned the guy she’s moving in with as a friend, a by-the-way, but I’m inclined to believe that he’s the main reason, that she used Fred’s* shortcomings to convince herself that she has no alternative but to leave. I don’t imagine for a second that Fred* was easy live with all the time, given his aloofness, insecurities and the occasional tantrum, but to just dump the guy like that, rather than considering alternatives, like taking up a mutual hobby or going to relationship counselling? When Delilah* screwed up, she at least acknowledged that she made a monumental mistake and worked hard at trying to patch up her marriage with Gabriel*, whereas Daphne* doesn’t even wish to try.
There are several reasons why I dislike the institution of marriage. One is my mother bearing her marriage to my father with the stoicism of a martyr, referring to it as her ‘cross to bear’. The other is the lack of seriousness with which so many people seem to treat it. I haven’t led an entirely blameless life and have been involved with a couple of married men in the past, though not entirely by choice: the first one was a lapsed Jehovah’s Witness who wasn’t entirely upfront with me. A work colleague tipped me off that the guy was married with kids and I did what any sensible eighteen year old would do under the circumstances: I decided to go undercover, infiltrate the local Jehovah's Witness sect and find out whether the rumours were true. I knew that Antonio didn't attend the services at the local Kingdom Hall, so I ventured in under my alter-ego's name: K, speaking with a dodgy American accent (supposedly from New Jersey), and claiming to be interested in what being a Witness was all about. "I had this great friend at school, Amy, and she told me how wonderful it was being a Witness so I decided to find out what it's like."
I wasn't totally lying: I did, in fact, know a Witness called Amy at school and I almost got rumbled, because it turned out that her family belonged to this congregation. If she'd actually come along, she would have blown my cover and questions would have been asked. As it is I was lucky: I sat through two sermons - one on the evils on masturbation and the other on avoiding association with 'people of the world', i.e non-Witnesses before I ended up meeting my lover's wife, children, mother-in-law, brother-in-law...One of the nice ladies wanted to know my address so that they could organise a Bible study session. I panicked and gave her Sappho's* address; I could just imagine Sappho's* uncouth stepfather telling the Witnesses where to go. I spent the next several years ducking out of sight whenever I came across Witnesses in town. I was furious when I found out the truth about Antonio, but emotionally in too deep by then. It took me three years to shake him off completely.
The second married man I met online; he was completely upfront with me about his situation and at the time I was looking for something completely at arm’s length, so we saw each other for a few months. What the two relationships had in common is that neither one was really going anywhere. I don't judge people for physical infidelity because I appreciate how complex relationships can be and that even the strongest of marriages and relationships can have their problems, but I do see married/attached men as fair game provided they make themselves available; chasing unwilling attached parties is really bad form, as far as I'm concerned. I do judge people who lie to me or people who play around and have the cheek to complain like heck about their partners. That's one of the reasons why I ditched my dial-a-shag; I became more agony aunt than lover and I felt sorry for his long-term girlfriend/ mother of his children after he described her in less-than-flattering terms and complained about how unhappy he was with her, yet didn't have the guts to leave, thus allowing her to find someone who would perhaps appreciate her.
I, personally, would find it very difficult to get married because I’m quite cynical about human ability to only ever love person in their lifetime, and I'm not convinced that monogamy is the natural human state. I think that some people are fortunate enough to meet someone that they are happy with for life. As for the rest of us, I still haven’t made up my mind about whether the imposition of artificial monogamy on natural human impulses is a good thing or not. Perhaps I’m simply not possessive by nature or perhaps I’m yet to meet someone who would captivate me so entirely. Either way, I respect people who do take marriage seriously, and if I contemplated marriage, I’d take it very seriously myself and not make the promise that I would love them for the rest of my life and be with them for the rest of my life unless I was absolutely sure. For Fred* and Daphne*, ‘forever’ amounted to three years. It remains to be seen whether or not Fred* will ever get over it.
Friday, 12 February 2010
Trouble in cactusland.
Two more friends appear to be on the brink of divorce because Daphne* has met someone when Fred* was away in Afghanistan. Or that's the scenario my overactive imagination conjured up when I checked on Fred's* Facebook profile and found the following update: "Fred* is back, and the world that he left back in Dec is totally upside down. If anyone is around Cambridge this weekend I could do with some company at some point. And I'll be around for the next 3-weeks or so too! :(."The unhappy upside-down smiley face was a clue and a quick glance at Daphne's* profile was equally telling because there was no recent update. Normally, she'd be very active in publicly communicating her affection for her husband on Facebook with the likes of "I heart my hubby he's the bestest in the world!!!!"
Fred's* next comment was semi-cryptic: "If it was a voicemail message, you might hear something like this: "The relationship you have called is not available. Please leave your message after the beep." He also confirmed that he'll be coming to dinner at our house alone. It could be that Daphne* has been unhappy with their marriage for some time, but if that's the case, she hadn't let on, and only a month ago there were messages on Facebook stating how much she missed her hubby. I suspect it may be her meeting someone, rather than being randomly unhappy; if it were the latter, they'd be trying to work things out and he wouldn't be in Cambridge alone. Only two days ago, when stuck in the limbo that is Cyprus, Fred* penned the following hopeful message: "Home is where I want to be - in my own bed, my own food, my own beer and most importantly, Daphne*. :)" It looks like he's been completely blindsided.
I can't help but feel a little bit responsible; after all, it's partly my fault that he and Daphne* got married. They met one fateful evening several years ago when we all gathered for a group dinner at the culinary bastion that is Chillis. Gabriel's* soon to be ex-wife Delilah* had her best friend come visit from Northern Ireland, so she brought her along to dinner. Daphne* and Fred* sat at opposite ends of the table and their eyes met. They did not speak to each other that evening, but Fred* grilled me afterwards, asking me who the gorgeous redhead was. It turned out that Daphne* did the same to Delilah*. The rest was the stuff of fairytales: through mine and Delilah's* meddling, Fred* and Daphne* exchanged phone numbers, and, following a flurry of text messages, Fred* made the trip to Northern Ireland and treated the girl of his dreams to a romantic weekend in a converted castle - an unprecedented gesture on the part of a young man who previously spent all his money on the latest games consoles. They were married a couple of years later, and I provided the entertainment at their wedding by dressing in a slinky black number and high heels and subsequently finding it impossible to walk.
They were all set to live happily ever after. Gabriel* and I nicknamed them 'cactus man' and 'cactus woman' after Hugo and Alice in "The Vicar of Dibley" because neither of them are known for being particularly riveting conversationalists, and like the aforementioned simple couple, it seemed that they were made to live happily together in cactusland...until this bombshell was dropped.
Though I gently mock Fred*, I'm actually very fond of him. He was my first boyfriend for a whole five weeks in sixth form before we reached the conclusion that our romance was not meant to be the romance of the century, or even of that school year. Since then we'd stayed friends and I always felt rather protective of this socially awkward but ultimately nice and harmless guy - a bit of a loner and a nerd who shares my appreciation for Terry Pratchett novels. I councelled him through the breakup of his relationship with a rather obnoxious redhead who came after me, and encouraged him to go after the lovely Daphne*. We'll find out tomorrow exactly what's transpired.
If it doesn't work out between Fred* and Daphne*, it won't be the first time my relationship advice ended in disaster. A few years ago, my friend Saturnus* was trying to decide between dating a girl who was keener on him than he on her and who had a child, or going after a beautiful yet seemingly unreachable psychologist. I urged him to aim high and go for the unreachable one. They ended up going out and she turned out to be a volatile cow who treated him really badly and was in constant conflict with him, shockingly so, considering that Saturnus* is one of the nicest people I know, and one who doesn't revel in confrontation. When he took her on a romantic break to Paris, she carelessly removed a ring that he gave her previously (though not an engagement ring, thank goodness), tossed it on the table and said: "I don't feel the same about you as I did when you gave me this ring." Ra!
I think I shall henceforth refrain from giving relationship advice. For at least a week.
Fred's* next comment was semi-cryptic: "If it was a voicemail message, you might hear something like this: "The relationship you have called is not available. Please leave your message after the beep." He also confirmed that he'll be coming to dinner at our house alone. It could be that Daphne* has been unhappy with their marriage for some time, but if that's the case, she hadn't let on, and only a month ago there were messages on Facebook stating how much she missed her hubby. I suspect it may be her meeting someone, rather than being randomly unhappy; if it were the latter, they'd be trying to work things out and he wouldn't be in Cambridge alone. Only two days ago, when stuck in the limbo that is Cyprus, Fred* penned the following hopeful message: "Home is where I want to be - in my own bed, my own food, my own beer and most importantly, Daphne*. :)" It looks like he's been completely blindsided.
I can't help but feel a little bit responsible; after all, it's partly my fault that he and Daphne* got married. They met one fateful evening several years ago when we all gathered for a group dinner at the culinary bastion that is Chillis. Gabriel's* soon to be ex-wife Delilah* had her best friend come visit from Northern Ireland, so she brought her along to dinner. Daphne* and Fred* sat at opposite ends of the table and their eyes met. They did not speak to each other that evening, but Fred* grilled me afterwards, asking me who the gorgeous redhead was. It turned out that Daphne* did the same to Delilah*. The rest was the stuff of fairytales: through mine and Delilah's* meddling, Fred* and Daphne* exchanged phone numbers, and, following a flurry of text messages, Fred* made the trip to Northern Ireland and treated the girl of his dreams to a romantic weekend in a converted castle - an unprecedented gesture on the part of a young man who previously spent all his money on the latest games consoles. They were married a couple of years later, and I provided the entertainment at their wedding by dressing in a slinky black number and high heels and subsequently finding it impossible to walk.
They were all set to live happily ever after. Gabriel* and I nicknamed them 'cactus man' and 'cactus woman' after Hugo and Alice in "The Vicar of Dibley" because neither of them are known for being particularly riveting conversationalists, and like the aforementioned simple couple, it seemed that they were made to live happily together in cactusland...until this bombshell was dropped.
Though I gently mock Fred*, I'm actually very fond of him. He was my first boyfriend for a whole five weeks in sixth form before we reached the conclusion that our romance was not meant to be the romance of the century, or even of that school year. Since then we'd stayed friends and I always felt rather protective of this socially awkward but ultimately nice and harmless guy - a bit of a loner and a nerd who shares my appreciation for Terry Pratchett novels. I councelled him through the breakup of his relationship with a rather obnoxious redhead who came after me, and encouraged him to go after the lovely Daphne*. We'll find out tomorrow exactly what's transpired.
If it doesn't work out between Fred* and Daphne*, it won't be the first time my relationship advice ended in disaster. A few years ago, my friend Saturnus* was trying to decide between dating a girl who was keener on him than he on her and who had a child, or going after a beautiful yet seemingly unreachable psychologist. I urged him to aim high and go for the unreachable one. They ended up going out and she turned out to be a volatile cow who treated him really badly and was in constant conflict with him, shockingly so, considering that Saturnus* is one of the nicest people I know, and one who doesn't revel in confrontation. When he took her on a romantic break to Paris, she carelessly removed a ring that he gave her previously (though not an engagement ring, thank goodness), tossed it on the table and said: "I don't feel the same about you as I did when you gave me this ring." Ra!
I think I shall henceforth refrain from giving relationship advice. For at least a week.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Fresh blood.
At first, things were looking promising. Enter Vlad* from PlentyofFish, a wannabe rock star who currently works at London’s Natural History Museum while taking a break from his pursuit of musical fame. “Finding four band members that you really get on with is like finding four wives”, he told me. “Bloody difficult”. He might have another stab at immortality later on this year; watch this space.
The arrangements for meeting up were a bit touch-and-go: I suggested getting together in the evening, and asked if it would be possible to CouchSurf his place the following week, as he’s a fellow CouchSurfer and I thought it might give me an opportunity to talk to him, cook with him and get to know him better (no ulterior motives!). He told me that he’s rented his spare room out, but that I’d be welcome to share his room. The only catch: it’s only got one bed, so he suggested meeting up first, just to make sure that we’re ‘compatible’. I agreed that that would indeed be a good idea. He emailed me back to suggest a lunchtime date; I responded by saying that I already have plans to meet a friend early in the day and suggested alternatives. He didn’t respond, so on the night before I was due to come to London, I sent a final missive: “Are we meeting up or not?” He got back to me to suggest a time, by which point I was a bit fed up with the whole back-and-forthing. At the early stage in a courtship many people, including myself, are hyper-sensitive to any signals we receive and have a tendency to over-analyse. Is he making as much effort as me? Does he come across as too aloof/clingy/desperate? Vlad* wasn't too full-on, which suited me just fine; excessive attention from a man makes me want to run away screaming if I am not as interested in him as he is in me.
We ended up having a forty minute chat in the basement of the museum. I was glad I made the effort: Vlad* was quick-witted, funny and entertaining, and I was even prepared to overlook his preposterous facial hair – a small tuft just below his lower lip. It’s not a beard, not a goatee, and not a moustache, so what is the purpose of its existence? His accent betrayed his Eastern European roots and it turned out that he hails from Transylvania, which explains why he’s fluent in Hungarian in spite of being born in Romania. Oh boy! Think of all the vampire jokes I could make if I were to go out with him!
I liked his direct and straightforward manner because I’m a bit dense when it comes to certain matters and subtlety escapes me. He made it clear that I’m welcome to stay at his, that a bit of slap-and-tickle would be on the menu should I want it, that he doesn’t see anything wrong with sex with an almost complete stranger if that’s what both parties consent to, and he doesn’t think any less of women who are happy to bed a guy without an extensive courtship beforehand. He asked me only one thing: if I say yes, not to change my mind at the last second. He doesn’t mind a ‘no’, or a ‘no’ changing to ‘yes’, or a ‘maybe’ changing to ‘yes’, but he’s had a bit of an incident with a CouchSurfer who at first was keen to go to bed with him, but then changed her mind, cried attempted rape and put a negative review on CouchSurfing stating that he’s dangerous.
I was a bit perturbed by the fact that he’d had several negative CouchSurfing reviews and that his PlentyofFish profile has been shut down due to some negative interaction with another user – this suggests major communication breakdowns with other people and perhaps a volatile temper – though I appreciated his being upfront about it all. I got the impression that he’s not looking for anything serious, which may be a good thing, because I’m not emotionally ready for anything serious either, but on the other hand, having experienced a deep and powerful connection to another human being, it would a real comedown to go back to something mediocre. Still, some non-committal sex may be just what the psychiatrist ordered…
“Gosh, it’s nice to meet someone who’s on the same page”, I thought. "Makes a change from the usual misunderstandings that seem to plague me." A few years ago, I was on Union Island in the Caribbean, population: seventeen. (Okay, I just lied: it's a thousand). I thought I’d pay the island a visit because I’m fascinated by small, isolated communities. I’d rather be dead than live in one, but temporary immersion is interesting. Anyway, it was a one-horse village and any new face attracted a lot of attention. I was walking down the only street one evening when a friendly Rasta guy called Alvin came to a halt in front of me on his bike and we chatted. Since I hadn’t had dinner, and most places were closed, he offered to take me to the local I-tal shack serving vegetable soup. After the meal we took a stroll (once again, along the only street) and then Alvin attempted to put his arm around me and kiss me. I shook it off: “Whoa! We barely know each other!” “But I love you…” “No you don’t: you met me an hour ago!” “But I want to love you…” What can one say to that? He had to settle for a patronising hug.
In the morning, I tried to weasel out of my promise to come to the beach with him by setting off an hour early. Just my luck; to get to the beach I had to take the only road and whatddaya know? Alvin was riding his bike towards me. Curses! He questioned my lack of amorous interest: “Is it because I’m black?” Images of dark-skinned lovers loomed casually in the back of my mind. Yeeeeeeees…That must be it. That’d be the closet racist in me playing up. I assured him that he was absolutely lovely but that I wasn’t looking for anything.
That’s just one example of Caribbean misunderstandings: I gave out my home phone number a couple of times, thinking that it’d be like in the States, where you have an awesome conversation with a stranger, exchange numbers and addresses and then never get in touch again. The onslaught of calls from random Caribbean guys in the middle of the night failed to amuse my mother.
The second encounter with Vlad* began ominously on a dark and rainy night. If I had any thoughts about potentially bedding him before that evening, they evaporated so rapidly that he may as well have written the book on How Not To Woo A Woman. He made the following mistakes:
1) After I told him that I was going to stay at my sister’s, he ribbed me about not staying at his: “So what excuse are you going to give me next week?” I explained that I also wanted to get to know him better, knowing my past track record: rushing into things too quickly, then discovering that I didn’t really like the person and having to backpedal like mad. My reluctance had nothing to do with me being coy or playing hard to get, eyelashes a-fluttering: I like to think that I am capable of learning from my mistakes.
2) After being allegedly okay with my explanation, as the drink flowed and we chatted and laughed amidst much knee-patting and jovial shoulder-slapping, he kept bringing up the same issue: why won’t I come back to his? No pressure or anything…
3) He explained to me that he’s not the kind of guy who takes a woman out for meals and drinks; that he needs to get something first before he reciprocates. The charmer.
4) He then tried a variety of different tactics to get me to change my mind: first he jokingly accused me of being scared, then he tried to convince me that while Englishmen are a dime a dozen, sleeping with a Transylvanian would add an exotic notch to my bedpost. Hmm…tempting, but I’ve had far more exotic creatures than you, darling. Besides, I don’t appreciate anything that I achieve too easily. If a not unattractive man throws himself at me repeatedly and I accept, it may be fun for a little while, but I won't respect or value him. Sounds harsh, doesn't it? By offering himself on a silver platter, he took away the thrill of the chase and being cajoled into sleeping with someone is both irritating and dull.
5) He said: “It’s going to happen anyway, so what’s the difference: this week or next week?” If there’s something I simply adore, it’s being taken for granted by someone I’ve just met. While confidence is an attractive quality in a man, a man’s unwavering belief in his own irresistibility just makes me want to take him down a peg.
6) Upon seeing my reluctance to submit to his charms, he muttered something darkly about ‘Mickey Mouse shit’. I beg your pardon, but a woman’s reluctance to go to bed with a guy on the first or second date is her bloody prerogative.
7) When he asked me the same question for the third time, I got fed up and told him about my still getting over my previous attachment and wanting to take my time. He told me that I have two weeks to decide, and then he’ll ‘help me get over it’. He’s just all heart, isn’t he?
8) He sealed my decision with a single sentence: “You know you want it.” Do I? Do I? Clearly, women are frivolous creatures who can’t make up their own feeble minds and need firm direction (to the bedroom). Does that line ever work on anyone?? After that, there was no chance in hell, ever, for to acquiesce would be to prove him right, and I couldn't be having that.
What Vlad* doesn’t seem to be able to grasp is that there is far more to seduction than a logical dismantling of barriers, and even if it were just that, he doesn’t have what it takes to dismantle mine. Farewell, Vlad* the wannabe Impaler.
The arrangements for meeting up were a bit touch-and-go: I suggested getting together in the evening, and asked if it would be possible to CouchSurf his place the following week, as he’s a fellow CouchSurfer and I thought it might give me an opportunity to talk to him, cook with him and get to know him better (no ulterior motives!). He told me that he’s rented his spare room out, but that I’d be welcome to share his room. The only catch: it’s only got one bed, so he suggested meeting up first, just to make sure that we’re ‘compatible’. I agreed that that would indeed be a good idea. He emailed me back to suggest a lunchtime date; I responded by saying that I already have plans to meet a friend early in the day and suggested alternatives. He didn’t respond, so on the night before I was due to come to London, I sent a final missive: “Are we meeting up or not?” He got back to me to suggest a time, by which point I was a bit fed up with the whole back-and-forthing. At the early stage in a courtship many people, including myself, are hyper-sensitive to any signals we receive and have a tendency to over-analyse. Is he making as much effort as me? Does he come across as too aloof/clingy/desperate? Vlad* wasn't too full-on, which suited me just fine; excessive attention from a man makes me want to run away screaming if I am not as interested in him as he is in me.
We ended up having a forty minute chat in the basement of the museum. I was glad I made the effort: Vlad* was quick-witted, funny and entertaining, and I was even prepared to overlook his preposterous facial hair – a small tuft just below his lower lip. It’s not a beard, not a goatee, and not a moustache, so what is the purpose of its existence? His accent betrayed his Eastern European roots and it turned out that he hails from Transylvania, which explains why he’s fluent in Hungarian in spite of being born in Romania. Oh boy! Think of all the vampire jokes I could make if I were to go out with him!
I liked his direct and straightforward manner because I’m a bit dense when it comes to certain matters and subtlety escapes me. He made it clear that I’m welcome to stay at his, that a bit of slap-and-tickle would be on the menu should I want it, that he doesn’t see anything wrong with sex with an almost complete stranger if that’s what both parties consent to, and he doesn’t think any less of women who are happy to bed a guy without an extensive courtship beforehand. He asked me only one thing: if I say yes, not to change my mind at the last second. He doesn’t mind a ‘no’, or a ‘no’ changing to ‘yes’, or a ‘maybe’ changing to ‘yes’, but he’s had a bit of an incident with a CouchSurfer who at first was keen to go to bed with him, but then changed her mind, cried attempted rape and put a negative review on CouchSurfing stating that he’s dangerous.
I was a bit perturbed by the fact that he’d had several negative CouchSurfing reviews and that his PlentyofFish profile has been shut down due to some negative interaction with another user – this suggests major communication breakdowns with other people and perhaps a volatile temper – though I appreciated his being upfront about it all. I got the impression that he’s not looking for anything serious, which may be a good thing, because I’m not emotionally ready for anything serious either, but on the other hand, having experienced a deep and powerful connection to another human being, it would a real comedown to go back to something mediocre. Still, some non-committal sex may be just what the psychiatrist ordered…
“Gosh, it’s nice to meet someone who’s on the same page”, I thought. "Makes a change from the usual misunderstandings that seem to plague me." A few years ago, I was on Union Island in the Caribbean, population: seventeen. (Okay, I just lied: it's a thousand). I thought I’d pay the island a visit because I’m fascinated by small, isolated communities. I’d rather be dead than live in one, but temporary immersion is interesting. Anyway, it was a one-horse village and any new face attracted a lot of attention. I was walking down the only street one evening when a friendly Rasta guy called Alvin came to a halt in front of me on his bike and we chatted. Since I hadn’t had dinner, and most places were closed, he offered to take me to the local I-tal shack serving vegetable soup. After the meal we took a stroll (once again, along the only street) and then Alvin attempted to put his arm around me and kiss me. I shook it off: “Whoa! We barely know each other!” “But I love you…” “No you don’t: you met me an hour ago!” “But I want to love you…” What can one say to that? He had to settle for a patronising hug.
In the morning, I tried to weasel out of my promise to come to the beach with him by setting off an hour early. Just my luck; to get to the beach I had to take the only road and whatddaya know? Alvin was riding his bike towards me. Curses! He questioned my lack of amorous interest: “Is it because I’m black?” Images of dark-skinned lovers loomed casually in the back of my mind. Yeeeeeeees…That must be it. That’d be the closet racist in me playing up. I assured him that he was absolutely lovely but that I wasn’t looking for anything.
That’s just one example of Caribbean misunderstandings: I gave out my home phone number a couple of times, thinking that it’d be like in the States, where you have an awesome conversation with a stranger, exchange numbers and addresses and then never get in touch again. The onslaught of calls from random Caribbean guys in the middle of the night failed to amuse my mother.
The second encounter with Vlad* began ominously on a dark and rainy night. If I had any thoughts about potentially bedding him before that evening, they evaporated so rapidly that he may as well have written the book on How Not To Woo A Woman. He made the following mistakes:
1) After I told him that I was going to stay at my sister’s, he ribbed me about not staying at his: “So what excuse are you going to give me next week?” I explained that I also wanted to get to know him better, knowing my past track record: rushing into things too quickly, then discovering that I didn’t really like the person and having to backpedal like mad. My reluctance had nothing to do with me being coy or playing hard to get, eyelashes a-fluttering: I like to think that I am capable of learning from my mistakes.
2) After being allegedly okay with my explanation, as the drink flowed and we chatted and laughed amidst much knee-patting and jovial shoulder-slapping, he kept bringing up the same issue: why won’t I come back to his? No pressure or anything…
3) He explained to me that he’s not the kind of guy who takes a woman out for meals and drinks; that he needs to get something first before he reciprocates. The charmer.
4) He then tried a variety of different tactics to get me to change my mind: first he jokingly accused me of being scared, then he tried to convince me that while Englishmen are a dime a dozen, sleeping with a Transylvanian would add an exotic notch to my bedpost. Hmm…tempting, but I’ve had far more exotic creatures than you, darling. Besides, I don’t appreciate anything that I achieve too easily. If a not unattractive man throws himself at me repeatedly and I accept, it may be fun for a little while, but I won't respect or value him. Sounds harsh, doesn't it? By offering himself on a silver platter, he took away the thrill of the chase and being cajoled into sleeping with someone is both irritating and dull.
5) He said: “It’s going to happen anyway, so what’s the difference: this week or next week?” If there’s something I simply adore, it’s being taken for granted by someone I’ve just met. While confidence is an attractive quality in a man, a man’s unwavering belief in his own irresistibility just makes me want to take him down a peg.
6) Upon seeing my reluctance to submit to his charms, he muttered something darkly about ‘Mickey Mouse shit’. I beg your pardon, but a woman’s reluctance to go to bed with a guy on the first or second date is her bloody prerogative.
7) When he asked me the same question for the third time, I got fed up and told him about my still getting over my previous attachment and wanting to take my time. He told me that I have two weeks to decide, and then he’ll ‘help me get over it’. He’s just all heart, isn’t he?
8) He sealed my decision with a single sentence: “You know you want it.” Do I? Do I? Clearly, women are frivolous creatures who can’t make up their own feeble minds and need firm direction (to the bedroom). Does that line ever work on anyone?? After that, there was no chance in hell, ever, for to acquiesce would be to prove him right, and I couldn't be having that.
What Vlad* doesn’t seem to be able to grasp is that there is far more to seduction than a logical dismantling of barriers, and even if it were just that, he doesn’t have what it takes to dismantle mine. Farewell, Vlad* the wannabe Impaler.
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