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.