Nightmare on Enniskillen Street.

“Send me pictures. (Nude!)”

This was the message I receive out of the blue from the Denver news station cameraman/ kung fu champion with whom I had a one-night stand years ago. I consider what would be an appropriate response to such random impertinence and settle on trawling the internet for photos of naked old men and flaccid penises and emailing them to him. I obey the letter of the message, if not the spirit. (Note to people who may find themselves in a similar situation: it’s no good Googling ‘naked old women’ because you’ll only get links to the likes of ‘Bust a nut in grandma’s butt!’ and other tasteful sites. Is there anything that men aren’t turned on by?)
Luckily, my recipient has a sense of humour: “LOL! You got me good babe!!! How the devil are you? Keep in touch!” No hard feelings.

That same week, however, I receive a casual message from Lloyd, an ex with whom I’m normally on good terms: “Who are you f*cking these days? Just curious!” I responded by telling him that I’ve never ‘f*ucked’ anyone in my life and that I'm not doing so at the moment. I really dislike crude sexual slang and I swear, I’d much prefer to hear the term ‘copulate’ than the bloody f-word.

Lloyd then expresses a desire to stop by one evening and take me out to dinner. This begs the following questions: how exactly do my exes view me? Do they live in some kind of time warp? Does Lloyd seriously think that he can turn up seven years after we’d stopped seeing each other and expect me to fall into the same old pattern?

To answer the above, I decide to accept the dinner invitation.

In 2002, I spotted an attractive stranger in Central Library. I was then torn between going home (because I had a shopping bag full of Haagen-Dazs ice cream which was in danger of melting) or following said attractive man into a nearby shop and starting a conversation. I chose Lloyd over the ice cream and opened with the following line: “Excuse me, are you from the Caribbean, by any chance?” before launching into my little speech about how I happen to be absolutely fascinated by Caribbean culture on account on my studying the islands as part of my university degree.

We ended up seeing each other for a year or so, a relationship marred by the fact that he happened to be attached, and went to great lengths to conceal the existence of his girlfriend from me before confessing all. I would then lie in his bed, unable to sleep, wary of his jealous Jamaican girlfriend turning up in the middle of the night and chasing me around with a machete. We sporadically kept in touch after I moved on to my next relationship. He was the lesser of numerous evils compared to some of my exes.

Anyway, I’m quite happy to have dinner with him (his treat, of course) and cackle at the thought of him thinking that he might be staying over afterwards, only to find out that he totally can…in the spare room!

He texts me: “Is it okay if I have a lie down in your bed? I’ll be tired after driving all the way to Cambridge.” I tell him that he can have a lie down in the spare room. When he arrives, he expresses surprise that he is now banished from my bed, and tells me that he got wistful, thinking about visiting me in Coventry.

“Seven years is a long time, Lloyd.”

Conversation continues in the same vein during dinner at my favourite restaurant. I explain that my life has changed, that I’ve been in a life-changing though tragic relationship, which ended a couple of years ago, that I’m taking time out to figure out what's really important.

To add excitement to the evening, when we go back to Lloyd’s car, we discover that the parking area is now shut; the heavy metal gate at the entrance is locked. I call Clarice*, who told us we could park at her workplace, only to find out that her workplace is, in fact, across the road. It’s dark and raining, and Lloyd and I are loitering by the gate, Lloyd trying to undo the lock and me being aware that there’s a security camera pointed straight at us. We try to find another way in. Lloyd’s wondering what to tell his girlfriend. Then, Lloyd performs an uncharacteristically athletic act and scales the gate. He has broken into the car park and is now trying unsuccessfully to break out. I see the humour in the situation and consider calling the police: “Officer, I’ve just seen a black man acting suspiciously!” I reckon that would attract attention pretty snappish. Luckily for us, a car with wardens turns up and they let his car out. Then are very nice about it and I laugh about the whole thing all the way back to my house. Lloyd tells me that if we were on a date, he’d expect me to bend over because of the psychological trauma he suffered thanks to the gate incident.
“Good thing we’re not on a date, then.”

We park under the tree near my house. Lloyd tries to get amorous. I wrestle his hands away from me.
“Why not?”
“I’m not in an amorous mood.”

He doesn’t take the hint and suggests that I come in the back seat ‘to cuddle’. I reluctantly move into the back seat while I’m considering the best way to deal with the situation. It’s foolish, of course, because while I, being the tactile person that I am, am happy to cuddle up to my friends, the difference between them and Lloyd is that I've never had carnal relations with any of them. He doesn’t just intend to 'just cuddle’. Maybe he thinks that I’m playing, but I’m wrestling him for real. “So this is how date rape must occur,” I think ironically. It’s not, really. Lloyd’s not a violent man and I don’t feel threatened - just irritated.

Unbidden, a scene from the Family Guy cartoon pops into my head: Sean Connery as James Bond has just killed the bad guy and he puts his arms around the token Bond totty:
“Now you will have sheksh with me.”
“No, James!”
“Yesh you will.”
“No, James!”
“Yesh you will.”
“No, I won’t!”
“You will have sheksh with me.”
“Okay, yes.”
Bond turns to the audience: “Fifty noesh and a yesh meansh yesh.”

It’s not a ‘yesh’ on my part. “Come on, it’s not gonna hurt you,” Lloyd tells me. Gosh, that’s a great way to convince a woman to get frisky with you: it’s Vlad* all over again! Lloyd pins me down but I manage to grab his hands to prevent them from going underneath my clothes. “Get up. Now. ” When I fail to get an immediate reaction, I open the car door. The light comes on. Lloyd sits up, shocked. Somewhere along the way he’s lost his glasses. “Thanks for dinner. See you around.” I walk out into the rain with a bad taste in my mouth.

At home, Gabriel* and Clarice* are sufficiently attuned to me to know instantly that something’s not right. The good thing about living in a household where everything may up for discussion – from menstrual cramps and haemorrhoids to relationship crash-and-burn disasters – is that nothing is allowed to fester.

I summarise what happened, express my dissatisfaction with how I handled the situation and go off to consider why I’ve ended up in a situation I was uncomfortable with in the first place. That night, for the first time in years, I wake up in the wee hours of the morning, angry, which just shows to what extent the incident bugs me.

I catch myself feeling a bit guilty, as if I were fully responsible for ending up in a backseat wrestle. Maybe it’s men in general – thinking that if a woman isn’t seeing anyone, she’ll be happy to hop into bed with an ex - because that’s what they’d do. Maybe I wasn’t clear enough with boundaries, maybe holding his hand, hugging him was not a good idea. Maybe someone like him interprets any kind of tactile behaviour as an open invitation. Maybe I should’ve gotten out of the car as soon as Lloyd expressed amorous intentions, rather than dithering. Maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the dinner invitation so readily. Maybe I led him on a bit…?

“No!” I firmly put a stop to that line of thinking – I imagine that’s the kind of thing rape victims tell themselves. We discussed my relationship situation before dinner, at dinner, and after dinner and he just didn’t listen. Regardless of one’s tactile nature, no woman should have to say “I’m not in the mood” more than once.

So why did I dither? Why did I fail to immediately extricate myself from an uncomfortable situation? I think it's partly the fact that I didn't have a game plan for that kind of situation; while I know exactly what I'd do in a fire or during a mugging, I hadn't given the possible implications of a dinner with a randy ex enough thought. Also, I was rather fond of Lloyd for some reason and I guess I didn't want to hurt his feelings by leaving abruptly.

In the end, I feel rather sorry for Lloyd. While seven years ago I would’ve been quite happy to have a backseat romp, my life has changed in ways he cannot comprehend while he remains in the same unhappy rut he was in when I first met him.

Timing really is everything.