The One Who Taught Me a Lesson

The moral of this story is that you should always bite the bullet and tell it like it is.

I’d been messaging a Match Hero for a few weeks on and off, and had decided I wasn’t going to meet up with him. There were several reasons for this; the main one being that he stated that all evenings and weekends were ‘difficult’ for him. He apparently worked away from home a lot, had his kids some of the time, and could only ever do lunchtimes. Call me cynical/suspicious/paranoid, but a lot of what he said in his messages was inconsistent, and something just didn’t quite add up.  Maybe I’m doing him a disservice/being unneccesarily unkind and he actually cares for his elderly mother every evening, and perhaps he secretly rescues baby cats from trees and helpless orphans from burning buildings of a weekend. It’s possible.

But hey ho, sometimes if we get a bad feeling about something/someone we have to run with it. It’s called self-preservation.

Oh and I nearly forgot! This gentleman also listed his hair colour as light brown when he was very clearly a ginger. Now I am in no way gingerist – but embrace it, don’t deny it, for fecksake! And if you’re intent on lying, maybe consider wearing a hat in your profile pics…

I’m not usually backwards at coming forward, but for some reason, when this guy asked me to meet up, I didn’t just say no. Instead, we had a Match conversation that went something like this:

Match Hero: As evenings are a bit tricky for me, I was thinking it would be a brilliant idea for us to meet for lunch. Do they give you time off for good behaviour at work? Fancy going for a sandwich? I would love an excuse for a lunchtime jolly to come and meet you.

Me (not really loving the use of the phrase ‘lunchtime jolly’ and what that may allude to) : I do get a lunchbreak, yes, but I work on a business park and there’s nowhere nearby for lunch. Sorry!

Should have just said no…

MH: I could come and pick you up and we could drive somewhere.

Me: I wouldn’t feel comfortable getting into a car with someone I didn’t know… (Understatement of the year!)

Should have just said no…

Me (unable for some reason to leave it at that): Anyway, I go running most lunchtimes so I’m pretty busy.

Should have just said NO!!!

MH: We can meet for a lunch run then…Could do with freeing up my legs and a chat!

ARGHHHHH.

I am a veritable idiot.

And that is why you should always tell the truth! I wasn’t lying about running at lunchtimes (I was merely exaggerating which is totally different to and not at all like inventing a new hair colour for yourself, btw…). However, I should have just been honest and said:

‘Sorry, no, not going to meet you’.

For about 3 seconds I actually contemplated meeting this guy and going for a few laps round the park.  At least office etiquette dictates it would be an hour, max., and it would be far preferable to being in a car with a total stranger.  Having said that, I would clearly spend that entire time struggling to keep up with my Match Hero. My hair would be stuck to me, I’d be huffing and puffing and claiming I was ‘fine’ whenever he expressed concern (or, more likely, I’d be attempting to say I was fine but not managing to splutter anything remotely comprehensible).

Thankfully, common sense prevailed, and I decided that as much as I really wanted to have a discussion argument about embracing one’s hair colour, a running date would be a Very Bad Idea Indeed.

In my experience, the males of the species get weirdly competitive whenever exercise is involved. I’ve lost count of the number of messages I’ve had from men who, having presumably seen ‘running’ in my list of  interests, have claimed ridiculous levels of sporting prowess. Alleged achievements such as ‘I took up running this year and ran the London marathon in 2 hours 13 mins and 34 seconds’ are not uncommon… Come on guys, if you’re gonna lie, at least do your research and lie convincingly (also, I have it on good authority that a Real Runner would never include the seconds…!) I’ve also received messages relating to how much they can bench press (truth: I don’t actually know – or care – what that means).

Long story short, I think it rather unlikely that a running date is going to resist the urge to show off his running ability and slow down to my more moderate pace… (ergo, my own competitive  stubborn streak would kick in and I’d just about kill myself trying to keep up).

I’m getting tired just thinking about it.

I actually went on a post-run date last week (I was post-run, he was forewarned), but post-run is completely a bit different – think hoody over the top of the sweaty lycra, dark pub, drink in front of you, no actual running involved…

Am I selling it to you?!

Runner’s World published an article a while back entitled the Dos and Don’ts of Running Dates (I know this because I looked it up when my friend expressed disbelief that I would rock up to the date clad in lycra – not one who likes being wrong, I wanted to prove it was totally normal…)

I take it back! Going on a date dressed in something that makes you look like an overstuffed sausage is not the way forward. As previously stated, I took refuge in a hoody and a dark corner, but that’s not really feasible mid-run.

As an aside, we never did arrange that second date…

The Runner’s World article I mentioned is full of helpful tips: DO wear deodorant (No! Really?!); DON’T insist on making eye contact when running (how is this even possible?!); DO dress comfortably, but don’t run shirtless or in just a sports bra (I have no words); DON’T spit or blow snot (seriously, I’m not making this up!)

To summarise, I didn’t go on my running date and the Match Hero wasn’t best impressed (don’t imagine I’ll be getting Match Heroine endorsement from this one). He bombarded me with a flurry of messages of the ‘not really taking no for an answer’ variety.

Aaaaand Blocked.

I read back through our entire conversation and alarm bells rang…Wee gems that jumped out included him stating we should really meet up as I’m apparently ‘just his type’ and he was ‘hoping you’d give me a post-run massage’  (how jolly), and suggesting we could  ‘fit each other round our lifestyles’ (didn’t do anything to assuage my suspicions that something was a little amiss).

But I did learn that it pays to be straight to the point and to trust your instincts, and on future dates I’ll definitely make sure I don’t go blowing any snot in my companion’s direction…

Until next time…

Cx

 

 

 

 

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The One With The Fiancee Part 2

I’m starting to think Doctor Foster might in some way be my spirit animal.

There’s been quite a bit of debate among my girlfriends and I about whether her behaviour in Season 2 was justified or if she was legitimately just fucking nuts.

I’m not saying she was right to do some of the things she did, but I can understand why she did them.

Now, bear with me.

The not used as often as it should be rational part of me says that when Dick Face Simon came back to town she should have just ignored him.  Been the bigger person and left him be.

But on the flip side I can see 100% how his return activated her Psycho Switch.

At the end of Season 1 she’d played him like a fiddle and he ended up doing a bunk to London with his Piece On The Side.  Boom!! She’s won we all thought!

Between you and me, I wasn’t convinced she ever really had closure.  Sure, to the outside world she looked like she’d handled it well – but did she?  I always thought she buried a lot of what she actually felt so his reappearance made all the feelings she’d ignored erupt like a fucking volcano!

Which brings me to now.

Until I wrote the post about the dickhead with The Fiancee I hadn’t thought about him in a long time.  I spent a few days after The Telephone Call From Hell hoping she’d thrown his shit out and dumped his sorry ass and decided to chalk the whole situation up to a shitty fucking experience.

And then last night happened.

Match.com has this wonderful way of notifying you every time someone looks at your profile.  I haven’t been online in a few days but figured I’d give it a quick check.

WHAT. FRESH. FUCKING. HELL.

Guess who was there in my list of ‘people who have viewed you’.

Him.

MP.

There he was in all his lying, slimy, sack of shit glory.

Don’t click his profile and see what it says he’ll know you’ve done it. 

All rationale went out of the window and I clicked his picture more aggressively than I meant to.  Seeing his face again flipped my Psycho Switch from off to on.

He hadn’t changed anything.  Same photos as before.  Same bullshit blurb as before.  Same everything as before.  Same, same, same.

Take a million screenshots just in case you need them down the line as further proof he’s a fucking asshole.

I genuinely didn’t care that he’d get the same notification I had.  That I’d looked at his profile.  Fuck it, maybe I wanted him to know that I knew he was back online.

I opened WhatsApp and messaged our group chat with what had happened.  Ammi was quite insistent that I shouldn’t message him but did ask if I’d kept L’s number – she wondered if it would be worth telling her he’s back online in case she’d been a fucking idiot and taken him back she hadn’t left – but I deleted the numbers I had a few weeks after everything happened.

The general consensus was that I shouldn’t make any contact in anger even though he had behaved like a complete and utter fucking asshole first time round.  Both suggested I sleep on it and see how I feel.

Well, I’ve slept on it.

And I’m still fucking fuming.

How dare he look at my profile.  I haven’t changed that much since the last time we saw each other so he had no need of poking about – unless his intention was to alert me to his presence in which case well fucking done sunshine.  I see you.

Not only do I see you, but I’ve got some things to say.

You are a selfish, spineless, lying, manipulative fucking waste of space.

Did what you were doing and the impact it would have on not one, not two but five people make you at any point think ‘You know what, this is probably going to make me look a cunt, so I shouldn’t do it?!’  No it fucking didn’t. It can’t have done.

You have a seven year old daughter.  You are the single most important male role model in her life and you should be the example of what she looks for in someone when she’s old enough.  Not fucking romping your way round the country by being a lying fucking scumbag.  Someone who gains a persons trust only to destroy it when you’re done or bored or found out.

Your fiancee had a nine year old daughter for fuck sake.  Not only did you cheat on L but you took the trust that little girl placed in you and you pissed it up the wall along with everything else.

And then there was me.

Don’t get me wrong, in hindsight I’m not naive enough to think I was the first and we all know I wont be the last – but let me ask you – have you ever had to tell another person that their someone, the person they loved more than anything was cheating on them?  Have you ever heard the sound of someones heart breaking on the phone?  Have you?

I have.

When she called me that Sunday I heard her entire world crumble.  I heard her heart break.  I heard the clogs in her brain turning while she tried to process what she’d been told and I heard her try and work out what she should do, what she’d have to tell her daughter; a girl who’d been in your life for seven fucking years you selfish prick.

I apologised over and over and over again.  I justified my behaviour.  I promised her I wasn’t some whore who’d knowingly got involved with a man who wasn’t available.

I felt dirty.

I felt violated.

I felt disgusting.

You made me feel those things.  You were responsible for the resulting clusterfuck after that call.

You.

Not L.  Not me.

And all because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.

If you’re back online because you are genuinely in a position where you can pursue someone then fine.  I suspect you aren’t though given you’ve hidden your photos now knowing I’ve seen you.

What are you hiding?  Or are you worried I might contact you and call you out on your bullshit?

Well don’t worry, I wont.

You’re not worthy of breathing the same air as me let alone be given any more space in my brain.

I will never, ever have anything to do with you again.  I will never write or speak of you again.

You no longer exist in my world.

Now, to quote Rachel from friends ‘that my friend is what they call closure’

You’re welcome, A x

 

The One With The (Semi) Naked Selfie

OK, lets get something straight; if you want take a picture of yourself stark bollock naked (or even semi naked for that matter) for your own pleasure or the viewing pleasure of you and a partner or because you need the girls to verify something that looks a bit unsightly on your skin and are sending it to them via the privacy of your WhatsApp group chat then please…. knock yourself out.

Seriously.  Do it.  Go on and live your best life.

But if you want to take *that* kind of photo with the sole intention of sending it to me someone that you have never met because you think it’s a giggle or because ‘you just have to’ then there is something very fucking wrong with you and you should know that shit like that boils my piss.

*************************************

I got chatting to B weeks ago.

Nothing consistent at first, just the odd bit of chat here and there.  If I’m honest I wasn’t entirely convinced that he floated my boat and I wondered if we actually had that much in common but he given that he didn’t offer to ‘sort me right out’ and had made me laugh when we did chat I figured I’d see what would happen.

After a while came the inevitable exchange in numbers.

And there was my fucking mistake.

The first message came through and just said ‘Nice’ and had a winky face emoji at the end.

The second message read ‘Back home now’.  It too was accompanied by a winky face emoji.

Both messages came through at gone 10:30pm.

Now, I’m not a night owl – I never have been.  I’m rubbish at staying up late and for those who don’t believe me you can ask The Hot Geek.  The only time you’ll find me up after that time is if I’m pissed on Prosecco with the girls in which case I’ve been known to still be awake at gone midnight.

Naturally, I hadn’t replied…. but for fear of making B feel like I was ignoring him I sent a quick text that just read ‘Morning! x’ and this was the response I got:

Screenshot_20171006-114332

Fuck. Sake.

No, I didn’t approve and his comment about it ‘only being a giggle’ really fucked me off because I wasn’t smiling.

Screenshot_20171006-114355

After a while I got a couple of messages back:

Screenshot_20171006-121656

Now, what I wanted to reply with was ‘it left me the impression that you were an oversexed dickhead’.

But, in a surprisingly out of character move, I thought I’d actually send him something that might make him think in future:

The “Sorry… Had to be done” implies that you couldn’t help yourself but to send the photo and it wasn’t till I challenged you on it that you jokingly acknowledged I didn’t approve and when it became very a clear I wasn’t interested in it only then did you apologise.

The apology would have been fine if you hadn’t followed it up with a comment about being a giggle which came across as you weren’t sorry at all. You were having a laugh with no care as to the impact it would have on me.

The thing is, it starts off with photos like that and 90% of the time it moves into pictures that are more revealing and when you don’t know a person it’s just so uncalled for.

If you met me in a bar… your first thought wouldn’t be to remove your top and show me your body? I don’t get why it’s OK to do it to someone you’ve been talking to online?

The simple answer is it’s not.

I’m not a prude and like I said at the beginning of this post – if this type of thing floats your boat or, as my mate Ammi says, ‘butters your crumpet’ you crack on but before you add it to a message or an email and send it to a total fucking stranger ask yourself – if you met the person you were sending it to in a bar or a cafe or anywhere for that matter – would your first action be to whack off your top and stand loud and proud in front of them waiting for some sort of approval.

I suspect the answer would be no.

So don’t be a dick.

You’re welcome, A x

#Pleatherman: An Update

After enduring a couple of days punctuated by Placebo’s Pure Morning going round and around in my head (A friend in need’s a friend indeed… A friend with weed is better… A friend with breasts and all the rest… A FRIEND WHO’S DRESSED IN PLEATHER), I gave in to peer pressure/blatant bullying/sheer intrigue/the boredom of a burgeoning hangover and decided the time had come to message Pleatherman with one of Amy’s suggested conversational starters.

I opened the Match app, found his profile, clicked on the wee envelope icon…

WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?!

I MESSAGED HIM LAST NIGHT…

AT 23:48.

CRAP.

The Tory Teacher of date #1 would have uttered a polite ‘oh sugar’ at this point. He said ‘oh sugar’ when he was told the roast beef had run out, he said it again – a little more forcefully –  when the waitress announced there was a delay on food (in retrospect, he was clearly enjoying my company just as much as I was his), and once more when he dropped his napkin. I didn’t find his restraint remotely attractive.

I was certainly not saying ‘oh sugar’ on realising I had sent a drunken one-word text to Pleatherman at ten to midnight the previous evening…

Pint?

It was succinct, it was direct, it was straight to the point. I’ll give myself that. There was no point pretending that the friend who insisted on that second bottle of Sauvignon was also guilty of commandeering my phone and sending it on my behalf. ‘Pint?’ is exactly the sort of text I tend to send when under the influence of several alcoholic beverages.

CRAPPETY CRAPPETY CRAP.

Okay okay, don’t panic, I told myself. He hasn’t read it. He’s probably never on here. Caring for one’s special pleather suit must be pretty time consuming (not to mention the hours involved actually getting in and out of the thing); it probably doesn’t leave him with a lot of spare seconds to check his messages. It’ll all be fine; by the time he reads it I’ll have forgotten all about him. And I didn’t even put any kisses or mention the baby oil v’s lube debate (for shining the pleather; get your mind out of the gutter). And I didn’t enquire as to whether he lives with his mother and if she took the resplendent-in-shiny-pleather photo for him… Or if, in actual fact, Mum’s been dead for a while now, but he hasn’t reported it to the relevant authorities… Or whether she’s dead and he hasn’t reported it, but he does take the time to go in and tenderly brush her hair each morning. Or any of the other hot topics we’ve been collectively wondering about.

IT’S ALL GOING TO BE OKAY.

Then, a couple of hours later (at around about the time my Hangover Proper was kicking in), this happens:

You know that split second when something really, really bad happens, like you accidentally send an incriminating text to the wrong person, or Cc the wrong colleague in on an email, or think you’ve sent a message to the wrong group chat, or the door slams shut behind you and you realise you’re not in the en suite but are, in fact, locked out in the corridor wearing a pair of flesh coloured knickers AND NOTHING ELSE (whole other story), and you get that sense of time standing still accompanied by a shot of adrenaline that makes you feel instantly shaky and sick? That is how I felt at this moment in time.

HE’S READ THE BLOG.

HE’S REVERSE-PICTURE-SEARCHED ME AND KNOWS WHO I AM.

HE’S GOING TO TRACK ME DOWN AND STRANGLE ME WITH A LEATHER WHIP OR HIS LEATHER-GLOVE-CLAD HANDS OR SUCHLIKE .

“I can think of worse ways to go” said Amy (most unhelpfully, I thought).

The girls encouraged me to read it and I wondered if perhaps I’ve read too many low-brow thrillers in my time… So I took a deep breath, thought about the blog, and clicked…

No thanks. Good luck

No thanks?!

The sheer cheek of him.

Good luck? GOOD LUCK?!

At least I drunkenly punctuated my one-word sentence. This shiny wee shite didn’t even feel I was deserving of a full stop.

How very dare he turn me down!

BLOCKED.

And then I started to feel a teeny tiny bit relieved… I’d tried to contact him (let’s not dwell on the fact that I don’t really remember doing so…) so nobody can accuse me of failing to embrace the spirit of the blog, but I wasn’t going to have to dig out those dusty stilettos after all! And if he’d any desire to strangle me, he would have probably agreed to that pint…

LUCKY ESCAPE.

Onwards and upwards…

Cx

The One Who Was Slightly Creepy 

Ok, for starters, you’re not ‘slightly older’, now are you? You’re a good few years older than the upper age limit I said I was looking for. Hence you are significantly older than me.

 

I just wanted to clear that up.

 

And no, I’m not going to overlook it. Sorry. 

 

I don’t doubt that you saw me on here and read my profile, but I do refute the fact that you ‘just had to message me’. You didn’t have to message me, it was not even one little bit necessary. Believe me when I say I would be feeling a lot more comfortable right about now had you chosen not to…

 

I also, perhaps, wouldn’t be glaring suspiciously at every ageing man I pass on Reading’s pavements.

 

You’ve seen me before? You hope that doesn’t sound creepy? Okay, let’s break this down… Either this is your standard (rubbish) chat-up message and you tell all the Match.com ladies that you’ve seen them around in whichever town they happen to live (under the deluded belief that this approach could actually work), or you actually have seen me in Reading. More than once, as apparently you have always appreciated my beauty. Wonderful.

 

Loving the fact you’ve oh-so-causally stuck your ‘I hope this doesn’t sound creepy’ in brackets. If you have to even raise the idea that something may possibly sound creepy then I think it’s a fair assumption that yes, it definitely does sound creepy and that you should have kept that creepy, weird information inside your old, creepy head and not let it seep out into a super creepy message to me. #toptip

 

You allegedly see many things in my profile that could be in yours. Things that could be in there, but interestingly, aren’t. Hmm. I’m not really sure how similar our profiles are, to be honest… I took the liberty of screen-shotting the bit where you’ve filled in your interests… No mention of shared hobbies there, that I can see…

 

You have a dry sense of humour, you say? Maybe this slightly stalkerish angle is an example of that… But you are respectful (I wasn’t aware that having a dry sense of humour and being respectful were mutually exclusive…) and generally a nice guy.

 

There you have it. A generally nice, much older guy, who happens to be just a little bit fucking creepy.

 

Thanks Match.com.

Cx