The One Who Was 42 Going On 14

Dear Match Hero,


It’s been over a week since our fated date, and the time has come to let you in on a few home truths.  I’ve not written sooner because I was so peed off with myself.


But better late than never.


Firstly, let’s talk about that text you sent me just before we met (when I was literally on my way to meet you): the text that stated, apropos of nothing, that you’d ‘washed your man-bits’.  That was massively inappropriate and not all that far removed from unsolicited photos.  I don’t know why I didn’t call the date off.  I suspect it’s because I’d already left the house, you were attractive in your photos, and correctly differentiated between ‘their’ and ‘there’ in your previous, non-inappropriate, messages.  What can I say: I’m shallow.


I’m shallow, but you are forty two years old…


In my defence (I’m not totally pathetic), I did pull you up on your message as soon as I sat down.  You laughed.  But I wasn’t joking.  Who feels the need to reflect on the cleanliness of their man-bits when meeting someone for a first date?!  I was going to point out that it was in the middle of the afternoon, and in a café, but it’s not relevant.


You might remember we made small talk, although I’m guessing you probably won’t – you were remarkably keen to steer the topic of conversation.  You wanted to know how many Match men I’d been on dates with and whether or not we’d had sex.  You were like a dog with a bone.  When I told you as much, you said loudly, ‘a dog with a bon-er.’ I ignored you: your response was to say it again, but louder.


Forty. Two. Years. Old.


I tried.  I really, really did. I mentioned I’d been to a gig with a male friend; you asked if I’d screwed him.  I told you about my work; you asked if I ever had to ‘do special favours’ for customers. You asked how long I’d been single and stated I must be ‘gagging on it’.  You said it all with a smile and a laugh like it was all a big joke and I was the one with the rubbish sense of humour.  I alternated between ignoring you and suggesting that this sort of chat on a first date might explain why you’d not had a second date in the past 4 years (not, as you suggested, because the women ‘weren’t your type’).  You looked at me like I was being deeply offensive.  Quite frankly, I was beyond caring.


I want you to know I was ashamed (mostly of myself). We were one of those hideous first dates that I love to witness in a schadenfreude-y ‘oh my GOD, I’m so glad that’s not me’ sort of way.  The more I tried to change the subject, the more you pried. Loudly.  I was also far too hot.  I think this was a combination of mortification and the fact that there was no way I was removing my scarf to reveal even a hint of cleavage.  That is how uncomfortable you made me feel.


It was quite possibly the longest half hour of my life.


No topic of conversation was safe. You may recall that the straw that broke the camel’s back was when I mentioned the fact I run and you felt the need to state that I ‘must have good stamina’.  I ignored your innuendo-laden leer and agreed that yes, one needs stamina to run for hours at a time.  ‘No, no, stamina’, you repeated.  Yes, I agreed, stamina to run for a long time.  You were nothing if not tenacious.  You repeated the word not once more, but twice.  With an accompanying action.


Pelvic thrusts are not appropriate in public places.


Sorry, but they’re just not.


(With the possible exception of a pilates class).


And you are forty two years old.


It was at this point I came to my senses, looked at my watch, and made my excuses (yes, still annoyed with myself that I felt the need to make excuses).  You stood up and followed me (for the record, you’re definitely not five foot ten), and tried to say you’d see me again.


I think we both knew you were lying.


What I really want to say is thank you – you made me so angry with myself that I know for sure I will never let a date speak to me like that again.  Not ever.  I joked about it with my friends afterwards, but it shook me.  I certainly won’t meet someone who sends messages relating to the cleanliness of their genitalia.  What was going through your head when you sent it?! Did you think I wouldn’t be able to resist a quick inspection in the disabled loo of Starbucks? Have you since told your mates that that’s exactly what happened?


Forty fucking two.


The other thing I want to remind you of is the fact you have a teenage daughter.  You clearly think you speak to women in an acceptable manner.  I personally think you might want to work on that, for her sake if nothing else.


Yours Faithfully,





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