Category Archives: Bad dates

The Plus One

“I’m going to a friend’s for dinner on Friday. Come.”

I should say “No thank you, Toby; it’s only our second date”. I don’t.

“Is there anything you don’t eat?”

I should tell him about my phobia of celeriac and meringues. I don’t.

When I ask “What shall I bring?” and he replies “Nothing, just yourself!” I should listen, but I don’t.

When Toby spies the prosecco I’m clutching to my chest as we arrive and tells me “You can’t bring that; they’re teetotal and Polly won’t have it in the house” I should hang on to it, but I don’t. I leave it by the doorstep.

Polly answers the door and eyes me with the same suspicion a white carpet would afford a dog with diarrhoea. I should scowl back. I don’t.

When Polly’s boyfriend Max sloshes elderflower cordial into my wine glass, I shouldn’t quip that it’s a waste of a perfectly good glass, but I do. Max shouldn’t laugh and wink conspiratorially. But he does.

As Polly serves up every food I’ve ever hated in my life, with the icy glare of a serial killer, I should politely decline the offer of pudding, despite eating nothing of the main course. But I don’t.

When Polly goes on and on about Toby’s previous boyfriends, all of them beautiful demigods who adored Polly and would probably have turned straight for had she asked, I should defend myself, or step up my patter in an attempt to impress her. But I don’t care what she thinks, so I nod politely and play with my napkin.

As I laugh uproariously at one of Max’s jokes and see, out of the corner of my eye, Toby’s face fall, I should tone it down and pay more attention to the date who’s barely said a word to me all night. But I can’t. Why get out of Max’s sleek limousine of a conversation only to clamber into Toby and Polly’s knackered old Nissan Micra chit-chat?

When Max and I are stacking the dishwasher and he confesses to me he’s bored rigid living with Polly, I should act surprised and encourage them to stay together. But I’m not, so I don’t.

Usually when a man tells you his problems, he’s hoping you’ll solve them, so perhaps I should pretend we’re in a film and put my hand on his leg and stroke my mouth suggestively. But I don’t want to turn a horrendous evening into an apocalyptic one, so my hands stay where they are.

When I walk back into the lounge, it is obvious I have been getting an absolute skewering from Polly, as her and Toby redden immediately. I can see Toby running back to one of those holy exes within a month – Polly wouldn’t have it any other way.

When it’s time to leave and Max says he’s looking forward to seeing Toby and me again really soon, I should tell him that’s extremely unlikely, but I don’t.

When Toby makes it clear he’s going straight home and says he’ll call me, I should feel sorry and protest a little, but I don’t. Instead I proffer my cheek and he pecks it politely, begrudgingly, finally.

Perhaps I should feel sad that I’ll never see Toby again, but I do not – I feel a rush of relief or elation. The regret may come later, but it will be brief and I’ll have probably have somebody else close to hand to take my mind off it.

I shouldn’t pick up that abandoned bottle of prosecco from the doorstep and drink it on the bus on the way home. But I do. And that turns out to be the best part of the evening.

Stats: 32, 5’9″, auburn/blue, Newcastle
Pre-date rating: 8/10
Post-date rating: 3.5/10 – that score’s for me, really, isn’t it?

A truncated version of this post originally appeared in the monthly dating column I used to do in Gay Times magazine. I now answer GT readers’ dilemmas and dole out relationship advice. Take a look at the Gay Times website to see when the next issue is out.

The breakup: Mark and the herpes simplex complex

Oh, Mark. Mark and I had started off so well, with a humorously disastrous date in a museum followed by one too many drinks in a boozer laughing over how bad it had been. That first night ended with a drunken kiss, and half-hearted torso fumbling before we parted at a bus stop, sparks of sexual energy fizzing out of every pore as I watched his bus pull away.

As time passed by, I could just about cope with him insisting on trying to put all his fingers in my mouth during a passionate embrace and I was willing to overlook his taste in socks – always black, always ill-fitting and bobbly. I even cast aside any doubts I had when he insisted on smoking out of my kitchen window and putting his fags out in half-finished cups of tea. The breaking point came when nature intervened and, about three weeks into our courtship, I got a cold sore.

It wasn’t unusual for me to get a cold sore when kissing someone new – indeed I soon came to view it as a ‘sign’ that the relationship was probably destined for failure. Lusty mouths carry God knows what inside them, and I could often be found submerged in Bonjela and Corosdyl, my mouth a gaping scarlet letter – its shame for all to see. And of course, when I had one, it pretty much meant I was ‘off limits’ for anything too exciting. Cockblocked by my own kisser – what a life.

One day, as my new cold sore throbbed, Mark texted asking me to go round to his. This was new; I hadn’t been to his house before, but soon I was weaving around the streets glued to Google Maps until I finally arrived at his front door.

Mark opened the door in a dressing gown and, as far as I could see, nothing underneath. He beckoned me in and asked if I’d like some wine. His voice sounded deeper, seductive. Or at least I assumed that’s what he was going for.

Instead of taking me through to the kitchen, he whisked me straight up the stairs, shoving me into his room – tidy, fairly sparse, very brown – and gestured for me to sit on the bed, handing me a glass. So far we had only ever rolled innocently around my sheets in our underwear; it became quickly clear Mark was ready for phase two.

I perched on the edge of the bed and looked meekly around the room at familiar movie posters, boring knick-knacks and family snapshots while Mark reclined. When I eventually let my gaze fall upon him, I saw Mark had arranged his gown to be as alluring as possible: a nipple there, an exposed thigh there, plus, although he probably didn’t plan this as it wasn’t particularly sexy, one of his testicles in full view.

Mark looked me up and down. “You look nice today,” he said.
I searched for a return compliment. A long pause. Until finally: “One of your knackers is hanging out.”

Mark looked down at his crotch and rearranged himself quickly, laughing.

“Obviously I’m too excited.”

Then, before I knew what was happening, he lunged at me, his hand in my lap, sending my glass of wine flying.

“I’ve dropped my wine,” I said awkwardly, like someone might say “My tea is a bit cold” during an earthquake.

“Fuck the wine,” he breathed in my ear, finally turning his face to mine, his lips poised.

“Oh, errr, you’d better not,” I squeaked.


I explained. He sprang back, panting, before leaning forward to peer at my mouth.

“What is it?” he asked, eyes wide. “How do you get them? Are they contagious?”

“We won’t be able to kiss until it’s gone.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Erm,” I sigh. “Maybe a week.” A lie. It’s almost always two.

“Can you get rid of it?”


“Well what are we supposed to do?” he groaned.

“We just wait.”

“But I, but I…” he started, gesturing to his dressing gown, before opening it to reveal we were not alone.
I did as much as I could with what was available to me, before claiming I had to get up early in the morning and needed to go.

“I’d ask you to stay,” he said as his breathing began to return to normal, “but y’know… that.” He pointed at the cold sore.
I left.

Mark texted often over the next few days, mainly to ask how my cold sore was getting on. Still there. I put him off saying I had work commitments until I could fib no more.

On Saturday, we met for dinner at a local Italian, usually a prelude to coming back to mine. Mark’s face fell as soon as he saw the cold sore patches on my stricken mouth. Yes, I had more. He ate his pizza in near silence while I gently forked pasta into my mouth, every bite total agony.

“I’ve been Googling cold sores,” he said, suddenly. “They are herpes. You have herpes. ”

I rolled my eyes. I’d heard all this before. “Yes, I know, but…”

“So does that mean you got it from shagging someone with herpes?”

My head felt very heavy. “No, Mark. They are related, but you don’t really get cold sores that way.”

“But, I’d get herpes if you…” he faked a cough, hopefully choking with embarrassment at what he was saying.

“If I sucked your pecker?” I said brightly, pushing my plate away. “It’s a risk.”

“So…?” he waved his hands around, willing me to finish his sentence.

“So, I won’t be doing it until the cold sore is gone,” I said, thinking “if ever”.

Mark did come back to mine but didn’t lunge at me again. He finally went home at midnight, grinding against me like a go-go boy as I said goodbye at the door, his eyes flicking sadly to my very own flaming lips.

He texted on the way home: “Can’t wait for your mouth to be back in action!”

I considered sending him details of where he could buy a fleshlight or a sex doll, but thought better of it, glad to be sleeping alone.

He got in touch again later in the week checking on my mouth’s progress once more, and, upon my reply of “Still a thing!!”, only silence. Finally, a few days later, the text I knew was coming finally arrived.

There were the usual clichés like “momentum” and “compatible” and “not ready for anything serious” but we both knew why it was all over.

As I read it, I licked my now cold sore-free lip and – for the first and last time – thanked the patron saint of herpes simplex for helping me dodge a Mark-shaped bullet.

Image: Josh Janssen on Flickr

The bitter end: Todd and his toothbrush

With Todd, the signs were always there, I guess – on our first date he spent rather too much time ogling a famous popstar across the bar. On leaving the place, I took him back to mine to teach him a lesson he’d never forget and, perhaps to both our surprise, it turned into something.

Little things would crop up every now and again to make me wonder. Todd’s insistence that he sit facing a window when we went out to eat, or going to a barbecue and eating only what he had cooked himself – a trial because he incinerated absolutely everything – or his annoying habit of refusing to accept I didn’t like red wine that much.

“White wine is for beginners,” he would say, impatiently, as I slipped a bottle of prosecco in the shopping basket. “And prosecco is for girls.”

“If prosecco is for beginners then I don’t ever want to be intermediate,” I’d reply trying not to roll my eyes. “And I’ll happily wear a dress if it means I get to drink cheap fizz.”

“White wine is for beginners,” he’d say, impatiently. “And prosecco is for girls.”

His main shtick – and the loudest of all the alarm bells – was trying to make me feel uncultured and shallow. He would get on to politics far earlier in the day than was acceptable, and call me out on “wishy-washy Guardianista received opinion” then bore me to death with his musings on the economy which I suppose I could’ve read myself had I not been laughing too long at a deliciously bitchy Marina Hyde column.

And yet, incredibly, he fancied me rotten. He would tell me so, very often. Over lunch, on the train, in the supermarket – usually mere moments after skewering me over my choice of wine. Looking back now, I suppose he thought he could get away with acting permanently exasperated at my faults if he told me I was pretty, like an old lady cooing at her budgerigar or a stable hand patting his thoroughbred’s thigh. Being single can be quite a fragile state at times, and I suppose being told I was hot by someone was a rare pleasure, it made me feel nice, albeit briefly, and it can be quite the aphrodisiac.

The final straw, however, was the most ridiculous of all. I had endured six weeks or so of this odd mix of him telling me I was irritating then being unable to keep his hands out of my shorts, but what finally did it for me was a toothbrush. Yes, a toothbrush.

I stayed over at his flat for the first – and, as it turned out, final – time. I woke first and ran my tongue over my teeth.

To placate him the night before, I had gamely joined him for a few glasses of red wine. My breath was pure vinegar and my teeth felt like tombstones.

I padded through to the bathroom, praying I wouldn’t bump into any of his housemates. He lived with two girls, but I never saw them, only their miserable bootcut jeans hanging to dry on a clothes-airer in his conservatory.

In the bathroom mirror, I surveyed the damage. Purple-stained lips? Check. Grey, wine-ravaged teeth? Check. General feeling of gut rot, extreme nausea and cottonmouth? Check in triplicate.

I glanced around, looking for something to fix my malodorous mouth. No Listerine in sight. I sighed heavily. No floss, either. I tried to remember what Todd’s teeth were like, realised I couldn’t, and thought that in itself was a pretty bad sign.

In a beaker by the sink stood four toothbrushes. One was red. One was pink. One was purple. And one was green. I considered them all. Three people lived in the house. Sticking to gender stereotypes, I reasoned the pink one would belong to one of the girls. I couldn’t see Todd going for a red toothbrush, and it looked quite grotty, so I assumed they used that one to clean the grouting. Purple or green would be Todd’s then. I thought of maybe just leaving it, but… oh my mouth. It felt awful, like it was screaming at me “Who did you let in here last night?!” I had to get rid of this feeling.

I grabbed the green toothbrush, smeared some Colgate on it, winced, and started to lightly brush my teeth, the bristles barely touching enamel.

“Why would you do that without asking?” he railed. “That’s my PERSONAL toothbrush!”

At that precise moment, of course, Todd walked in, scratching his arse through his boxer shorts. He stopped dead when he caught sight of me, his eyes darting from the beaker to my mouth, then back to the beaker, before resting on my mouth and widening in horror.

“Heeeeey,” I garbled through a mouthful of fluoride and foam.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes like saucers and his lip trembling in a way I had seen once before but for a very different reason.

“I’m guzzhing my keergh,” I mumbled, before giving in and spitting out any toothpaste that had managed to stay in my gob.

“Where did you get that toothbrush?” His voice was almost a whisper, but with a hardness that I assumed was dissatisfaction. My lord and master wasn’t happy.

I gestured toward the beaker. “Right there.”

He pointed now to the brush still in my hand. “That’s mine.”

I made a face a bit like a pug trying to get chewing gum out of its back teeth. “Yes. Well, I don’t have one here. I thought I might as well.”

He started to go red. At first, I thought he was embarrassed at making such a fuss, but it soon became clear he was angry. Furious, even.

“Why would you do that without asking?” he railed. “That’s my PERSONAL toothbrush” – I can only imagine what his business toothbrush was like – “and I don’t like you just coming in here using it.”

I carefully placed the sainted toothbrush back in the beaker. “I wasn’t keen either,” I admitted. “But… I don’t really understand why this is a big deal.”

He snorted. “Come ON. It’s gross. It’s not hygienic.” He scrunched his face up in disgust.

“Are you for real?” I spat. “Your tongue’s been on just about every tooth of mine it can reach, and you had my… my pecker in your mouth a few short hours ago.” I cringed at the memory. “But dragging your toothbrush around my gob is a hanging offence?”

He looked puzzled and ran his fingers over his own teeth. “I don’t know where you’ve…” he stopped himself. “Um, you might have gum disease.”

I rubbed my eyes. Suddenly I was very tired and very hungover and very much hoping for teleportation to be invented within the next 15 seconds.

“I’m just a bit funny about what I put in my mouth.”

I slid past him and went back into the bedroom and started to get dressed. He followed, but the sun was in my eyes so I couldn’t see his expression. When he finally spoke, he sounded sheepish.

“I’m just a bit funny about what I put in my mouth.”

I pulled on my trainers in excessively energetic frustration. So many one-liners swirled around my head; a hundred possible put-downs and sparkling double-entendres willed me to pick them.

Instead, as I slipped on my jacket, I settled for “Fuck off, Todd” and left the room, his flat, his street and jumped on a bus to start my favourite journey of that year so far – the one that took me away from Todd for ever.

Image:  pcapemax2007 on Flickr

The Hold-Out

A restaurant. I hate going for food on a first date, but my date suggested it and so here I am.

Leo is a student and 22 – that enchanted age where anything seems possible, but you’re still not old enough to realise none of it will ever happen.

His pictures were, to put it bluntly, deceiving and he is not very good-looking at all, but I’m here now and we can at least have a nice dinner. I can tell he’s not a serial dater, as he’s picked Chinese – nobody wants to spend two hours watching a stranger grapple with chopsticks.

He has been flirting with me outrageously since I got here – he’s all coquettish leans to one side, wry smiles and fluttery eyelashes. I am as responsive as a fridge in a scrapyard.

Halfway through a bowl of noodles that I can’t wait for him and his mouth to finish, he licks his lips and puts down his chopsticks and I know I am in trouble.

“I just want you to know – I never sleep with someone on the first date.”

Here we go. I am nothing if not a sadist, so I ask simply: “Why?”

He goes into a long diatribe about how  relationships can only be brief and meaningless when founded on sex and that he prefers to get to know someone “spiritually rather than carnally”. I wonder which rock of self-help this bizarre statement crawled out from under.

“So how long do you wait?” I ask. “What’s the magic number of dates before you do the deed?”

“About four?”

“Four,” I repeat. “And then what?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“After date five, what happens next?”

There is no response. Just a deep breath. I plough on.

“Well, here you are.” I gesture around the room. “Sitting with me, on date number one. It rather suggests that as magic formulas go, your one for having a long-lasting relationship doesn’t seem to be much good.”

He scratches his head. “Eh?”

I should stop, but I can taste blood and, reader, I like it. “Four dates. Risky strategy.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you’re giving people an awful lot of opportunities to fall out of love with you.”

He scrunches up his face, puzzled. “What’s wrong with my four-date rule?”

I rest my chin on my hands. “If your formula for starting out on a long relationship is not to have sex with someone until the fourth date, why are you single? Where’s your relationship? Why are you here, now, with me, on a first date, imparting your ‘wisdom’, when in fact it is a load of old pony?”

He laughs nervously. “I don’t know.”

“Well, no. Holding out on sex on a first date is your choice, and totally up to you, but don’t think it makes you any deeper or less superficial to keep your Aussiebums on. It just means you are missing out on a shag. If you’re happy with it, that’s great.”

He puts his hand on my arm and smiles at me in a way I imagine someone once told him was sexy. There is a bit of chive in his teeth. He looks very pleased with himself – like a bank manager cancelling an overdraft. “Are you asking me to make an exception just this once?” he says.

My gaze slides glacially to his hand.

“I do sleep with people on the first date,” I smile. “If I fancy them.” Cue dramatic pause. “You’re safe tonight, Leo.”

He moves his hand back. We spend the rest of the date talking about the weather and ask for the bill as quickly as politeness will allow.

Stats: 22, 5’7″, mousey/blue, Norfolk
Where: London E1
Pre-date rating: 8/10
Post-date rating: 3/10
Date in one sentence: Bait is not taken.

Image: Zebble on Flickr 

The Reluctant Mean Girl

Midweek. Another bar. Another pint with a stranger. I sit and wonder where I’ll be in five hours. Will I be back in my flat ignoring the ironing or will I be tangled in Egyptian cotton and kisses with tonight’s contestant?  You just never know.

“And you wore pink!”
I nod at his polo shirt, knowingly. “Perfect shirt for tonight!”

My date tonight bristles with efficiency. He was on time, buying drinks and sitting opposite me with a rictus grin on his face, in his pristine baby pink polo, before I knew what was happening.

“It seems weird going on a date on a Wednesday, no?” he says.

“Wednesdays are perfect, I think,” I reply. “And you wore pink!” I nod at his polo shirt, knowingly. “Perfect shirt for tonight!”

He narrows his eyes. “I don’t follow.”

“Oh, errr,” I stumble awkwardly. “It’s from Mean Girls. They say ‘On Wednesdays we wear pink’. Yes?”

His face is blanker than a blank thing on a blank day in a town called Blankton.

I probe further: “Do you know Mean Girls?”

He leans back in his chair and his face changes to a look of bemusement tinged with disgust and a dash of weariness.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sighs.

“I mean…” he shakes his head dismissively. “I just wouldn’t even want to watch Mean Girls. I’m not into trashy movies.”

I gulp, feeling dumb and shallow.

“It’s a film. Written by Tina Fey. Lindsay Lohan was in it? It’s quite old.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. I mean…” he shakes his head dismissively. “I just wouldn’t even want to watch it. I’m not into trashy movies.”

I shrug. “It’s not trashy, really. It’s quite a clever, knowing kind of comedy. Not as good as Heathers, but in the same ballpark.”

“I don’t really like the kind of films that gay men usually like,” he replies.

Oh, I see! BINGO! We have the new gay stereotype – the gay man who refuses to conform to a stereotype! How lucky for me to have snared this rarest of beasts. And barely halfway through our first drink.

I could just let this go, or I could take a tin-opener to that can of worms he’s waving in front of me.

I have two options. I could just let this go, or I could take a tin-opener to that can of worms he’s waving in front of me. Egyptian cotton, or home alone? I imagine the pristine sheets. Lovely. Then I think of him in them, beckoning me to a world where sex means never watching a popular movie again. Decision made.

“I don’t like it because I’m gay, you total snob. I like it because it’s funny.”

“Yeah, right,” he replies, folding his arms. A drawbridge goes up with great speed. “But you think it’s a  funny film because of the bitchy dialogue and the pretty, evil girls being all ‘fabulous’, right? It’s just a bit… obvious.” He unfolds his arms for a brief second and waves them dramatically in the air.

“So you have seen it, then?” I smirk.

“Uh.” A pause so long you could actually use it to nip off to watch Mean Girls. And then: “I might have done actually.”

I’m back in my own kitchen – alone – within the hour.

Stats: 5’10”, 31, mousy brown/brown, Devon
Pre-date rating: 7/10
Post-date rating: 3.5/10
Date in one sentence: Gay guy thinks pretending popular culture isn’t a thing makes him less gay.

A truncated version of this post originally appeared in the monthly dating column I used to do in Gay Times magazine. I now answer GT readers’ dilemmas and dole out relationship advice. Take a look at the Gay Times website to see when the next issue is out.

The Attachment

I’ve been chatting online to Graham – a 35-year-old ‘scientist’ – for a day or two and still can’t quite work him out. And I’m not sure I want to. It’s like there is something he isn’t saying; the unwritten words hanging in the air like hours-old fag smoke.

He talks me through the minutiae of his day like he’s writing a report for his parole officer. There is no humour, no flirtation – just fact after fact after fact. Wikipedia has become sentient and decided to explore the niche of being a very boring man in his thirties. At first I try to reply more spiritedly in the hope it will inspire him to jazz things up a little.

I am a one-man crash team trying to revive a fillet steak. His replies come back, still monotonous, but now longer. More information. How has this happened?

Desperate for a diversion from all this typing he’s sending me, I look again at his photos. His hair, receding, is an uneventful brown. His eyes, a dull blue and too close together, seem troubled. In all his photos, he’s staring straight into the camera wearing all manner of polo shirts, each one buttoned right up to the very top. Fashion bloggers would call it an ‘air tie’. Graham doesn’t look like he’s ever read a fashion blog. His mouth is a dull pink smear across his face – he doesn’t smile, or frown.

I am a one-man crash team trying to revive a fillet steak.

I scroll through mugshot after mugshot. I don’t know where any of the pictures have been taken. Sometimes I get a tantalising sliver of brick wall at the corner of the pic or perhaps… is that…? Is it the sky? Or a blue curtain? No idea. Every picture is cropped into the face as much as possible. He’s certainly got plenty of spare pics should he lose his travelcard.

He badgers me about a date but I decide I’m not going to meet him. I’m not attracted to him, after all, and I don’t see any point in leading him on. I’ve had a busy week and am not that desperate for a night out. I don’t want to just stop replying – somehow my warped sense of propriety prevents me from telling him to bore off. I resolve to wind things down by making my gap between replies longer, and my emails shorter and impersonal. The ultimate diss – being phased out before you’ve even met.

Incredibly, Graham is undeterred. In fact, my lack of interest seems to excite him and enrage him in equal measure. Finally, the tone of his missives changes. It’s not an upgrade, however.

“Off out later, are you?” he says when I tell him I’m busy. “Meeting somebody off Grindr for a SHAG?”
I don’t know what to say, so I decide to say nothing

The next day: “I bet you chase after all the boys, don’t you? I know what guys like you get up to.”
I get the feeling that he’s typing one-handed, so decide now’s as good a time as any to go into silent mode.
He gives it one final go.
“I shaved today,” he says.

I see the email has an attachment: a photo, which I open. Yes, he’s shaved all right. Everywhere. Instead of a smooth chin or chest, I see gleaming genitalia – Spam-pink with sensitivity and not a hair to be seen.
I somehow manage to retain my lunch and delete the photo, closing the email and marking it as – what else? – spam, to match his angry little pecker.

A truncated version of this post originally appeared in the monthly dating column I used to do in Gay Times magazine. I now answer GT readers’ dilemmas and dole out relationship advice. Take a look at the Gay Times website to see when the next issue is out.

Image: Flickr

The Iceman Skateth

On dates, for a while, you are someone else. You nod at gaps in conversation that would be better served by an eye roll, you agree where disagreement is more apt, you smile – always the smile. Usually, if you are well matched, these pretences fall away. The veil drops. The mask slips. And because you like each other so much, it doesn’t matter. Other times, it takes a little bit longer. Maybe you’re having to work harder to find a common ground or having to play along a little longer to snare your man. It’s this kind of insecurity that sees you agreeing to go ice skating at Christmas with a man you’re really not sure about.

I have been on four dates with Richard and we have got on well. He is erudite and kind of handsome and very nearly on the cusp of being funny. Our courtship has been virtuous to say the least – I have brushed up against his stubble but our bodies have always been separated by layers of cotton. And there are plenty of layers – it’s a cold winter. We are two priests short of a baptism. Our dates have been wintry – a mulled cider and bratwurst here, a festive concert there. Little more.

I am not expecting to see Richard again until after Christmas, as he is busy with work and I, well, I am keeping my options open. I am giving dating more than one man at a time a go. I’m not very good at it – I’m terrified I’ll get a name wrong or attempt to bond reminiscing events that happened with the other. But at least I am keeping my underwear on with both; this is not a delayed threesome.

My phone rings. It is Richard.
“Hi!” He is always enthusiastic. For now, I am playing along, so I respond as if a winning lottery ticket has just fallen into my hands.
“Hello Richard, how are you?”
“Yes, great, fine,” he gasps. “Look, I’ve got tickets for tomorrow night and wondered if you are free.”
I don’t ask what the tickets are for. I have a window that must be filled, a curiosity to be satisfied, an itch that I’m hoping to be scratched and a mind I need to make up. I blunder on. “Let me just check.” I don’t move a muscle. “Free.”
“Great! We’re going ice skating ice skating at [place]. You like ice skating, right?”
I have never been ice skating. It was true then and it is still true now. I don’t lie.
“I’ve never been.”
“You’ll love it. See you at 6.30.”

After he rings off, I sit for a while and mull this over. I have never ice-skated. I am old. I have avoided trying it for a variety of reasons: it looks like falling over would hurt; I don’t want to look stupid; I am not confident on anything other than my Converse. And, if I’m honest, I just don’t want to. But I am not at the stage where I can say there are things I don’t want to do – I have to appear up for everything, a keen bean, an enthusiast. If all else fails, I’ll get drunk and attempt some kind of charm. Wish me luck.

On the phone to my mother that day, I casually mention I’ll be going ice skating for the first time that evening, and that I’m nervous.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because I’ve never done it before.”
“Well you were all right on the roller skates; it’s just like that.”
“I never had roller skates,” I reply.
A pause. “You sure?”
“Oh no, it was your sister. You had… Oh, what was it?” There is another pause and then a choking sound. She is laughing. “Oh, yes, the skateboard. Absolutely no sense of balance. Never on it for more than a second.”
“Yes, I remember.” I cringe.
“Well, you were OK until you actually started moving.” She begins cackling again. “But then sure enough, you’d be off it before you could even say ‘skateboard’. Terrible.”
“This is why I’m nervous,” I say.
“I should have got you some roller skates.”
“How would that have helped?” I ask, incredulous.
“It wouldn’t,” she replies drily. “I’d just have loved to have seen you give it a go.” And then she laughs again, like a drain. For too long.
I glance at the clock and lose half a stone thanks to sheer anxiety.

I arrive early and pace up and down clutching a Starbucks. (Red cup! Yaaaay! Or whatever.) I’ve decided what I’m going to do is tell him, when he gets here, that I don’t want to do it. He’ll laugh about it, call me silly – maybe even ruffle my hair – and we’ll go for a drink. I’ll feel a bit dumb for a bit, sure, but at least I’ll be honest; the transition into myself can finally begin.

And then he turns up. With his very own pair of ice skates slung casually over his shoulder. Shit.

As I change into my regulation dead-dog-coloured skates, he fastens up his own with superior skill, in about 10 seconds flat. I am dreading standing up so much. I try to think of ways to cause a diversion, but his eyes are fixed on my skates.
“Need a hand?”
“Um, no.”
“Oh, it’s fine. Let me.”
I breathe deeply. “Richard,” I say, my face reddening with both the extreme cold and embarrassment. “I…I don’t want to do this. I really don’t.”
“I don’t understand.” His forehead crinkles with bewilderment.
“I just don’t want to. I’ve never done it before and have no desire to.”
“You could just try.”
I look at the ice rink. The buildings surrounding it are beautiful, floodlit and, right now, oppressive. The arena itself is packed with middle-class people in patterned pea coats laughing uproariously and doing perfect figures-of-eight. There are no clumsy elephants; everyone is perfect, chiselled and graceful. I may as well throw a lump of shit on the ice as clamber on it myself.
I speak again. “I don’t want to sound like…like I’m going to sound, but… I really can’t.”
He folds his arms. “These tickets are fucking impossible to get.”
“I know.”
“I could’ve taken anyone with me tonight.” Okaaaay. “But I chose you.”
I nod and smile. “I know. But I… I know it’s stupid.”
“It is,” he barks, standing up and outstretching his hand. “Get up, we’re doing it.”
“But…” I splutter.
“Come on,” he says. “It’ll be romantic.”
I grab onto his hand, feeling as romantic as Marie Antoinette hitching her brocade skirts up to the guillotine.
“I’ve heard it’s really hard to get off the ice,” I whimper.
“You’re not even on it yet.”
“I think I need a bit longer.”
He attempts to hoist me up, chuckling. My body is unresponsive. I am frozen with fear of looking stupid. Soon, his chuckles subside, and my humiliation is so great it is sentient and writing into Points Of View.

Eventually, he acknowledges my anguish and suggests we try again in a short while. He emphasises “short” like it’s a threat.
I itch to unclip my skates, my slippery jailers.

“Oh, hey, Alan!” says my date, in an excited voice I haven’t heard before. A clean-cut guy comes over to Richard, engages in what seems like hours of air-kissing, and looks over to me. We are introduced.
“We’re just taking a break,” says Richard. “I think [my name] is a bit tired,” he beams, glancing over at me with eyes no bigger than a pinprick in a bedsheet.
“Ooh, that’s a shame,” grins ‘Alan’. “I’m just about to hit the ice.”
I spy my parole.
“Why don’t you two go ahead?” I smile, my mouth lop-sided with the cold. They don’t need telling twice. Before you can even say “Torvill and Dean”, they are off across the ice, hand in hand. Alan has a fat, boring arse. I clench my own in satisfaction.

I sit dejectedly for around 15 seconds, before pulling off my skates. My eyes idly wander over to the rink, and see Alan and Richard guffawing as they pirouette. They are graceful, synchronised. Two swans.
Yet my feathers aren’t ruffled. I hug my coat around me and wait for my winter wonderland to thaw. They’ll tire of their routine eventually, and then I can go home. I know this is my fault; I know I was difficult and irrational. I’m willing to take the bullet. At least I’ll never have to skate again. Not with Richard, anyway.

Thank fuck.