Sunday, 20 January 2019

To the guy that drove me home

Just before I left for Canada, I went on a couple of dates with a guy I met on Instagram. It was obviously never going to be a go-er, he was “separated” with two kids and I was weeks away from leaving the country, but the idea seemed fun and so I thought that a couple of dates wouldn’t hurt. 

The first night we met went great, he was a really good kisser and, aside from referring to himself in the third person and using the word “smooch” everything went well. After a few moments of PG-13 making out in his car outside my house, we’d said our goodbyes with the promise to see each other again. 

From the beginning, I’d made it very clear that I didn’t want to sleep with him straight away. There was nothing personal in my decision, I wanted to bone him eventually, but I knew that I wanted to wait. Not something I have done regularly in the past, but I was confident in my decision and made sure he knew that, in no uncertain terms, was I going to change my “at least until the third date” resolution anytime soon. 

A resolution I’d thought he’d understood. 

Second date rolled around and, after a quick dinner, we went back to his for some more PG-13 action. It was here I realized that it was unlikely that fireworks were going to be flying anytime soon, call me shallow but the idea of dating a bald guy in this instance gave me the heebie-jeebies. I’ve never been bothered too much by the presence of hair before, and fuck knows how I didn’t notice it sooner, but right off the bat when the hat came off my legs clapped shut and my vagina began to resemble the Sahara desert. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I wasn’t going to have to drag it out for much longer, because his actions made my decision even before I’d registered how folicularly challenged he was. When I say no I don’t want to sleep, or even fool around, with you, I mean no. I don’t mean try harder, I don’t mean try again, I don’t mean pin my arms back in the hope that you can wear me down with sub-par domination and a thinly veiled ulterior motive. I mean no. 

After it had finally occurred to him that he wasn’t going to get into my pants anytime soon, or ever as the case turned out to be, he drove me home. 

At 9:30 

Having picked me up at 7:30

My landlady was just as perplexed as I was when I arrived home so early. 

As it happened, I ended up finishing things for a completely different reason, but his behaviour stuck in my head. Trying to get me to give it up using nothing but persistence is the behaviour I would expect of a teenage boy trying to get his rocks off. It’s in no means okay, but at that age hormones and the intense desire to bump uglies with anyone and everyone has a tendency to cloud the mind a little. 

Far from being the teenage possibility of my youth, this guy was 35. 30 fucking 5. Almost twice the age of some teenagers and possessing what can only be described as 1/3 of the brain cells required to understand how to respect other human beings. He has two daughters, how would he feel if they were treated in the same way? The fight for equality across the globe is one thing, but basic human respect is equally important. 

Were I to see him again, I’d have far more to say than I had at the end of our connection. When I say no, when ANYONE says no, they mean no. Hitch was wrong, it doesn’t mean “try harder stupid”. It most certainly means “get away from me now.” So do the right thing, ignore your junk and spend the night with your hand instead. 

Trust me, we’re all better off that way. 


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