Beauty and the beasties
"When you’re dating women there’s a pitifully small pool to choose from."
When you’re dating women there’s a pitifully small pool to choose from. My flatmate and I compare matches - him scrolling through reams of options from the last week alone whilst I show him the one woman who’s swiped right in the last fortnight.
“Look I have 1,400 matches!” he croons. Maybe I’ll move to a convent, I muse. Then again, God would probably swipe left what with all my horrible, sinful gayness.
So I’m genuinely excited when I match with the Italian with dimples who’s cute as a button. I show my friends her photo and they agree that “she’s hot!”; “phwoar”; “join that vagina carnival!”
I get to know her over a bottle of wine. She’s 25, loves her family, works as a teacher but harbours a dream of owning a bakery. Conversation is light and playful and as the night draws in I start to think I could really like this woman.
“I’ll go get another round in,” she says.
I get my phone out and find a message from my flatmate asking how it’s going.
“Good but we haven’t kissed yet and my last train leaves in an hour!! Help!”
“Just do it!” he replies.
When she comes back from the bar I take a deep glug of my rum and coke and take the plunge. Sort of.
“Errm… would it be okay if I kissed you?” I ask, like I’m a polite neighbour asking if I could borrow her ladder. Jesus, I have the sex appeal of a trout.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night,” she replies, brushing her lips softly against mine and threading her arms round my waist. She suggests going back to hers and I agree, butterflies cartwheeling in my stomach at the thought that this will be my first time sleeping with a woman.
We take the world’s longest night bus, winding through the back streets of South London whilst I make small talk, desperately wishing I’d had the foresight to pee before we left. At her flat she leads me by the hand into her bedroom, the floor of which is littered with clothes and shoes whilst dirty glasses and tissues wrestle for space on the chest of drawers.
Dear god, please let her sheets be clean.
We have sex and I’m so nervous and fumbly and awkward that I feel about as turned on as I do getting a smear test. I go down on her and am stunned and delighted when I feel the shiver of her climax. Even though I don’t orgasm I’m on cloud nine as she wraps her arms around my naked body and drifts off spooning me.
I wake in the night needing the loo and clatter through her pitch black flat, searching for the toilet. As I’m washing my hands I notice an army of tiny insects marching up her bathroom wall. Argh! What is this place?! I rush back to bed and fall into an uneasy sleep waking in the early hours of the morning as the sun seeps through the thin cotton curtains.
Our goodbye is stilted and awkward. She gives me a fleeting kiss before I stride out into dazzling sunshine, safe in the knowledge that I’ll never see her flat again.
“So is that it with her?” my friends ask after I’ve relayed my horror story.
“Oh no, I really like her,” I say her. “But from now on, she’s coming back to mine.”
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