The devil’s in control of the vehicle and there’s no way I’m getting out of this unscathed. Or at least without having sex

BY THE CHEEKY CHARMER, IMAGE BY WOMANIZER TOYS VIA UNSPLASH

I have a problem with beautiful women. Not in the sense that I pick fights with them or anything. I just find them impossible to resist. Which is a stupid thing to say on a blog for queer women. I’m sure we can all relate. It’s not like we’d be batting Margot Robbie away if she started making eyes at us. But when I look at my dating history, I see a pattern. And I don’t know if it’s healthy.

See, I always go for the impossibly beautiful ones. Like, impossibly beautiful, model-esque stunners. (Not at the exclusion of everything else, I’m not completely one dimensional.) I know it’s shallow. And I know that’s ego. BUT. I. JUST. CAN’T. HELP. IT. Mainly because, although I’m punching, they seem to really dig the cheeky charm thing. Which doesn’t help. Because it does what it says on the tin. I’ve tried to break the habit recently and be less loin-led with dating. But, when I arrange an app date and walk into the bar and find Saskia waiting for me, I know I’m in trouble.

“Fuck me she’s gorgeous!” The cartoon devil on my shoulder (remember her from the first column?) hollers in my ear while doing backflips. And she really is. Heart-stoppingly so with a dash of Helen of Troy thrown in to really mess with me. This woman is so jaw-droppingly gorgeous I practically trip over my own jaw as I walk in (see what I did there?). I don’t know why I’m surprised. I chose this. Consciously. I sifted through multiple profiles of perfectly lovely women and yet, here I am on a date with Saskia the super model*.

*She’s not a supermodel but may as well be.

As the date progresses, I realise I’m screwed. Royally. Because she’s into me. Like, really into me. She says she finds me <ahem> alluring and suggests a second date before we’re done with the first. And now I am utterly fucked. Because, regardless of whether we’re a good match, I am probably gonna go there. And by there, I mean there. And by probably, I mean definitely. This is not the kind of woman you say no to. She has the kind of beauty people crawl naked over broken glass for and here she is, inviting me to hers for a second date dinner.

“You cannot be around soft furnishings with this woman!!!” Screams the angel on my other shoulder. “It’s too damn dangerous this early on. Move away from the soft furnishings!!!! Abort! Abort!” My intentions are always good. I listen to the angel and plan to wait at least four dates before sleeping with someone. But, if I’m sat on a date with a Saskia type and she’s making it clear she’d like things to go in a certain direction I JUST CAN’T SAY NO. The devil’s in control of the vehicle and there’s no way I’m getting out of this unscathed. Or at least without having sex. 

Which sounds awful, I know. Get the tiny violins out.

After the date, the texting takes a distinctive turn. I try to pour some water on the barbie before the shrimps get burned to a crisp (and by shrimps, I mean me) but the low-level sexting she veers off into has me accidentally reaching for the olive oil and now the shrimps are TOTALLY FUCKING CREMATED.

The devil always wins out in the end.

[The names used in this column are pseudonyms in order to protect people’s identities]

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