30 November 2013

A LEAGUE OF MY OWN

So anyway, I went speed dating.

I know.

Gay speed dating.

Yeah, shit just got real.

And as I paid the £20 fee online before the event, it became a lot more realer.

First off, I didn't know that speed dating for gaylords existed - I always thought gay speed dating was a backroom at [insert gay bar here], but apparently it exists, in the flesh here in London.

As I was walking up to the bar, I wondered why I was putting myself in this predicament. I like to shy away from these sort of situations: I hate set-ups and lets be honest, this is just one big set-up, where I am not fucking drunk enough. Anyway it was precisely because of the aforementioned reason that I decided to go - in case you haven't noticed, I haven't blogged in a while. Simply because nothing has been going on in my sex life, love life, life life, I felt it was time to shake things up.

Also as I was walking up to the bar, I was practicing how to say hello like I had simple greeting short term memory loss. Specifically I was practicing the depth of my voice whilst saying hello. I didn't want to run the risk of opening the door and saying *HaaaaaaaaaaaY*

So I felt a rehearsal was in order.

Then as I got to the door, I realised there were two people also attending the evening behind me who were witness to my gesticulation.

*rolls eyes*

OK, so right out of the gate there was an odd silence hanging over the bar. There was no music and no one was talking. Weaving in between everyone was the facilitator who came bounding up to me, introducing himself and peeling off a name tag and sticking it to my chest. He also handed me 2 drink tokens.

Yeah, I'm gonna need a few more of these.

I quickly turned to the barman and said, "I will have a house of wine" like I had had a stroke.

In a deathly quiet bar filled with people, it is amazing how far your voice can travel. And because I had been practicing my big boys voice, it went far.

What I meant to say was, "I will have a glass of house red."

Now I really wanted that house of wine.

Fortunately the barman had a sense of humour and said, "I don't think you have enough drink tokens for that."

I giggled, thanked him for the glass and hoped he was part of the speed dating evening. As the only straight man in there, he was not.

I turned back to the assembled speed daters and cast my eye around the room.

No.
No.
No...
Can't quite see h- no.
Definitely a no.
Ewww, no...
Not sure if that's a- no.

As the room looked back at me, I felt like I was Megan Fox wearing nothing but a clingy white dress somebody had poured water over moments before, standing in the sex offenders wing of a maximum security facility.

It was time to go downstairs and start the evening of speed dating. As we all walked down, again quietly, it felt like we were being led to our untimely deaths - a kind of these are the good showers, these are the bad showers sort of situation.

This evening was a little different than your traditional speed dating night though: this was group speed dating. Oh yes, the organisers felt that we were so inept at starting a conversation one on one that we had to be split into groups with a facilitator joining to encourage a bit of banter.

It was special needs speed dating.

So we all got another label, this time with a row of letters on it corresponding with the tables which told us where to go when the 15 minutes were up. Each facilitator had a list of questions to break the ice, because again, we were void of conversation topics.

Finally the music started and it was Hung Up by Madonna. Talk about knowing your audience. We all took our seats. The first few notes from Hung Up were playing, as the facilitator started with the questions. "So, Cat or Dog?" Over all of this Madonna could be heard saying, time goes by, so slowly, time goes by, so slowly.

And I had no more drink tokens left.

On the second rotation, one of the guys on the table turned to me and asked me why I was there. I felt like saying I was asking myself the same question.

"Well I am here to meet people."

"But you're good looking, you don't need to come to something like this."

I really felt challenged after that statement. He was right. Why the fuck was I there? I didn't need to be at a speed dating night for the disadvantaged. I could go out and meet guys all the time if I wanted to. I could. Only I hadn't. Usually I would be so wrecked on a night out it would be impossible to hold a glass let alone a conversation. Even my usual trashy hunting grounds had been a little light-on lately - even when I wore my CBJs (cute butt jeans). So maybe I would give this night a chance because no other night I had been out on, speeding or not, had offered up anything for a very long time.

By this stage I was on my fourth glass of house red while most peeps were slowly sipping their second. I was right in my groove. I was funny and flirty. I was enjoying the attention. I was drunk.

One of the facilitators was flirting with me not in an obvious way, but in a get-someone-to-tell-you-that-they-like-you-in-the-playground kind of way. Oh yeah, I didn't mention, the facilitators were also "looking for love." Don't patronise me.

I flirted back and then he said, "I would ask you out, but you are way out of my league."

I just heard what that sounded like and it makes me sound like I was Gisele Bundchen and he was Tom Brady leaving his heavily pregnant wife for - did you know that his heavily pregnant wife was Natasha from Sex and the City? Not a lot of people do. Bridget Moynahan was pregnant with Tom Brady of the New England Patriots' baby and that Brazilian skank Gisele Bundchen stole him away. Big left her for Carrie and Tom left her for Gisele. Ouchy.

Anyway, anyway, granted the facilitators league was a little far to the left than Tom Brady's, but still what a ridiculous statement to make? My league could be a balding Irishmen with glasses whose porno is talking about the political misgivings of Pol Pot. Engage me before you think I am out of your league because who knows, you could be right in my league or even better, you are out of my league.

Anyway, I was totes out of his league.

At the end of the night we had to write down our name and number and give it to someone who we liked. Brazened by the best part of a bottle of wine - let's be honest, a bottle of wine - I scrawled the balding Irishman's name on a card with my number and presented it to him because he seemed to be in love with me and I...loved that. He looked at it and said, "Thank you for this, but if I am completely honest, I think you're too drunk to be making an informed decision right now."

And that was it. He walked away. I had been so out of his league that he was in a different league altogether - a sober one.

So I collected my other cards (nearly the full compliment) and walked out, disappointed.

The one guy I wanted to see again didn't want to see me again - even though I didn't really want to see him again. I had been rejected by someone I didn't really like in the first place. The worst kind of rejection.

Oh and I also use alcohol as a crutch to talk to men.

Yay. Fix me!

1 comment:

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