15 April 2019

SAME SHIT, DIFFERENT CITY

So, had my first date in Melbourne the other night *squeals*

My excitement at starting a new life in Melbourne with a new man was off the chart. The Favourite still hasn't messaged me, mind you I still haven't messaged him, but let's not split hairs. And even though I knew this was my first date since landing in Melbourne, I couldn't help but start making wedding plans. Spring bride? Well anyway, let's not get ahead of ourselves because things didn't exactly go to plan.

So I matched with this guy on Tinder, we shall call him The Software Developer. Chat, chat, chat, and we arrange a date. This has to be the number one difference between the gays in London and the gays in Australia: with a few exceptions to the rule (namely me), people actually chat when they match instead of racking up the matches and inflating their already inflated egos. Then they actually ask to meet after a prescribed amount of talking. It’s a fucking revelation! Australians are forward and to the point. They're pragmatic about dating and dating apps - we're on here for a reason, and that’s to find someone for a relationship or a good old DTF sesh, so let’s do that. If I even dared suggest (after pages of chat) taking the conversation out of the app and for a drink or horror of horrors, dinner, Londoners made me feel like a filthy sex pest.

In saying that, we are the sum of our digital dating surrounds. When I first arrived in London, I joined a new dating website called my single friend. I was brimming with anticipation and so open to the prospect of meeting an English gent, I was agape. I started chatting with this guy, he’d lived in Australia and loved the Aussie accent, but as soon as I mentioned a date, he disappeared faster than you could say flamin' galah. I was confused and satisfied he had died at his keyboard and therefore, unable to respond. I mourned his death momentarily, until another gent and I started chatting, but then the same thing happened again. And then again. And then again. Londoners are exceptional ghosters. So good, they recruit the newly arrived. It became OK to ghost because I had been ghosted so many times before. Bad behaviour begot bad behaviour, and I begot all over the fucking place.

So anyway, back to the date. I'm not gonna lie, I wasn't really that pumped about going on a date with The Software Developer. His messages were really dull, but he said he was a top and that really is enough for me these days. Then he suggested a wine and charcuterie bar he'd always wanted to go to and if you say red wine and cold meats in combination to me AND you're a top, I dilate.

Now I like to get to my dates a little early just so I can check where the toilets are, get a table, see how the light falls on my face, or as I call it, first date reconnaissance. So I walk in and this tiny woman posing as a waitress (srsly, she was like a Shetland pony) asks 'how many?' I said two and held up two fingers just in case she needed visual confirmation. She then asked if I wanted to be seated side-by-side on the banquet seating or face-to-face? I ran the potential for awkward moments through my mind and then, as though an oracle had passed through me, decided face-to-face would be best, side-by-side might be tad intimate. See? This is why I like to arrive ten minutes prior. Imagine making that decision with your date in earshot?

So I take my seat and check my hair in the reflection of my cracked iPhone, wondering when I'm going to get that fixed - it's been a year. I was confident my hair hadn't moved since leaving home due to the fog of hairspray that still hung in my bedroom, but I looked anyway. Not one strand out of place. And...we're ready.

Then he walked through the door. Can I just tell you, The Software Developer was hot. So hot I immediately deny who I am and muster my biggest outside voice. I went for the handshake like the masc motherfucker I am trying to project, and he went for the hug. I then thought he was going for a kiss, but even though he wasn't and my lips didn't even land on his cheek, I still made the kissssing noise.

Off to a flyer.

The tiny waitress/Shetland pony gave us menus, and we start to get to know each other. Sometimes I find it really difficult to concentrate if I find someone incredibly attractive. Coupled with the fact The Software Developer did a form of software development I had never heard of and had already used three words I didn't understand, I was utterly lost. I just had to listen to the cadence in his voice and throw in an 'ahh, oh right,' if I felt he was trying to make a point. If I ever say to you 'do you love what you do?' I have little to no fucking idea what it is you actually do. And I'm also super attracted to you and cannot concentrate on anything coming out of your beautiful mouth.

I have to say beyond this, the date was pretty stock standard. We agreed on all the right things. I over laughed at all his lame jokes, he over laughed at my lame jokes, you know? A first date. We left the bar, and he said he had to go home and 'send some emails,' a likely story, but the date was so good I was like, 'aww, emails.' I said we should see each other again to which he agreed. He then said I'll message you and get your number through Tinder, which I thought was odd considering I was stood in front of him, but he said he would, and I had to take him at his word. We then kissed on the lips, nothing longer than a peck-and-a-half and said our goodbyes. I floated home and awaited The Software Developers message containing said mobile number whilst flicking through bridal magazines.

On the walk home I thought, why wait for him to send his number? Why not send mine? So I did. Well, at least when I got home and on wifi, don't want to use up my valuable data allowance. And can I just say, glad I didn't waste my allowance on this bozo because he ghosted me. And not only ghosted me but also unmatched me! He un'd me! Fucking brutal. It made me long for the quaint old days of London when people just never messaged you back, and you wondered/hoped they'd met a grizzly end rather than completely deleting you from their life.

I guess Australian pragmatism comes in many shades:

I like you, let's go on a date.

I don't like you, delete, delete, delete!

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