Footloose and Thirty-three

I might not be every man’s cup of tea, but I give good email. In fact, I give such good email that I’m always worried I don’t measure up in real life. At least I’m not alone, though.

On Monday I met The Banker. Although he didn’t look my type, I agreed to the date because his quirky messages made me laugh. Some of his texts even seemed deliberately stern, so I thought there was a chance he’d picked up on the subtle hints in my vanilla dating profile. Considering only three men have managed this, I was somewhat ambitious in my expectations.

He showed a complete lack of balls by choosing a French lunchy-pastry place that didn’t serve much booze and kicked you out before 8pm. We’re all in the same boat, us online daters. There’s always the worry you’ll end up seated in front of Alan Partridge or Charles Manson and need to make a quick getaway, but to be so brazen about it, well it’s a bit clumsy, isn’t it?

We arrived at the same time as each other and in a fit of nerves he chose the only coffee table in the room – a very tiny, incredibly low coffee table – even though he wanted us to eat. I’m a trooper, so I struggled through by leaning low and shoveling bits of loaded baguette in my gob, giving him an unavoidably first-class view of my bosom.

Despite being rabidly feminist, I’ve a penchant for playing the little lady and waited for him to order some wine until I finally caved and discovered he doesn’t drink. So it was water for him and a glass of fizz for me, followed by a barrage of questions that made me feel like a novelty. I tried to find out more about him, but all I discovered was that he didn’t really didn’t do much outside of finance and taking his niece to see the odd play.

When he asked me about the most interesting writing project I’ve ever done, I answered truthfully because I’m an idiot. He seemed concerned that writing for a posh escort agency might equate with me being a hooker. To reassure him, I mentioned a few details in as PG a way as possible before the staff asked us to leave because they wanted to go home. As I’m British, I agreed to go for another drink somewhere else. 

Over a stiff soda, he told me he was muslim. This wouldn’t have been a deal-breaker for a sexually deviant muslim with bags of personality, a progressive view on escort agencies and a love of debating the existence of God with a card-carrying atheist, but that wasn’t quite him.

So many unanswered questions.

Like why, of all the profiles in all the internet did he opt for the freaky-deeky atheist who referenced Secretary in her profile, along with a bunch of weird crap he’d never heard of? Why the woman wearing a dubiously shiny shirt in one of her photos?

I’ve just backed out of meeting American Executive. It was due to happen later and I feel lousy for the cancellation, but he’s married. He claims to operate a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy with his wife and they’ve slept in separate rooms for years. No one’s a winner in a situation like that, but my gut says he’s the one reaping the benefit while she stays at home. He says he only expects drinks and sparkling conversation with a lovely lady – there’s every chance I’m wrong about his wife, but I can’t bear the thought of enabling a cheater.

He also says he’d like me to change my mind – that he’s been honest, open and simply enjoys the company of young women who carry themselves well. Meeting him on an online fetish site must have been incidental, then.

Part of me feels like I’m being unkind, but he was so quick to point out what he did for a living and that he’d be the one to pay. That sort of thing always rubs me up the wrong way: he’s got the money, I’ve got my youth (ish).

I’m not one for rebounds. In fact, I’ve only rebounded once in my life with a guy who had three kids and looked like an accountant – I’m doing internet dating for other reasons. At first it was for songs to sing and stories to tell, or maybe just for something to do in the evenings, but it only takes one man who writes well and several emails later, I’m way more excited than I should be.

I’m not saying there’s only one in the queue – I mean, it’s short but it’s definitely plural – it’s just that I can’t help playing favourites. A few back and forths and before you know it, I’m hitting Google armed with only a first name and an industry keyword. The fact I was successful probably makes me a stalker.

Our prolonged exchange is due to him not being in town and though he’s expressed a desire to meet, I keep telling myself it may or may not happen – no biggie. Each morning, I make sure I notice my own nonchalance as I check my inbox. Then I catch myself being all hopeful – it’s confusing the fuck out of me and pretty much just a stupid idea.