I recently went on a date with a (grown) man who offered me lurid details about his colonoscopy. While having a roast beef dinner. Yes ladies and gentlemen, that is what you sometimes must endure when you start looking for companionship as a mature (wiser) single woman who doesn’t want to die alone. I’ll confess, I’ve had a strange run so far, ever since some lazy gene in me activated one day and went from a dull whisper to an all out banshee screeching: ‘get the fuck off your isolated ass and go meet men! It’s not as bad as you think.’ (Newsflash: it is though). After the first couple of surprisingly pleasant dates I almost believed the screaming subconscious monster. Then I went out with Matt[*].

Matt, who works as a military medic, had some fascinating stories about injuries sustained during desert warfare. Once we actually met each other in person he dropped the newsworthy bomb that he was married with two children. But it was cool though because his wife was agreeable that he get laid after the first drink on the first date with me. As flattering as that was, unfortunately for him, we didn’t want the same things, so I said goodbye and moved on to Jeremy.

Jeremy sounded lovely on Whatsapp. He sent me photos of his trips to Oman and Nigeria, as a geologist in the oil industry. Until we met and he also shared his opinion on how untrustworthy he found certain ethnicities, how he’d lived (and loved) in over 14.5 countries and was generally a panty creaming catch. He did send me a message full of hungover remorse the next day apologising for his vile racism. I messaged him back saying that ship had already sailed, on a slick of oil. But thanks for the follow up text.

Then there was Emilio, or so he called himself. He approached me at the marina track when I was red and sweaty from my run. Anyone who is interested in me post workout – or after I’ve just woken up – deserves the right to one date. However, Emilio deserted me before dessert was served. Said he was just popping to the washroom. From which he messaged informing me that he’d suddenly received news his mother had passed away. Huge coincidence as it was probably the exact second after it dawned on Emilio that I would not shuffle to a dark corner of a secluded section of the city’s public beach to indulge in acts of which I find myself incapable with men who sit so close to me the first time I can count their nostril hair and cheek freckles. Men who ask me, ‘do you think I’m hot? Because you’re hot.’ No sir, dead or undead mommy, that is a 128% turn-off.

There was Timo who showed up for our date a day late (a few angry texts into asking me my whereabouts I reminded him it was actually his fault. By then I was in a movie theatre stuffing my mouth with popcorn to Chris Hemsworth doing something. It was Chris Hemsworth so I don’t care what he was doing).

There was Armand who wanted the date to carry on until morning based on only me paying the whole way through, breakfast (he should be so lucky) included I’m guessing. And Nic (still don’t know if it’s short for anything) who told me he was part of a cult, which he could not name, whose ideology he would not share, but its influence was apparent on Nic. He appeared a bit zoned out when we met. Or he might’ve just been high. Way to make an impression Nic.

Some men have refused to take no for an answer. Early childhood rejection and the onset of middle age loneliness can do that to anyone. The concept of ‘letting him down gently’ becomes redundant after the ninth unanswered phone call. Sorry guy, you have now earned the Block Caller Award. I’m not renown for my patience anyway, so this prize is handed out with resounding frequency.

Some men have refused to take yes for an answer: yes you’re a fine specimen of humanity, yes I am captivated by you, yes I’d be very happy to take this further, yes yes yes yes yes! Make me say it. But no, they haven’t understood my value, they’ve lost the way to their minds or hearts or penises. Doesn’t matter, confused and/or closed off men aren’t attractive anyway. Imagine how lost they’d get on the path to your pleasure zones.

And finally, for the fantastical times it has worked out – for a moment or more – it’s worked out well. There’s a word for that. Chemistry. It’s a word I don’t throw around often because it doesn’t happen often (see examples above), but when it does it feels like an intact Jenga tower: a rare wonder we found so all our individual pieces fit perfectly to reveal something solid, graceful, sexy. And if that tower falls, he and I pushed it over together. Hard and fast. In sync. And no, I’m not going to kiss and tell. Magic stays that way if it’s kept secret.

[*] names have NOT been changed so others stay alert to these oddballs.

0 comments

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hello! I’m Peri Desai

I’m Peri, welcome to my space. In it you will find stuff that moves me, maddens me, captures my attention, makes me question its truth. You will read what makes me curious, annoyed, energized, joyful, vulnerable.