“I think my vagina just died.”
I’m filling my mate in on my disastrous date with the Irish:
“Why are so many people so terrible at making conversation?” she laughs. “It’s like it’s a dying art form. I mean, it’s not that hard to ask a few questions!”
“I know! I blame the internet.”
“So, I had a date with a girl who gave very good conversation and who I think you’d really like. We had a really good time but I think we both agreed there was no spark. Would it be weird if I set you up?”
“Did you kiss her?”
“No!”
“Then it’s not weird. Hook me up!”
I meet the Researcher in a quaint little nook of a pub one night after work. She’s attractive in a posh, buttoned-up sort of way; bookish with bright eyes and a keen smile. We order drinks – half pint for her, large wine for me – and while away a lovely evening, only tottering into the street when the barman’s packing up the stools.
For our next date we head to a rooftop bar to catch the last of the summer views. And even though we have a good time it all feels a bit… well… polite; I can’t quite let my guard down. She’s so gentle and measured I feel like I need to hide my scratchiness from her; my swearing and smoking and bellowing, billowing nonsense. I pop to the loos and imagine having sex with her:
“Erm, would you mind, removing your knickers?”
“No, no, not at all.”
“Wonderful, thank you. What lovely knickers.”
“Thank you, they were on sale in M&S.”
“I love M&S”
“Me too.”
“I think my vagina just died.”
We finish our drinks and head outside, dithering in the street like a pair of lemons two tequilas short of a kiss.
“Would you like to go for another drink or…?”
“I’m easy, whatever you fancy. Happy to go for another one.”
“Erm… I should probably head home” she says.
She hops onto her bike, gives me a wave and disappears into the night.
Maybe I should have just been myself. Maybe one of us should have made a move. Maybe beneath the tranquil surface lies a raging temptress, awash with lusty fires. Maybe it’ll take someone else to light the match.
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