Sven's life in Oz

A few years ago during one of their visits, Clancy (of Gareth & Clancy fame) lamented that I didn’t write about crappy dates any more. Having a long term boyfriend and a happy life meant I simply wasn’t getting the kind of material I used to. Well, erm, rejoice, I guess? I present a return to form and a brief run down of the most recent dating fiasco. I dedicate this first one to Clance.

I will begin by acknowledging that I am in no way perfect, nor an expert on dating, and that there are two sides to every tale; I also state that I am as close to perfection as possible, and, if you want a rounded picture of the date, find his blog and read about it there.  This is all about me, and whilst I’ve not been properly dating for a while I’m not exactly new to the concept either – just a little out of practice, perhaps.  Plus ça change and all that – it turns out that gays are still meeting each other in the same old ways they were four years ago when I was last in the market.  Gaydar, gay bars and everywhere in between: it’s the same old story.  The one notable addition to the stable of gay connexions is Grindr for the iPhone, which not only allows you to chat with local gays, but tells you in feet and inches how far away they are from you at any given moment.  (Using it in clubs is all the rage lately, prompting the fabulous tweet: “he’s three miles away, no he’s three feet away; no, he’s three inches inside me”.)  This date was a Grindr find.

Agreeing to a date based on the calibre of online conversation is like buying a house without having a survey done: the foundations may be shot and you’ll never know it. Chatting online gives you the advantage of time. You can think about what you are going to say and how you are going to say it.  In real life things move much faster and I often find words racing out of my mouth while the concept they relate to putters along in my brain like a Morris Minor in third gear.  Still, people buy houses with subsidence and I go on dates with men who appear charming online. The world turns.

There were a number of indicators from the start that this was not going to enter history as a grand success.  They are personal reasons, upon which I will not dwell too long for I shall simply appear mean.  I will say that I was surprised when he arrived on a bicycle.  Also, the black-and-gold checked pirate shirt with dangling buttons wasn’t a look I would have chosen, especially with the brightly striped, square-cut tie (which was thrown over the shoulder during dinner).  And finally, it’s personal taste, but I’m quite fussy about facial hair and a moustache is just going to put me off.  I’m sorry: it’s just the way I roll.

First impressions cemented (I was looking fabulous, of course), and we went for pre-dinner drinks where the conversation went well enough for two people who, it turns out, have very little in common but two hours to kill. The weather, books we have read and how we are both enjoying living in Sydney were all covered quickly enough, but after a while I could feel the dry rot creeping up the walls. Idle chatter became harder and harder work. In my stride I am a conversational Rumpelstiltskin but there’s only so much a boy can do. I was working overtime thinking up new topics while he sat there looking expectant, waiting for the next, increasingly inane, subject to reveal itself. Is it any wonder some people turn to drink?

Dinner itself was pleasant enough.  The wine-tasting bordered on pretentious (it was only a pizza restaurant, after all) but his apparently genuine knowledge kept it on the right side of twattism. (This might be my deep-seated jealousy of people who know about wine talking here. Try as I might, I cannot remember a damn thing about any of it.) The meal went well although as we went on my decision to go home alone (already formed at the start of the night) became more and more solid.  After finishing I went to the bathroom and while I was gone the waiter took the dishes.  I returned to find everything cleared except the remains of our salad, which my date was eating straight off the serving plate with the only fork left on the table. Right there and then any hope this guy had with me went out to the car park and shot itself in the head. Don’t get me wrong: you should eat till you are full in a restaurant; I certainly don’t advocate abstinence of any kind on a date.  But I do expect, when the time comes, that you make a decision: either you are finished or you aren’t.  If you are still hungry, tell the waiter you are still eating and he’ll come back when you are finished. If you are already finished, allow the waiter to take everything off the table in one go.  DO NOT let him take everything except the last few leaves of insalata rucola, then sit there finishing them off while your date waits with nothing to do but watch you eat. You will go home alone.

At the door to the restaurant I called it a night.  He insisted on walking me the 250 yards to my front door. Since it was also on his way home I walked while he pushed along his bicycle between the two of us. It might have been Timothy Conigrave romantic if it weren’t so Adrian Mole. As we approached my house, wouldn’t you know it, two guys were standing in the street making out. Good for them: not so good for me. I had done everything I could not to give him any ideas and there was a giant advert for the thing he wouldn’t be getting right on my doorstep. Despite my firmly folded arms and shuttered-up body language, he still went in for the hug-cum-pounce and the night ended with me almost giving myself whiplash converting his amorous assault into a peck on the cheek.

What does one say at the end of a night like that? “I’ll call you”, of course, but I didn’t get the chance. He rang me.

We won’t be doing it again.