Shall we have dinner?
No, I said.
I prefer to stay home.
In my silk pajamas.
‘What’s the worst thing that could possibly happen?’ I asked my girlfriends as I downloaded Tinder on my phone.
They all rolled around laughing so much that I got pissed off.
‘You will start to hate men, Violet. Do not, we repeat, do not do it.’
I ignored them as usual and downloaded the app.
Andy, Robert, Jon, Kevin and someone called Bulldog all looked fantastic. Rich had amazing muscles and Rambo had class drinking skill. Sipho in his cutaway shirt was hot, and Jesus with his tattoos drop dead gorgeous.
Nice, but I carried on swiping, looking for a teeny bit of substance. I found it.
Clyde liked eating pussy.
Wayne could cook but his speciality dish was not food.
And Mpho’s hobby was anal.
Suddenly BB’s pic popped up on my screen and I got all excited and swiped right.
‘Jesus Christ Violet.’ His response was immediate. ‘I’ve been trying to get you to like me for years. ‘
‘Sorry babe,’ I typed. ‘Just trying to figure out how this thing works.’
He deleted me. BB deleted me!
No problem, Tinder allows you to move on swiftly. I found Steve. He had an interesting profile even though his pic was him kissing a fish. I thought I would risk a hello.
What I didn’t know was that I sent the ‘hello’ 47 times and super-liked him even though I don’t even know what that means.
He reported me for stalking.
As if I would stalk a guy kissing a fish.
I swiped right (or is it left?) on a good friend’s boyfriend and only afterwards did I realise it was him and OH MY GOD WHAT WAS HE DOING THERE ANYWAY. I’m gonna have to talk to her.
And then it just got worse. I was matched with Yossi, Raffi and Eitan, three Israelis but each of them was looking for a single, slim polite white woman and I realised Yossi, Raffi and Eitan were, in fact, all the same 103-year-old fat and sweaty disgusting wanker.
I could carry on. In fact, I am going to.
But not right now.
Instead, I’m switching off my phone and pulling up the covers.
I do my best thinking in bed.
Maybe I’ll even have some fun in there.
The last guy I dated loved that I was a sex writer. Initially, I didn’t give him my blog name and when I did, it was under one condition. I asked him to not check me out on the internet or read my stories. The deal was that when I was ready, I would read the stories to him.
And after a while, that’s exactly what happened. It became quite a fun thing. He would come over, we’d open a bottle of wine and I would read. He loved it. It was a little bit kinky and a little bit sexy. He pretended to be horrified that I might write about him but really, it completely turned him on. As long as I never mentioned him by name.
But writing about sex can make dating difficult. It can make it hard for a man to trust me. And it can also make it hard for me to trust a man.
Because once he knows, he’s going to go and find every single story I’ve ever written. Every single one.
He’s going to read about my possible penchant for sex toys, the handcuffs I may keep next to my bed and my feelings about anal sex. He’s going to know how many men I’ve slept with and how many I’ve wanted to sleep with.
He’s certainly going to know more about me than I know about him.
In fact, he’s going to think, as he reads this, that I’m sitting on my bed in my French underwear, laptop on one side, lube on the other.
He may be right.
And there’s only one way to find out…
The guy in the yellow t-shirt hasn’t called me. I’m trying not to obssess but it’s been twelve hours, six minutes and twenty-two seconds since we met and I haven’t heard a word.
I could call him but I’m a little shy and my mother taught me to never make the first move.
So why hasn’t he called? I’m going through the following scenarios:-
Or he’s out shopping for a new soft, very sexy and irresistible Scotch plaid flannel shirt.
But how long does it take to buy a shirt. Thirteen hours? Fourteen? Maybe he’s with a seamstress right now having one stitched, monogrammed and impeccably tailored.
A man in a perfect hand-made shirt? Sexy. Delicious. Irresistible.
I’m going to call him.
I never listened to my mother anyway.
I know that I’m a little late to the Ashley Madison dating site scandal but I’ve been somewhat consumed by my own dating site scandal.
I subscribed to The Perfect Partner about a year ago. It didn’t go very well, mainly because I don’t think there is a perfect partner out there, also because I kept losing my perfect password.
Anyway. After one too many shirtless pics, LookingForFun69 messages and a little sexual harrasment from NaughtyBoy, I decided it was time to unsubscribe.
You try unsubscribe from a dating site. It’s seriously near damn impossible, and I give up every single time. It goes like this.
At which point I give up and continue getting messages from men looking for adventure and anal sex.
I realise I have more chance of meeting a man in the two-minute noodle section at the grocery store than online.
Which brings me back to Ashley Madison.
There was outrage that the site encouraged adultery. But at least it was an honest cheating site with clear instructions. And there was outrage that subscribers had to pay to delete their profiles. Personally, I would pay hundreds of thousands right now to get away from the Perfect Fucking Partner.
Maybe I’m going to start my own dating site. Go ahead readers, please subscribe. It’s going to at least be honest.
I just got a message from a man who seems completely delicious and I can already feel the confetti being showered down upon us.
The text went like this:
‘Hey, Violet. I’m Mark, 50, an artist. Divorced for three years, love the Blues, and would like to meet you.’
He’s perfect and it’s not the way he looks, what he does or the music he listens to.
It’s about the way he texts. Not a single spelling error, no abbreviations, short, sharp, to the point, and hey – he got me at hey.
A good texter is a turn on.
A bad texter – the guy who uses capital letters, says ha ha, takes 45 minutes to reply with two words and uses smiley faces at the end of the two words – should be avoided.
Be scared of these guys:-
It’s kinda clear that number 4 doesn’t want to know what you are wearing, he wants to know what you are not wearing. Don’t answer him unless he’s French, in which case go for it. Frenchmen can get away with anything.
And if anyone uses LOL and tons of exclamation marks, put rocks in your pockets and walk into the ocean.
Texting in the beginning should be light, fun, a little mysterious, not over the top, not needy, and actually – a phone call after a few short texts is the best thing of all.
Marc, the artist just called. He really sounds divine. He has an Irish accent. I like the way he says my name. I have a feeling he’s going to be perfect.
I can taste the wedding cake. I’m imagining my dress.
There’s definitely confetti in my future.
When I first met my ‘friend with benefits’ he put his hand on my knee, looked me in the eye and asked me very seriously — ‘Violet, do you know what you’re getting into here?’
‘Of course,’ I replied super confidently, crossing my legs, showing off my bare legs, my new shoes and a hint of underwear.
The idea of seeing this gorgeous man every now and again for great sex appealed to me. He wasn’t the marrying kind. There would be no strings attached, no rules, just fun.
I liked the idea of ‘no strings’.
And for the next few weeks it was wonderful. We’d see each other once a week, sometimes twice. It was exciting, we never spoke about the weather and the sex was fantastic. We were friends, there was never tension, it was easy.
He had made it clear from the beginning though — ‘This is not about love, Violet’. He’d also made it clear that in-between seeing one another there would be ‘no questions’.
‘Anything else I do is not your issue. I may be with another man or a woman, but that is not your problem’.
‘Yes’, I’d said, rolling my eyes. ‘I know that’.
I had thought – Jeez, this man is arrogant — but it kinda suited me.
Also, I didn’t think he would be with anyone else. I am enough for one man.
Slowly we also started meeting for the odd lunch, dinner too, and while we didn’t talk about the weather it wasn’t only about sex.
I was starting to fall in love.
One night I suggested he get me a toothbrush to keep in his bathroom. He gave me an Airline toothbrush, from one of his business trips.
Another day I suggested a dog walk. He declined politely saying ‘That’s not really my thing, Violet’.
And when I suggested spooning after three orgasms he smiled and said, ‘I’m just not the spooning kind, sweetheart’.
Oddly I had never been the spooning kind either. But suddenly I wanted to spoon.
I ended the relationship. I could see it was never going to go anywhere. One person always falls in love. One person always wants more. One person was always going to get heartbroken and it was not going to be him.
When I think back, I’m not sure how I ever thought it would work.
Except – I miss him. I miss the sex. I miss the friendship.
I might try it again