See if you have a late night fumble-snog with someone… you go home and class it under “well, that was fun”. You don’t expect them to go back to the scene of the crime the next day and send you a photo, do you?
I guess I should have known from the warning signs. For one thing, him informing me he’d been through all my social media and watched videos on my YouTube from about 10 years ago… the second time I bumped into him.
Oh yeah, and how could I forget the wedgie?
Maybe I was distracted the day the memo came round but I don’t remember ever being told it was sexy to give someone a wedgie while snogging them. Unless his intention was to turn my pants into a cleaver and slice everything down there in half, in which case he was doing a grand job.
The crime scene photo didn’t yield many results, so, in a further attempt to charm, he sent a photo of his shower. The only enticing it was doing was making me want to get out my bleach and rubber gloves and clean the grout.
What followed was the question that’s the way to any woman’s heart: How long is it since you last had sex? Sorry, what??
He was confused by the imperial system so I asked my friend, who duly whipped out his tape measure.
Just so we’re clear, that’s a good one and a bit kitchen tiles in length.
And then he had a sense of humour bypass, actually answered the question and gave me ‘lovemaking timings’:
Unperturbed by lack of replies, this guy was quite happy to have a monologue.
In case you wondered what the bench looks like in different lighting:
And then it was time for a niche ‘joke’ about paramatrized curve derivatives:
And Shakespeare quotes:
Yeah, mate, if it’s not Macbeth, I’m not interested.
Then came video evidence of him not opening a tin of food for his obese cat. (I have no clue. This flirting technique is new to me.)
Later that night, things moved up a gear. And by that I mean a couple of years’ worth of gears:
Hold the phone.
Keen to de-escalate the situation, I reminded him all we’d done is have a snog:
Apparently, ‘just’ isn’t a word he likes to keep in his vocabulary.
Never has a kiss sounded so threatening.
It was quickly becoming clear I needed to change my identity as part of the witness protection programme. Or as a friend recommended, switch my heels for trainers and start running.
But just when I thought things couldn’t get weirder, the ‘bike boner’ concept was introduced:
At this point, I was thanking the gods of red benches that I hadn’t slept with him. He'd have been proposing by now and suggesting I move in. With him. His mum. Fat cat. And shower that needs an urgent visit from Channel 4’s Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners.
Given what followed, I can only imagine he assumed he’d been rather tame until now. And that it was time to make his feelings quite plain:
I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.
This level of stalky-weird-creepiness was unchartered territory, even for me, so I consulted a friend. He found it rather insightful and suggested important questions to put to him:
“7 orgasms? Is that in one night or over the course of your whole relationship? What kind of time frame are we talkin about? This is all good cos I’ve not dated for years so I’m getting plenty of great chat up lines from this…..”
While everyone is campaigning about climate change, I’m expecting to see him in a crowd, brandishing an “Orgasms matter” banner. Forget Brexit, this is the serious subject we should all be talking about.
In the meantime, a further invite and mention of the bench made me worry there’d be a plaque on it the next time I went by.
I swear if I’d suggested a different meeting point, such as McDonalds or STI clinic he’d be like, “OK, I’ll get on my boner bike now and see you there”. After receiving this romantic message:
an invite to take a trip to the place where he lost his virginity (with. accompanying. photos.)
and a ‘love’ song that’s the equivalent of The Police’s ‘Every Breath You Take’ saying hold my beer:
I decided to take things into my own hands. Two can play at being weird.
I told him blokes with a loaf of bread on their head turned me on .It seemed wise to start small and suggest just one slice, sideways like a beret.
It’s not like it’s catered for online (OK, maybe it is – I was too scared to check). Perhaps he could be my caterer.
Incidentally, if I was going to write a soft porn book of the baked good variety, it would be called ‘The baker’s dozen’ featuring the following chapters:
'I’m feeling yeasty tonight, darling… get out the dough.’/ ‘I knead romance tonight.’‘
Can you feel it rising?’
‘The forbidden fruit’ for those with a wheat allergy.
Any photo he sent, I requested to know one thing and one thing only: Where’s the bread?
I thought it was a bit of a long shot until I got this:
Other forms of baked good were discussed and deemed an acceptable compromise:
No, I can’t believe this is happening either.
Strict rules were then laid down:
And doubts were raised about my sexual preference: men or bread?
But one thing’s for sure. No wardrobe would be complete without the slogan T-shirt of 2019: “I don’t need no bread to pleasure you”