The Kind of Date...

It has become apparent that I am really bad at flirting.  Only I, the Lollster, could confuse sexual suggestion with the conjuring of a toilet animal.  Allow me to set the scene…

I met a guy at Christmas Party number two; an analyst from the second floor.  (“You lost me at Microsoft Excel”).  Not my usual type; he was skinny and danced like someone’s dad who’d confused his Berocca for a quarter ounce of ketamine crushed with Smack and blue Smarties.   But still, he had a hint of a beard, laughed at my jokes and told me he liked my perfume.  HELLO!  I was ‘in’, I was most definitely ‘in’.  And then I did something that I would never normally do.  I fucked off home.  Without a kiss, without a swapping of numbers, I chuffed off home whilst instagramming my reflection in the top deck mirror of the number 8.

This opened up a whole new world to me.  I hadn’t embarrassed myself.  I had nothing to ‘flush red’ over when he came through the swing doors into my reception (*not a metaphor).  This was an all together new and intriguing experience.  No awkward corridor moments, if anything this kid wanted more.  I had reeled him in and thrown him back into a northern flowing reservoir.  We began chatting on the intranet, (I HATE how 'real life' I am sounding-urghh) and I managed to squeeze two McDonalds breakfasts out of him (he was on hangover errands for his fellow colleagues).  And so an e-mail exchange of casual, (McDonalds breakfasts based) innuendo flowed.

And then we went on a date.  A kind of date.  I invited him to Christmas Party no.3, a little earlier than the other guests were due to arrive.  CUNNING!  There we were in O’Neills, wine goblet and pint of Magners in hand, looking around the drunken chaos for a seat.  “Oh look, there’s one” he goes, an edge of a bench opening up like an oasis of Skittles in a Skittleless desert.  We make our way over, and it is then that I clock the person next to the empty seat…it was only…doh doh doh…the guy I got my funk on with at Christmas Party no.1.  Of all the people in all the towns.  CRINGE!

Needless to say, I freaked out, talked largely about myself (nothing new there) and quaffed my Chardonnay like a bastard.  The next week, surprisingly, the e-mails resumed when a free order of Maccies Breakfasts was delivered.  (Any affair based around deep fried potatoes and a token two inch square of cheese, is pretty much doomed).

He asked the age old question every young maiden wishes to hear: "Did you guys get your McDonalds"?  And this was my reply:

ME PLAYING IT COOL

HIM SPICING IT UP

ME FUCKING IT UP

What I had meant to say was ‘steamy’.  Not ‘steaming’, steamy’.  ‘Steaming and Greasy’ sounds like something unmentionable.  He must think me a total stig.  Needless to say, he has left for Christmas without so much as a card, a Ferrero Rocher or a moth ridden piece of mistletoe.  

Even my stalker’s getting bored of me, leering at me silently as he walks past.  Gone are those glory days of meaningless chat.

Don’t worry though kids, it ain’t over til Michelle McManus sings.  That very evening, I was offered an evening of passion and 50% off at American Apparel by a married guy who wasn’t "gay", (even ‘though he was wearing a polo neck in the year 2012).  So for the second time that week, I ran away.  Now I will never have that neon leotard or those badly hemmed orange leggings that I was so hoping for.  Life’s a bitch.

And what has all this taught me?  Even if you don’t partake, kisses in Soho are easier to fall into than manholes on the Clerkenwell Road. 

And so, because we have established that I am a mortal dick head, I went back to Christmas Party no. 1 guy with my tail between my legs:

Nothing says rejection like an exclamation mark, followed by a sad face emoticon.  

Merry Christmas.