The Birdwatcher

Birdwatcher is neither euphemism nor metaphor. He is Scottish, but not part of The Fantasy Scot. No, I met and went out with an actual birdwatcher — more than once. Some clever chap, probably on Reddit, told Tinderfellas never to smile in profile photos. After all, nothing says “I’m a total stranger who’d like to sleep with you, you should definitely meet me after dark” like an angry scowl. In at least one of the Birdwatcher’s photos, I thought he might murder me in my sleep. But in at least two others I liked his gray and his wrinkles. In person he was nice though. I mean, I managed to be mildly interested in birdwatching for like 3 weeks, so. This is how hard I’m willing to work to find love. Or maybe how much I love Scottish accents. I’m not really sure.

He had those lovely eye wrinkles that make a person look like they’ve laughed and been happy. Or have very bad sun damage. He shared a lot of personal information the first time we met. Then told me I was shy.

He was neither tall nor short, but had this tiny, tight, gorgeous little body with a very long torso and less long legs. He was oddly comfortable walking around my house naked and I was honestly mesmerized by how attracted I was to his ass and yet how I couldn’t watch it walk around without actively trying to puzzle out its proportions.

He drove in from Naas. It was only polite to invite him stay.

Like other divorced dads in their 40s, he was pretty good at sex. He was really complimentary. He liked a good cuddle. He smelled amazing. At one point, there were like… a series of really rapid, but shallow? thrusts… I … didn’t get it. I hope that felt good for him.

He followed up a lot. He sent me pictures from his birdwatching trips. He liked to talk on the phone. No really. On the PHONE. Like with his voice. Yeah, it was weird. But nice? I mean, more Scottish accent, so sure, I’ll pretend it’s normal to talk on the phone.

I went off on holiday a few weeks after we met. He talked about how I was off to one of his dream — real dream — destinations. He told me to send pictures. He told me to be in touch. I never heard from him again.

Mostly I regret not getting him to make voice recordings of the words Twitter and Murder so I could make fun ring tones. Ah well. I’ll always have David Tennant.