Stood Up Stand Up
I will fuck on a first date. Not just because I’m easy (which I am) but because actually getting to that point is such an arduous and unlikely undertaking.
Online dating has unfortunately given unconfident men the opportunity to appear aloof and mysterious. Ooh, he’s not responding to my messages for a week — what a bad boy! When in reality, he’s probably pacing around his garden trying to figure out the best way to back out of this mess he’s gotten himself into.
If you are lucky enough to match with a man who is 1) cool with you being trans, and 2) self assured enough to commit to the concept of engaging with another human being, then you can back and forth for a week before taking the huge relationship milestone of asking him to move it over to WhatsApp.
“Moving it Over to WhatsApp” has very much become the real, actual “first date”. It’s where you first get to know each other throughout the day, checking in with a saucy gif or two — but never anything too intense to be misinterpreted as over-keen. Like, ask him how his day was — but then tell him “lol I don’t actually care”.
You end up cultivating this weird, pseudo relationship for a few weeks — maybe graduating to voice notes if he’s not too crippled with anxiety over the concept of verbal engagement. You carry him around in your bag with you, like a beardy man-child Tamagotchi, until either he (hopefully) asks you out on a date.
So, I’ve had this experience many times — and usually it results in him messaging me either the night before, or the day of the date — cancelling for some totally genuine, but hugely unlikely reason. Some of these have been:
1) He’s spontaneously reconnected with a long previous schoolyard love
2) He’s just got too much on at the moment with work down at the skate shop where his main responsibility is teaching 14 year olds how to fit skateboard wheels.
3) He really wants to, but he’s having a “mental breakdown” and has had to “go away” to a “special hospital” for a “few weeks”. Pleeeease!
A few weeks ago though, I matched with this handsome chef from Hackney. He seemed a bit more switched on than the guys I had been chatting with previous. He went out of his way to engage with me, and complimented my appearance. He was respectful during our entire communications, never once sending me a photo of his (probably) bulging fat cock. A real charmer, you know?
We arranged to go on a date to a bar in Soho, and even though I was half expecting him to cancel on the day — he didn’t. I checked in before I left to get the bus that he was still down, and he assured me he was.
On my way there, I get a text from him apologising that he’s just running a bit late from work — and that he’s on his way but might be 30 minutes to an hour late. I tell him it’s cool, and ask him what drink he wants. He says no, he’ll get it when he arrives. Hard swoon.
I get to the bar and sit down with my drink. I look really good by the way — I have a short dress on, tits up to the nines & this new lip gloss that is made from some sort of chilli pepper, which causes your lips to go numb and plump up & your face to get all hot because actually it’s a little too hot. I think the brand is “Nandos”.
I sit there a while, and I know it’s been a while because I’ve been to the toilet twice already. I text this chef several more times, and get no response. I look around the small Soho bar. Everyone is a couple — hugging and kissing and feeling each other up. Well, they might not all be couples, but to me — in that moment — they were all couples. Any single person was probably just waiting for their partner to arrive so they could snog in front of me. It was disgusting.
I get fed up, and I go outside to call him. Up to now, we’ve only “spoken” through voice notes, but I’m upset and I want to talk to him old-school. To my surprise, he does answer. And he sounds very apologetic. I feel angry, but I try to mask it in my voice because I don’t respect myself and think there is still a chance here. He tells me that he hasn’t been able to get away from his chef duties, as he had to cover an employee who failed to come in. I say “Ok, so shall we just forget it then?” but he tells me that he’d still be up for it if I was able to come and meet him at his place of work, in Waterloo. “You want me to come to Waterloo?” I ask, again trying to not let on that I am upset, because I have no self worth. He tells me that if I come to Waterloo, he can still meet me when he gets off his shift and we can go for some drinks. I tell him “Ok, I’ll come to Waterloo” — because I am a pathetic, lonely, horny worm.
I make my way through the underground, and take it to Waterloo station. I am dressed too sexily for the underground, alone, at this time of night. I walk through the endless tunnels, and ride the endless escalators up to Waterloo. As I emerge into the bustling station, a group of heavily inebriated sports goons throw a rugby ball in my direction which only narrowly misses my face. They stumble off down the set of escalators I just emerged from.
For the first time in 30 minutes I have phone signal again, and as my phone buzzes back into life — I see a message from the chef. It reads:
“Hey, I’m really sorry but I can’t get off so I’m not going to be able to meet after all”.
I look down at the message, and then I look around at all the couples at Waterloo station — kissing and hugging and feeling each other up and fucking right there in front of Upper Crust. A man is shagging his dog, who he loves and is going to marry probably, and there is a woman French kissing a ticket machine. Everyone has someone except me. I feel my face starting to fill up with tears, but I suppress it. My time at an All Boys School taught me how to do that, but I’m out of practice — so on the underground back towards home, I can tell that my eyes look all wet and weepy, and people are looking at me with concern.
When I have signal again, I reply “ok”, which has become something of a catchphrase & I think about blocking him. But then I wonder if maybe he was telling the truth and actually this is all just a big misunderstanding. I wonder if I should suggest we try again next week. I wonder if he’s actually the one, and I’m making a huge mistake.
Then I block him. Because I’m not quite that much of a pathetic, no self respect having, sad, horny worm.
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