As previous posts will confirm, I have been in somewhat of a man drought of late. A lonely traveller lost in the Sahara sex desert, if you like. I decided that, before I start hallucinating a mirage of half naked men, I had better take drastic action and get myself a date. So I asked out Rob.
Rob is my friend, and occasional drunken hook up, who is, worryingly, the only guy I can honestly say I have any desire to hang out with at the moment.
To understand the 'worryingly' part of this sentence, I should probably give you a brief summary of mine and Rob's 'relationship'. Rob once spent an hour in a City bar smothering my face with Vaseline. Rob text me about a month ago stating simply 'I want to talk to you - on subjects including tropical fruit, killer whales and life.' Rob once spent fifteen minutes on the phone to my mother waxing lyrical about the miracle that is double rainbows. In short, despite graduating from university and landing himself a pretty good job in the City, Rob is clearly mentally perturbed. And the worrying part? I've always quite liked it.
So on Thursday lunchtime I met him in Aldgate for what could possibly be our first ever sober encounter. We spent his lunch hour sat in a park, surrounded by pigeons and ravens, eating burritos (him) and trying to work out if this was actually a date or not (me).
In keeping with Rob's penchant for the obscure, topics discussed ranged from his urge to take up ballet, to what gender a brown pigeon is. After sixty minutes of disorienting conversation and limited flirtation, we went our separate ways and I realised that our drunken dalliances were never going to translate in to something resembling a normal, sober attraction.
Was that a date? Or was that just two friends enjoying an hour of Mexican food and bird watching together? As always after a run in with Rob I felt two things – confused and in need of a drink.
Deciding to capitalise on my time in the City, I headed to London Wall to meet my other suit wearing, banker wanker friends – who also happen to be Rob's ex-colleagues. As usual, my good 'only staying for one' intentions were quickly shot down, and a bottle of White Zinfandel later I found myself hammered and textually harassing Rob to come and meet us which, pissed and unassuming, he did.
The evening continued in the same vein as lunch had, by which I mean we talked birds and he acted like I was as attractive as Jackie Stallone after a heavy night. But, just as I was about to resign myself to another day of total celibacy, he said to me, straight faced, with no glint in his eye and no flirtatious smile 'So, are we going to kiss or what?' Just like that.
When the guy in Starbucks asks me if I want my paninni toasted or cold it's loaded with more sexual aggression. But it's his standard line, and it worked, like it always does with Rob. And we kissed, and it was amazing, like it always is with Rob. The kind of kiss that makes me want things to go further, but they didn't - like they never do with Rob. So I'm left once again feeling confused, dissatisfied and horny. Which I suppose is some sort of karma for inflicting similar emotions on a host of pubescent boys during my teenage years. Boys, I have tasted my own medicine and it is bitter. Bitter and sexually frustrated.
So, I returned to Spinster HQ, alone and drunk, manless for another week. But all is not lost. We've agreed to go and see Happy Feet 2 together. Filthy stuff. Who knows, maybe sitting in a darkened room watching cartoon penguins tap dance for an hour and a half will finally be enough to crack his steely sexual resolve? Which I guess could be the most worrying thing of all.