Monday, August 02, 2010

The Little Date That Wasn't

So, I went to a friend's birthday do - one of three last weekend - and got blasted, which was a shame as I was a) skint, and b) trying to forgo booze as it tends to ruin healthy spells.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself throwing shapes on the dancefloor, and generally behaving like some drunk twat in a shirt.

But even that didn't come close to the surprise in store for me later on, as I inserted with my fingers a lady's number into my phone.

I had spotted said lady earlier being all attractive and coquettish in the corner. I say coquettish, although she didn't so much flirt as just smile in my direction, which had been enough to confuse me so I paid her no mind. She was, after all, attractive and I am, after all, a fat ginger fuckrunt.

It wasn't until later in the evening, as I stood outside with the smokers (they to smoke, and me to dry off), that I found myself in the company of that charming lady, and her friend. We introduced ourselves, and I had gone off on a rambling monologue that I thought at the time was tremendously witty but was probably just an overly bitter rant about the tube, or somesuch.

And then I smashed my wine glass and kicked the shards against a wall.

Her friend left, and it was just me, and her.

I was hammered.

Fortunately, I do a pretty good line in not looking as hammered as I actually am, so I just looked merry, and stupid.

She smiled at me.

'Uh,' I began, my befuddled mind racing through porridge, wondering how I could make a kiss happen.

'Can I have your number?' I said, and frowned. Where the hell did that come from?

And then she smiled and said 'Yes'.

I got an erection.

I tried to act cool as I reached for my phone and selected 'ADD CONTACT'.

'Erm, this is a little embarrassing, but what was your name again?'

She shrieked, and made me guess. I had nothing, although it was nice actually engaging with her for once. And then she told me, and gave me a number, and I didn't know what to do next. And by that, I mean seriously. What the fuck does one do after that?

I can tell you what I did; I gave her a peck on the cheek and, trying not to think about how bemused I must have seemed, I went home. Finally, I was living. Things had gone from mundane and yawn, to THISSERIOUSLYNEVERHAPPENS.

Now, I thought, I could date her, then have sex with her (that would of course be brilliant, sex again, with a real human female and no longer my bored calloused hand). She'd see my lovely new apartment. That would be a deal-breaker, surely? And then of course she'd move in. Money's tight after all but she could pay, I dunno, £495.50 per month, bills included?

So a day passes, and I didn't call. Because I'm The Man.

(I wonder if my flat would be overcrowded with two people and a baby? )

I tell a few friends about my According to Hoyle miracle, as the second day passed. Don't mess with Mr Lover Lover.

Day Three, the Industry Standard. I'm at work when, half way through, I realise I could call her on my walk home. The daily slog would be over. I'd be happy; The perfect time to catch up.

"Hello," I said, amazed that she'd given me her real digits, "Is that Now-Indifferent Woman*?"

(*I'm assuming you realise that isn't her real name.)

"Uh, yeah?" said the indifferent-sounding voice on the other end of the line, as I squinted in confusion.

"Er, Hi!" I squawked over the din of London traffic. "This is Fweng! From the other day?"

"Oh, hi!" she said. She sounded perkier, I figured, about 7% perkier than four seconds previously.

"So yeah, I continued. "Three days minimum. I was gonna wait for five days, maybe seven or eight, but thought, 'what the hell, just call!'"

Now-Indifferent Woman made a noise. It could've been a cough, or perhaps a carpet scrape as she squirmed on the spot. She asked me how my weekend was. I admitted it was drunken, as I had a trio of birthdays.

"But I'm not an alcoholic," I added as a woman passer-by grinned at me sweating on the phone. She knew, I thought. She knew.

And that confused me. So I stopped talking.

'I've stopped talking', I distinctly remember thinking. 'No biggie. It's cool to be so laid back that you don't even talk during phonecalls'.

'Uh-' said Indifferent, breaking the silence, 'So what do you want to do now?'

I panicked. This was date-arranging. I hadn't considered that. I was just going to call, and I was. I hadn't planned beyond that.

'Oh, uh, dunno really. Let's meet up for a drink' - And yes, I now know that the whole point of the call was to arrange something, and not just reiterate that something should really be arranged.

'Well okay, sure, but I have to go out right now.'

'Cool. Well let me know what you want to do,' I added, realising I'd now left the ball in her court, and no self-respecting woman would so much as reach down for it.

We hung up, and with each step I took towards the train station, I realised I'd fucked it.

'I'll text her after the weekend if she hasn't called by then,' I told friends. 'It's only another 7 days away.'

They called me an idiot.

But I didn't want to look desperate, so I gave her a couple of days anyway. Needless to say, I hadn't heard back, so I sent her a text. It was Thursday.

'Hi. It's Fweng. Why don't we meet up at XXX in XXX? Nice place. Failing that, howsabout a couple of cans on a park bench? Classy.'

I put the phone down, and waited for the ping!

No ping. I checked it, and put it down again.

I went out to grab lunch.

I got back and checked the phone. It looked bored.

I went home, had dinner, and went to bed after checking my phone.

I fell asleep, then woke up, checked my phone, had a wank, rechecked my phone with a greater sense of loss and disgust than I'd had two and a third minutes earlier, and still I saw nothing.

I went to work. Some customers asked me stupid questions.

Time passed.

Then I deleted her number.

17 comments:

List Maker Girl said...

She'll text back - she's probably just playing it a bit cool, in retaliation, like. If she doesn't, then at least you will have learned a valuable lesson there in how not to get a shag.

Please Don't Eat With Your Mouth Open said...

FWENGE, if that is your real name, DO NOT PLAY IT COOL.

You can only play it cool when you are COOL.

Now go back out there and try again.

daisyfae said...

i've never been a fan of "The Rules", but agree that starting to text the next morning comes across as really desperate...

Get back out there! This was a breakthrough! Proving once again, that when you least expect it most, shit happens. Sometimes? it might even be good shit...

Dandelion said...

QUICK! Go to another birthday party! You are on FIRE!

Megan Rose said...

Come on lad, back on the horse.

Liana said...

Maybe she'll drunk dial you next weekend. In which case you shouldn't feel bad about possibly taking advantage of the situation.

fwengebola said...

LMG ~ I think a lesson is the best thing I'll get out of that.
PDEWYMO ~ Do you mean "be myself"? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND???
Df ~ Exactly - other than if they're that mythical 'One', calling the next day is just sooooo not cool. But I think a change of wardrobe and more getting out there is to be on the cards.
Fuck.
Dand ~ Sort of on fire, thank you.
MR ~ I'm trying. Babysteps.
Liana ~ Perhaps she will, except I'm almost 5 billion percent sure she's deleted my number too.
Either way it's best filed under 'Best to never mention this again'.

Anonymous said...

Her number will still be on the list of calls you made, unless you deleted that too. Another call is still possible, as long as you can sound keen but not desperate, friendly but not off-puttingly flippant.

Still can't be arsed to put in name and password. Sorry. Z

luna said...

I thought only girlies read the rules and behaved like Bridget.

Hum,crushing your wine glass,is that some Jewish fuck luck custom ?

luna said...

If it is it's lost its mojo.

looby said...

What's brilliant about this is that you don't tart it up, despite the moments of elation you must have felt. Lesser people might have been tempted to write about the peck on the cheek and the stilted conversation on the terrace in a way that made themselves look better than they are (very common male behaviour).

Not sure about deleting her number, simply because it makes you feel that if it doesn't work out you'll be able to congratulate yourself on a correct pessimistic call, so sending you into another downward spiral.

Seize the moment! Whatever you're doing now worked once so it can work again. Best of luck, my favourite online wanker!

looby said...

And sorry, bad manners to do two posts I know but what Mouth Open said - sod the cool bit. In the future, ring her next evening. Whoever wrote those those stupid Rules needs shooting. Cool = emotionally calculating. I don't want someone like that, and I reckon most women don't either.

McTodd said...

I went to work. Some customers asked me stupid questions.

Time passed.

Then I deleted her number.


Beautiful writing.

Anonymous said...

Burp.

fwengebola said...

Z ~ Oh yes. Yes, you're right. I've found the number in my lists. But no, I'm not ringing it. After all, it's been 2 weeks since I sent her the text. I wouldn't call with a gun to my head. I'd rather take the bullet.
Luna ~ "Jewish fuck luck"? I'm not even replying to that.
Loob ~ Thank you very much, and don't worry about the double comm. I won't be calling back, as I have a finely-tuned sense of when to call things a day. Trust me on this. In retrospect, we were both too drunk to have a proper conversation beforehand. I know it still seems like a possibility, but it's a hiding to nothing.
McT ~ Bless you. And all true.
Anon ~ Luke, I'm guessing.

blackwatertown said...

Good writing.
Call her.
Or go out with someone else.
Or both.
As a bare minimum, drink in decent pubs not rubbish ones. If you're doing that already, I salute you.
www.blackwatertown.wordpress.com

fwengebola said...

I'm doing none of those. I'm shit. And scared.
Pathetic.
But one day, I hope to...
No, I won't. Because I'm shit and scared.