explained that I was taking the dating lightly, not searching for anything too intense, no serious long-term commitment, no, not me. Meanwhile he studied me intensely and seriously, while edging even closer so that our thighs were almost touching. My personal space was disappearing rapidly and I wanted it back. When I glanced up at the black guy, our eyes met and a faint smile flickered across his lips.
My date then launched into a lengthy amplification of his position. He was after a love affair with âhonesty and trustâ, whether long or short, it was the quality that mattered, the passion. He found the idea of intimacy between a young man and older woman âvery sexyâ, he said. Then he added that he thought I was the right woman for him and we should try it.
How could I tell him that I too found the idea of that kind of intimacy sexy, but that he was far from my ideal candidate? For me â as for most people, I believe â physical attraction is a sine qua non. And I didnât fancy him one iota. To boot, his personality was strangely colourless. So I suggested that we could be friends. A lame idea, admittedly, but I felt cornered with nowhere else to go, and anyhow, that approach seemed to work with NiceMan. But he dismissed the suggestion. âIâm not sure weâre on the same page,â he observed mournfully. Same page? Not even in the same book, mate! I wanted to say.
At this point I looked at the black guy again and he winked at me. Now thereâs somebody who is fanciable and looks like good fun, I thought. Why canât I be having a drink with him?
HelloToYou remarked that the only basis on which he would agree that we positively werenât on the same page (that tedious expression again) was if I told him that I felt there was no chemistry between us. That he could accept. So I took the bull by the horns and said, âLook, I think youâre a nice man and Iâm sure the lady youâre searching for is out there somewhere. But itâs not me, because I donât believe there is any chemistry between us.â
He nodded slowly and said âOkay.â I felt a welcome wave of relief, like when you take off a bra thatâs too tight and you can breathe freely again. A few minutes later we stood up and it was good-bye to you, HelloToYou. As I turned to leave I threw one last look at the cool black dude and we smiled at each other conspiratorially. A delicious moment and one I suspected he would soon be sharing with his mate on the mobile. Which was fine by me.
I was beginning to see that internet dating was rather like shopping for clothes in a charity store. It was a good idea, and ploughing through all the weird, odd-smelling stuff was a bit of an adventure, but you were only too aware that finding something you liked was going to be a tough call.
*
The following week I had a date with a Frenchman. This internet dating business was fabulously cosmopolitan, I told myself.
Ãdouard was in his mid-fifties, another divorcee, urbane and Continental in his manners. He had proposed that we meet to share a bottle of chilled French white at a bar in swinging Notting Hill. It was a warm sunny evening and we sat at an outdoor table in our sunglasses, chatting about our families, past relationships and work (Ãdouard was in advertising).
Our initial online conversation, a week or so previously, had gone well. âI love the name Monica,â he wrote in one message. âAs I held the hand of a girl named Monica when I was eight years old!â Oo-la-la . When I mentioned that I was relaxing and sipping a glass of wine at my desk after a long dayâs work, he asked: âWhat are you drinking, red or white?â
âRed, Ãdouard. A nice little Fleurie. And feeling better already.â
âRed is good. Although a fine white, Sancerre or Chablis, can âlift me higherâ, to put it in a flowery way, without being a writer. Let us
My date then launched into a lengthy amplification of his position. He was after a love affair with âhonesty and trustâ, whether long or short, it was the quality that mattered, the passion. He found the idea of intimacy between a young man and older woman âvery sexyâ, he said. Then he added that he thought I was the right woman for him and we should try it.
How could I tell him that I too found the idea of that kind of intimacy sexy, but that he was far from my ideal candidate? For me â as for most people, I believe â physical attraction is a sine qua non. And I didnât fancy him one iota. To boot, his personality was strangely colourless. So I suggested that we could be friends. A lame idea, admittedly, but I felt cornered with nowhere else to go, and anyhow, that approach seemed to work with NiceMan. But he dismissed the suggestion. âIâm not sure weâre on the same page,â he observed mournfully. Same page? Not even in the same book, mate! I wanted to say.
At this point I looked at the black guy again and he winked at me. Now thereâs somebody who is fanciable and looks like good fun, I thought. Why canât I be having a drink with him?
HelloToYou remarked that the only basis on which he would agree that we positively werenât on the same page (that tedious expression again) was if I told him that I felt there was no chemistry between us. That he could accept. So I took the bull by the horns and said, âLook, I think youâre a nice man and Iâm sure the lady youâre searching for is out there somewhere. But itâs not me, because I donât believe there is any chemistry between us.â
He nodded slowly and said âOkay.â I felt a welcome wave of relief, like when you take off a bra thatâs too tight and you can breathe freely again. A few minutes later we stood up and it was good-bye to you, HelloToYou. As I turned to leave I threw one last look at the cool black dude and we smiled at each other conspiratorially. A delicious moment and one I suspected he would soon be sharing with his mate on the mobile. Which was fine by me.
I was beginning to see that internet dating was rather like shopping for clothes in a charity store. It was a good idea, and ploughing through all the weird, odd-smelling stuff was a bit of an adventure, but you were only too aware that finding something you liked was going to be a tough call.
*
The following week I had a date with a Frenchman. This internet dating business was fabulously cosmopolitan, I told myself.
Ãdouard was in his mid-fifties, another divorcee, urbane and Continental in his manners. He had proposed that we meet to share a bottle of chilled French white at a bar in swinging Notting Hill. It was a warm sunny evening and we sat at an outdoor table in our sunglasses, chatting about our families, past relationships and work (Ãdouard was in advertising).
Our initial online conversation, a week or so previously, had gone well. âI love the name Monica,â he wrote in one message. âAs I held the hand of a girl named Monica when I was eight years old!â Oo-la-la . When I mentioned that I was relaxing and sipping a glass of wine at my desk after a long dayâs work, he asked: âWhat are you drinking, red or white?â
âRed, Ãdouard. A nice little Fleurie. And feeling better already.â
âRed is good. Although a fine white, Sancerre or Chablis, can âlift me higherâ, to put it in a flowery way, without being a writer. Let us
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