So it’s been a looooooong time since I’ve actually liked someone. Sure, I’ve had my interest piqued a few times. Until, A) they’ve divulged their stamp-collecting obsession, B) they’ve voiced their desires to travel to Phuket and have gender reassignment surgery or C) all of the above.

I’m not so much the desperado type. I’m so busy that I’d seriously consider cloning myself, and I’m happy being single. Really happy.

Luckily that comes in very handy- especially after meeting someone you really like who turns out to be…… rather odd.

So I’d kinda liked Slow Boy for while. Friends of friends… so they could vouch. Civilised, well-travelled, intelligent, successful, passionate, attractive, funny, cultured. Seeing each other out confirmed that he was quite lovely, charming, entertaining and had fabulous shoes (giant plus).

I’m not really all about the grand gestures anymore. Especially when it comes to telling a dude I like him. I’m old school. Let the dude do the driving. It’s just the way it’s meant to be. I figure that friendliness, manners and attentive conversation give the green light. Eyelash batting works too.

Imagine the irony. Slow Boy and I talking ad nauseam about manners. Old school chivalry, preserving one’s honour and being mature and decent and proper. I could hardly finish my deeply relieved sigh when, I caught my breath. And then lost it again in shock. Slow Boy and I made plans to meet each other out with friends.

Clearly between the last message and the time I actually arrived, about 700 beers must’ve been consumed. There really can’t be any other logical explanation for what I saw:

Slow Boy. Young woman. A french kiss so vigorous I’m sure they had whiplash the next day.

Wait… “french kiss” is wayyyy to sophisticated a term for what it was. It was more like “Man Eating Young Woman’s Tonsil to Stopwatch”.

I don’t think I could’ve been more disappointed (and surprised) if he’d been wearing a patchwork leather jacket and white pleather shoes.