You know it’s going to be an interesting first date when the following conversation occurs en route to a girl’s house.
Her: “By the way, you don’t mind dogs do you?”
Me: “I love dogs! What breed?”
Her: “Rottweiler”
Me: “Haha! Very funny. So, what breed?”
Her: “Rottweiler”
Almost as an afterthought, she added: “It’s fine, though. He’s like a big baby.” Like a big baby what? Tyrannosaurus Rex? The idea that he might just rearrange my features in a drawn-out and painful manner, rather than simply take my head clean off, was not necessarily a comforting one.
As we approached her front door, the half-mauled teddy bear lying face-down in the snow did nothing to assuage my fear. “Does that belong to a sibling of yours, or a younger cousin?” I bleated hopefully. “No!” came the breezy reply.
We’d come a long way from the pub (literally and figuratively), where we’d met two hours earlier to ensure neither of us were criminally insane. Actually, it wouldn’t have made any difference, because two minutes after meeting in the car park I found myself in the passenger seat of her 4x4, directing her to the nearest cashpoint. It went against everything I’d been warned about as a small child. She even had sweets in her glovebox.
S.A, 24, was a statuesque, bequiffed blonde with a white, even smile and a tattoo of a tiger on her shoulder. We clicked immediately and the conversation flowed - a mental health nurse, she spoke at length about her job in a way that was both poignant and funny. Before meeting, we’d discussed the possibility of reconvening to her house that night for cocktails – she’s a former bartender – but only if we found each other attractive. I had asked her beforehand how I’d know she liked me; she’d replied: “Trust me, you’ll know.”
Over a pint of shandy (we were both driving), she said the magic word – ‘cocktails’, that is, not ‘abracadabra’. Ten minutes later we were driving back to hers, me following her in a mini-convoy, in fairly treacherous conditions (three words: ‘mountain’, ‘downhill’ and ‘snow’). We also stopped via the local Tesco for a) cocktail ingredients and b) a good laugh, after it transpired that the staff had run out of carrier bags and were distributing all groceries in oversized black refuse sacks.
The Rottweiler, it turned out, was as soft as the proverbial – although he didn’t take too kindly to his beloved owner fucking me (doggy-style, ironically) on the sofa. And S.A, it must be said, was the perfect first date. She cooked me dinner, refilled my glass with new and exciting cocktails, let me select the music (I’m fairly sure Korn’s greatest hits isn’t standard first date fare, but she rolled with the punches), gave me copious amounts of oral sex and spooned me to sleep. She’d made the first move, having accidentally elbowed me in the arm and hit me in the kneecap in quick succession. “Whatever next?” I’d said, in mock indignation. “How about this?” she’d replied, as she leaned in to kiss me.
But enough of the ‘Sex and the City’-style semantics. Everyone loves a bit of schadenfreude, and I’m sure you’re aching to know how I ended up with coffee in my knickers. So, the next morning the Rottweiler (who, although not vicious, was clearly determined to disable me in some way) leapt up violently from the sofa at the unexpected arrival of the postman, causing a not inconsiderable amount of coffee to bail out from my cup and into my crotch. Thankfully it wasn’t hot, but I did have some questionable brown stains in my knickers afterwards (well, it did make me jump) and I’m sure my cassolette both smelt and tasted like coffee. Not that it stopped S.A, who peeled my knickers off with her teeth shortly after ‘Coffeegate’ to make it a hat trick of orgasms. And she claims to be a tea lover.
Did I mention I’m seeing her again next Wednesday?
