It was all anyone was talking about. Date #4: dinner and a movie at his place. The invitation was innocent enough but it was loaded with promise. His place: a 40 minute drive away from mine, completely inaccessible by public transport and he’d told me to bring a bottle of wine. He’s played the gentleman so far but the undertone of the invite and the memory of the last kiss told me food wasn’t the only thing on the menu.
And man I was so nervous. I was like a 15 year old nervous, like second guessing what to do nervous. Which is a little bit ridiculous at 37 years old. Yes, it had been a while and yes there hadn’t been anyone since Posh Boy and we’d gotten into such a home run routine, I has severe performance anxiety with someone completely new.
The layer of expectation laid on for date 4 didn’t nothing to calm my concerns. By the time I turned up (after the obligatory wrong turns) my stomach was in my mouth and I didn’t know if I could eat anything. He greeted me so calmly and poised, so at home on his territory and in his kitchen, my verbal diarrhea all but gave me away for the fraud I was. Luckily he gave me a beer to shut up, gave me the tour of the house, maybe paused a little bit too long in his bedroom before telling me to make myself at home while he sorted out dinner.
He returned announcing that it was all good and dinner would be ready in 2.5hours. What?! What we were going to do for 2.5 hours?? Oh. right. yeah.
Only we didn’t because he was being the gentlemen and I was playing some ridiculous role of a nervous teenager. The verbal diarrhea returned but he let me rabbit on – and even joined in – until we’d exhausted all small talk and medium talk and the expectation of sex was almost suffocating. He’d not made one move and I didn’t want to be the one to instigate it and we’d not had enough wine to broach the subject. In a stroke of genius, he suggested we watch half the movie, pause for an intermission for dinner and then continue. It sounded like a plan.
When dinner was served, the 3 glasses of wine plus a beer had firmly taken hold and it was pretty clear I wasn’t driving anywhere tonight. Not wanting to be presumptuous I stated as much.
“Well there are two made up beds in the house and one of them is mine…”
“OK, then it’s fine for me have another glass” (I’ll work out which bed later…”
Dinner was lovely, the wine was lovely, the banter was great. The movie was pretty damn good, even if I did get a cinematography run down of the different type of shots. I might have been a bit too typsy and a little preoccupied with what happens next to really concentrate on the movie. But it was pretty good. After the movie finished, we sat chatting and I ended up giggling and being all shy as he moved closer. He went and got me a glass of water and then put his hand on my knee and took control. Thank God. Otherwise I’d still be sitting on the sofa giggling.
My fears in the bedroom were warranted as he was very different to Posh Boy. It’s terrible but I couldn’t help but compare. VP liked to chop and change position regularly which just got annoying and embarrassing and I felt well out of my depth. I was sure I wasn’t living up to expectation and given my little innocent girly act, he was probably wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
The next morning was a disastrous re-run of the night before which was exhausting and frustrating in equal measures. He switched back to gentlemanly as we cuddled (but not for long as it was way too hot!) and he got up to shower. By the time I’d gotten out of the shower, he’d made bacon and eggs and proper coffee. He told me about the commission art on his wall and we went through his other pictures. We dissected the news and then watched a WW2 documentary on the History Channel. It was a lovely way to spent time but I couldn’t get the bedroom thing out of my head. Maybe we’re just not compatible, maybe we’re just supposed to be friends, maybe he doesn’t really fancy me. It was such a shame as otherwise it had been a pretty perfect date 4.
I left about 2.30pm to let him do some work. As he checked out my car he mentioned sorting out my indicator light ‘next time’ but that was the only suggestion when I’d see him next. I drove away thinking it might have all been an elaborate one night stand.
Later after thanking him again for his hospitality, I suggested returning the favour at my place.
“Let me see how this week goes. Can I get back to you?”
Wow. He’s a player. He got what he wanted and now he’s pulling away. I was livid, embarrassed, humiliated and disappointed all at once and vented to PRP who pleaded not to write him off just yet.
I didn’t respond. That text didn’t call for a response. It screamed NOT INTERESTED and YOU’VE BEEN PLAYED louder than if he’d taken a mic and a loud hailer around Melbourne. At work the next day, everyone wanted to know how it had gone. In order to maintain some level of professionalism I spared them the details but they’re smart enough to read between the lines. When I told them about his text, most of the girls disappeared so fast in case they caught whatever singleton disease I was carrying. One remained and confirmed my belief I’d been played and how disappointing it was given his behaviour. She also confirmed my decision not to chase him. If he liked me, he’d get in touch. If he didn’t, chalk it up to experience and move on.
Through the disappointment though I was pleased she’d agreed with me. I am not a doormat, despite my previous behaviour in relationships, and I’d given too many men too many chances in my life.
If he liked me, he’d be in touch but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.