Many, many moons ago, in the student heydays of my youth, I travelled the high seas – opening my eyes to the ways of the world. It was whilst staying in a wooden hut on a volcanic island in the middle of a lake in Nicaragua, that my friend Phoebe and I met two young gentlemen: Drew and James. Phoebe was rather taken by Drew, which was lucky as I only had eyes for James. Alas, nothing was to come of either of these pursuits – we shared a drink with the two guys and the following morning they disappeared north for volcano boarding whilst we were coast bound for the appropriately named and suitably tragic ‘Sunday Funday’.
Flash forward five years and I have abandoned my previous flatmate Ed and moved into my current residence, which I now share with Phoebe. Imagine my surprise one evening when I sat absentmindedly swiping away whilst we watched Doctor Foster, to see Drew pop up on my Bumble. I immediately showed Phoebe who, now happily in a long-term relationship, suggested I swipe right. I did and it was a match. As already mentioned, as far as I was concerned, Drew’s looks had paled into insignificance compared to those of his companion, James. I did not message him and twenty-four hours later the match was deleted. Twenty-four hours and five minutes after we had matched on Bumble, I received a Facebook message from Drew. Well, you’ve got to admire the guy for his punctuality so, egged on by Phoebe, I agreed to meet him for a drink.
I should have heard alarm bells when I let Drew choose the location and he conveniently chose a pub that was entirely non-descript other than the fact that it was a five minute walk from his house (more on how I came to know this later…). We met at the closest tube and wandered down to the pub. I had already seen from his Bumble profile that Drew’s attempts to find himself in Central America had failed and he had subsequently embarked on a voyage to India. Judging by his newfound beard, brightly patterned shirt and the rather shabby looking anorak he was wearing, this outing had proved more successful.
Things did not get off to a good start when Drew walked into the pub, marched straight up to the bar and ordered a bottle of red wine without any consultation into what I liked to drink. I decided not to write Drew off too quickly for this blunder and we headed to our table. The time passed as we made the usual first date small talk, covering the normal topics:
1) Drew felt transgender people must be inherently religious as they must believe in a body and soul
2) Drew felt that Putin really was a modern day action man
3) Drew felt we should only donate to environmental, not humanitarian charities
4) Drew felt non-binary sexuality shouldn’t be taught in schools as it only confused children.
Drew clearly liked the sound of his own voice. I would describe the evening as more of an argument than a date but before we had had time to move on to the deeper topics like what he did for a living and what his weekend plans were, we had finished the bottle of wine. I offered to get the drinks this time as I needed the loo anyway and Drew said we could either stay at the pub for another drink or he had gin and tonics back at his. I headed to the safety of the loo and pondered this offer. I absolutely did not fancy Drew, in fact I actively and vehemently disliked him. BUT, I also hadn’t had sex in blooming ages… this could be an easy quick fix. I could go back to his, scratch the itch and leave, safely in the knowledge that I would never see him again and nor would I want to. I headed back upstairs to find the bar was closing – my decision was made for me and we headed back to Drew’s.
Drew lived exactly where you would expect someone with a beard, a brightly coloured patterned shirt, an anorak and a passion for India to live – a commune. Well, not technically a commune, it was an old people’s home that had been bought to turn into luxury flats. The landlord hadn’t got planning permission for these yet so was letting people live there for a peppercorn rent in the mean time to avoid squatters. Drew’s room also looked exactly like what you would expect from someone with a beard, a brightly coloured patterned shirt, an anorak and a passion for India. He had recently found a pot of bright yellow paint under the stairs, which he had used to adorn his walls, along with some non-descript fabric which hung over a mattress on palettes on the floor. The mood was completed when he lit some incense and put some mild David Brubeck jazz on YouTube for ambiance. I was simultaneously repulsed and fighting the urge to giggle.
Without the safety blanket of a pub’s background noise and having covered all the usual small talk topics, conversation was rather stinted but the piece de resistance was yet to come. As I sat awkwardly on the corner of the sofa, sipping my mug of gin and tonic, Drew announced he needed the loo. No problem with that. As he got up to leave though, he headed for the door and on his way out picked up a magazine – some light lavatorial literature. The romantic mood he had worked so hard to create over the discussion of his homophobic views was suddenly dashed by what was pretty much an admission that he was just off for a pre-shag shit. I decided it was time to bring this social experiment to an end. There are only certain lengths a girl can go to to end a draught. I took his poopertunity to beat a hasty retreat!