Last Saturday, I had my third date with TenderLovingBoy (TLB). We went to the Toyboy Warehouse party together and I was proud to have him on my arm. He arrived to meet me with a bouquet of long-stemmed white roses stylishly bound round with raffia. So thoughtful, so romantic... it's been way too long since I've been treated like that. No wonder I'm behaving strangely!
TLB looked after me all evening like Kevin Costner in 'The Bodyguard'. Watchful, protective, bringing me food and drinks, attending to my every need, taking a step back when people came to talk to me and generally acting out my fantasy of a perfect gentleman on the outside, smouldering with desire within. I enjoyed the experience so much, I decided to prolong our 'courtship' and relish the subtle anticipation of what is inevitably to come. Bizarre as it may seem, I actually like him enough NOT to jump into bed with him.
Our previous date, the night prior to the party, found us wrapped around each other in the back row of the movies. Our kisses ignited incendiaries in all the relevant parts of my viscera. It would have been oh so easy to take him home and let him finish what he started, but did I? No. Why? Respect.
AM I READING THE RIGHT BLOG? I hear you ask.
Yes, friends, you are - this is still me, but it's the New Improved Me.
Although it's clear we fancy the pants off each other, those pants are staying firmly put a little longer than usual. After a deep and meaningful discussion over a Mojito or three, I suggested (and he reluctantly agreed) to adhere to the 'Six Date Rule' because after all: what's the rush?
'Ahh!' says TLB as the significance of my suggestion sinks in. 'You mean the 'pleasure delay'?'
'Precisely' says I, thinking how fortuitous it was that I had resisted buying the ingredients for a full English breakfast as it would have been far too tempting to invite him back to taste the hostess and her wares, especially if the sausages had had an early sell-by date.
I've been far too guilty in my time of rushing through relationships and out the other side but this feels calmer somehow. Less hurried. More controlled and dare I say it...sensible. (OK, OK - he's only 27...it ain't ever going to be 'sensible'...)
And so I retired alone and lay huddled on the right of the bed, the left side as empty as a beach in winter. I awoke feeling rather virtuous - a feeling I'm not exactly familiar with.
Sailing through the following day on a flotilla of breathless expectation, I was smacked in the face by a wet haddock when he texted, later that evening, to finish with me! Said he was already 'in too deep'. Knew exactly where it was headed. Didn't want to get hurt. Needed to protect himself. Didn't really trust me.
It reminded me horribly of CC, except this time, I was determined to reel him back in. This one was not going to get away that easily, I thought. Not as long as I was female and had a pulse.
Through a softly, softly approach, I convinced him to meet up again. He backtracked his negation pretty quickly. We have a date arranged for Saturday. I'm cautiously optimistic that we'll make it. It'll be the fouth date not the sixth but rules were made to be broken and who cares anyway? I like him. He's different. Dark and complex and he writes me poetry.
I wonder what poetry we'll make when dusk falls on the city this weekend...
Shame it's coming up to the shortest night...
I've a feeling we'll need a longish one...