The Bad Dates Edition: Giles

I’ve alluded to Giles a couple of times in the last few blogs and I feel it’s only right I now take the time to relay to you, dear readers, what went down with this very strange but very attractive man.

As I’ve said, I really threw myself into the online dating scene with a fervour I had never before felt. Something changed in me and I no longer saw the world of internet dating as a saddo’s paradise full of desperadoes like my mother…it dawned on me that most of the successful relationships around me had begun through Tinder or Bumble or some such forum. It was time to stop looking down my little curved nose at the app world and get involved. I don’t think anyone could criticise me for the week of dedication I gave it either.

One of my preliminary matches was Giles. He had those muscular arms that are decorated by virile veins, brightest white straight teeth and a soft caramel complexion which was so beautiful I could have spread it on my walls. In short, Giles was just a smokin’ hottie. His bio said he was 6ft3 and he had that mixed-race look that just appeals to the carnal woman inside me screaming to get out. Importantly, he had strong chat game. It wasn’t funny in the way Irish Shane’s was, but he was engaging and interesting and I was really excited for our date which was scheduled for the Tuesday night of the ‘Week of Dates’ as I now lovingly refer to it.

I got ready for the date at work and had organised for us to meet in a beer garden at a local pub. I told him I would be meeting him straight from work so he would have to excuse my work attire but, of course, I’d actually selected a very sexy little black pencil dress that was totally passable as a work dress but, you know…a slutty one. I’d also worn a back lace body beneath – partially to reign in my little pot belly but mostly because when you wear good underwear you feel good – and when you feel good you radiate that goodness out to prospective husbands. These are the facts as we know them.

Giles was about 20 minutes late to our date which pissed me off but he did keep texting me the whole time to apologise and I telephoned one of my friends to pass the time (a friend who did nothing to quell my annoyance as he asked what I would do if I had been stood up or he had walked in, seen me and turned around to leave…great mate!) However, when Giles finally arrived all was forgiven immediately. He really was breathtakingly good looking. The kind of good looking where you feel yourself leaning in toward them and watching their mouth as they speak. I was even able to look past the fact he was vaping (a bit of a cringe) from some strange box contraption with a teeny-tiny hole he air suckled from (a massive cringe).

Giles told me that at the start of COVID-19 he had moved his mother down from the Northern hemisphere of the country to live with him. Since the move he had become engrossed in procuring a mortgage for her and finding her a home of her own. It came out that he owned his own home and cared for his mother a great deal. He was half Filipino, half white-British and though he had no relationship with his father he felt it morally incumbent upon him to care for his mother. In finding her a house he had sought a close-knit Filipino community close-by and a local Catholic church so he could be assured she would be comfortable. He said this was all to stop her from bothering him so much but I quickly became convinced he was every bit the doting, caring son he pretended not to be.

At the end of the date, Giles walked me back to my car. I got that nervous feeling where you’re not quite sure whether you’re going to be kissed or not, but you want them to kiss you. As if reading my mind, Giles simply said ‘I’m going to kiss you now.’ I mean, it sounds totally lame when I say it that way but at the time it was so hot it gave me that heartbeat in my labia minora. The kiss was good – just the right pressure to tongue ratio and as I threw myself into it a little more, Giles wrapped his arms around me and lifted me up so he could stand straight (I am very, very short). As he did so I felt the body I was wearing pull uncomfortably against my vagina and then the poppers pinged open. I hoped he hadn’t just heard that sound of metal clasp leaving metal clasp.

But then the awkwardness hit. What do I do from here? I was suspended, legs dangling like a ragdoll, having this first kiss moment. My dress was far too tight to wrap my legs around him and also, that would give the wrong impression – particularly now my pants were wide open and my flaps were fully out and aired to the world. Worse still, because I was’t helping poor Giles along, I was pretty much a dead weight in his arms and I therefore started to slide downwards. Neither of us acknowledged this as we continued the smooch but I was very aware of my hemline riding upwards, over my perfectly fake tanned thighs and toward exposing my flute and everything in between. Luckily, Giles lowered me to the floor, the kiss ended and we agreed we would see one another again. He asked me if he could see him the following night but, eager not to look too keen, I played it cool and offered him the Thursday instead. He was completely at my mercy.

On the drive home I called Helen to debrief. However, I found when she asked me what he was like and whether I liked him, all I could talk about was how attractive he was. It was like all the conversation we had held just jumped straight out of my head and I could only relay what my eyes had seen before them. I didn’t pick up on it at the time, smitten as I was that this Adonis had spent so many pleasant hours with me, but I actually wasn’t that keen on him as a person. He was inoffensive but there was little substance there. I ignored that instinct though. As Friar Lawrence correctly stated in Romeo and Juliet, my love lay in my eyes and not my heart. (That’s actually a quote about men fancying women rather than loving them and getting caught up in the lust but it felt right to use here).

Giles and I had a number of successful dates; it’s all very vanilla and very boring so I will spare you the details of that filler and cut immediately to the chase. Suffice it to say, I fancied him a great deal and this spurred me onward, mistaking that for liking him.

One evening, Giles was sitting on my sofa watching TV and I noticed he had silky waterproof trousers on. They had that telltale whishy sound to them as he swished around my flat. Not all that weird in itself, I get that. But I maintain this was a strange choice in the midst of a heatwave. Of note, I also never heard him talk about friends; he was from up North somewhere and I assumed all his friends had been left behind when he made the career move to the Big City. But now, sitting beside me in his unnecessarily waterproof apparel he began talking about a strange friend of his from back North. Like the location of his birth, the name of his amigo evades me; we will call him Simon as that seems an adequately Northern name.

Giles proceeded to regale me with tales of his and Simon’s exploits. Simon sounded quite the weirdo. I’ve got a relatively strong radar for sifting out wronguns when they’re not my love interest…I have honed this skill over many years of first-hand research at my own detriment…and the ‘dar was a-bleeping. LOUD. But men can be strange and they think women are strange so I sort of let it go. If his friends were weird, so what? He was a bit odd with his waterproof trews and his pastime of building up the amount of time he could hold his breath under-water in case of emergencies. But then…

Giles played me, due to no request on my part, I might add, a series of voicenotes which disturbed me to my very core. A huge number (upwards of 10) of 3-5 second soundbites flooded out of Giles’ phone in quick succession:

‘If a squirrel is violated, does that make me it’s father?’

‘I’ve just eaten an egg. Neieeeeigh!’

‘The butter has melted. Beans it is.’

‘The typographic digit for 1 is pi.’

Have you ever seen Oceans Eleven? The bit where George Clooney and Brad Pitt go to visit Robbie Coltrane and they all speak in riddles and Matt Damon is there like ‘what the fuck?’ That was me. Sitting there, smile fixed on my face, wondering what the effing heck these weirdos were saying. It crossed my mind they were speaking in code to cover up a life of crime but, believe me, these codes were so random and so utterly shit no criminal would affiliate with these sad guys.

I’d held off sleeping with Giles. I really try to avoid having sex with anyone I don’t really, really like. I didn’t ‘really, really’ like him and I also had this strange, unshakeable feeling that I ought not to do it. Kat backed me up on this, as did Helen, but Kat had consulted her partner who was of the opinion I was just being used for my sacred space so I withheld it from him all the more. Plus…

Anytime we kissed, or got a bit…handsy…he was weird with it. Like, ask to spit in my mouth weird. He actually bit my cheek once during a particularly passionate session and it gave me a little bruise. I was really flailing on the liking him situation but I just couldn’t get over the fact he ticked all the boxes of physically being my type. So here’s the weirdest thing:

One evening Giles came over to mine for a date night. He drank so I let him stay over. In the middle of the night I woke up and he wasn’t there. Ordinarily I’d have turned over and assumed he was having a sneaky midnight poo. But something didn’t feel right. So I got up to check where he was…and I found him in my living room, alone in the dark, watching MMA on his phone. OK, so that’s not all that strange. Different house + different bed+ different girl + red wine = broken sleep. I asked if he was alright. He said he was. I asked if he needed anything. He said he didn’t. I went back to bed. He followed shortly after.

The next morning, we awoke to the sound of my cat trying to wake me for breakfast. Nothing new there. But as I lifted myself to sit up, I noticed there was blood everywhere. On the walls, on the bed sheets. Everywhere. Scenes from American Psycho triggered in my mind as I frantically checked myself under the sheets. Had I randomly come on? No. Was I injured? No. Did it hurt anywhere? No. Had he sold my internal organs on the black market? No obvious signs of trauma… so where was this smattered blood coming from? And that’s when I noticed it…

The blood was coming from my cat. His tail, at the end, had been skinned.

I immediately panicked – my cats are my absolute world – and checked him for other injuries. There was nothing. And the tail didn’t seem to be bothering him very much. But as an indoor cat who had been my Prince and companion for 4 years, how had he managed to do this to himself? I couldn’t work it out.

‘Oh my God – look at his poor tail!’ I breathed, panic lacing my voice.

But, strangely, Giles was relatively apathetic. He seemed unbothered. The cats tail had been completely gloved for a good inch and this guy wasn’t even the least curious about it. It didn’t dawn on me at the time that his attitude to the cat’s injury and the cats injury were, perhaps, linked. I was too concerned about my sweet, evil little feline cherub.

When the suspicion came to me later that day, after the vet check up, I found I couldn’t shake it. I tried to think of all the ways the cat might have injured himself but I could think of none. But how had I not heard it? That must have really hurt the poor, little guy and yet I had remained blissfully unaware his little tail had been peeled. In my curiosity, I looked once again around my flat and noticed there was a very evident blood spatter up the living room wall from about the midway point of the walls travelling upward. The knowledge sunk down into my belly like a rock.

I didn’t see Giles again after that. I never said anything – how could I make such an accusation with no proof? But I feel, in my gut, that my cat’s injury was something to do with that incredibly attractive male. At the time I believed I must have been wrong, that my suspicions were unfounded and totally unfair. But almost a year on and I can see no other conclusion. Ockham’s Razor – the most likely explanation is most likely to be true.

So the moral of the story is this: Don’t be fooled by a pretty face. I live and die by the phrase ‘trust your gut’ now and I will never ignore it. God, that guy was a stone-cold fox, but also a freak who was probably quite likely to chop me up into little bits and feed my chunks to the pigs! My cat made a full recovery, thankfully, and is back to being his evil little mastermind self. All’s well that ends well…but with this one I think I had a lucky escape!

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