Auto Fellatio and Melon-bothering

So the sun resumes.  No more nasty texts; just lovely correspondence from lovely people.

Sunlight filtering through beech trees.  The buzz of single-prop planes dragging gliders into their thermals, and lazy vapour trails being languidly drawn across an opaline sky.

Hair tied for a change, in red indian fashion, and a modest pile of empty blue beer cans tinkling in the breeze at my feet.  Life is good.  Would be better with some company, but I do have you, reader.  And you’ll do fine.

I have today been thinking of panache.  Elan.  Esprit.  Dash.  And how much I respect it.  Heroes I have known; windmill-tilters, and chasers of lost causes.

Take this school acquaintance, for example.

The house is empty.  Our swashbuckler steps into the shower.  During his ablutions his mother returns home, and installs herself silently downstairs.

He gets out of his shower, and with his towel wrapped round his waist he strolls into his bedroom.

Five minutes later, mother bursts into his bedroom to find our venturer upside down on his bed, towel abandoned, all red-faced and trying to fellate himself.

Our hero calmly rolls off the bed, stretches, and tells his mum he’s doing his ‘exercises’.

Bravo.  Now that’s the sort of vim I’m talking about.  You can’t learn it, or fake it.

Or take this chap.  Another school acquaintance (yes, the school I attended was run-down, boys-only and very posh.  And it oozes ridiculous material).

His sister stumbles across this little soldier trying to penetrate (with some urgency) a melon that he’s just warmed up in the microwave.  He brushes this off by sticking his nose in the air and declaring it his ‘homework’. [round of applause]

just heat and serve.
just heat and serve.

I love this stuff.  Bravado in the face of absurd ignominy.  Throwing your gauntlet into the face of shame and ridicule.  I mean look at this blog.  Quixotic.  And not very sensible.

And then I came across some of it on Guardian Soulmates.  She describes herself as a “Gloomy misery guts. No friends. Little joy. Hates cosy nights in.”

She’s looking for a “Miserable old devil. Disillusioned with life, but prepared for further disappointment. Preferably without a huge circle of friends who think you’re great”.

Someone “Fond of uncomfortable nights out, competitive hoovering and wheelie bin admiring. Hands like loaves of bread… No sense of humour, does not enjoy laughing and prefers misery to any abstract notion of “fun” … “

Obviously you’re wondering if I got in touch.

Sadly, no.  Despite your suspicions, I am not a miserable old devil, nor am I disillusioned with life.  And I have LOVELY hands.

But wait.  I haven’t even mentioned her photos.

She attaches three.

#1  her bin

#2 her hoover

#3 a brick

Regarding her style and verve levels, my boat is being floated to somewhere near Mars.

This woman needs to join the circle.  Should we contact her?  What do you think?  At least register our respect.  Or nominate her for an award.

I’m off down the greengrocer’s.

x

ps – Online Dating is Shite is now accepting contributions.  All you need is a nom-de-theatre, lyricism, profanity and a liberal use of the word ‘fuck’.  Perhaps there’s something you can say here anonymously that you can’t say anywhere else.  Contact me at maturin@onlinedatingisshite.com

Hoobree, Miss Ives, and Jamming with the Devil

Wind down the windows in your Micra, bung some Led Zeppelin on the stereo, and remember to stick your hands in your pockets quickly before the nice lady notices that you’re shaking. Yes!  It’s another lonely evening here at Online Dating is Shite.

Busy as I have been writing random nonsense and sending pictures of my plastic sword to ladies who like Vikings, I thought I should get back to you.  My favourite people.

Hubris.  Hubris is on my mind.

I once mispronounced that word in a school debate semi-final.  I pulled it out in my summing-up, thinking I was Hitchens; postulating that the opposition was guilty of it.  But I’d only ever seen it on the printed page (it was not the type of word we used in the Maturin household), and I thought it was possibly French, so I pronounced it ‘hoobree’.

You can imagine how the debate went.  It was one of those unique moments.  In which you learn exactly how a word is pronounced; and, in a very personal sense, precisely what it means.  All in the same revelatory instant.

So.  Hubris.  Hubris and Guardian Soulmates.

Take this, for instance:

“Don’t worry.  All my emotional baggage is sorted and neatly put away …”

Aha ha ha ha!  Really?  Brilliant!  Cue the half empty bottle of Vodka, smeared eyeliner, and two community police officers at the door.

I say jolly good to baggage.  I’m all for a bit of baggage.  I’m a gentleman, and will gladly carry it for a while.  I’ll even rummage through it, and see if there’s anything I can take out to make it lighter.  In fact I want a bit of baggage.  With baggage comes wisdom.  Actually that’s quite good.  Could somebody please quote me?

Or what about this:

“I am looking for someone who has attained financial security through entrepreneurship, but is not driven by money or status.”

I’m not even going to bother with that one.  It would be like going to a coconut shy with a laser-sighted rifle.  The same goes for this:

“Someone well-established in her career, but willing to try anything.”

or

“I am looking for a normal, kind and sincere woman who is happy taking risks.”

Oh okay, I realise they don’t all technically qualify as hubristic, but I can’t resist sharing.

I mean, I still believe that my very special person exists.  And I have high hopes for my next date.  But I do keep it kind of real.  Otherwise I’d be tailoring my profile to Miss Ives out of Penny Dreadful.  It would read:

“You are poised, mysterious, and utterly composed.  You are a seductive and formidable beauty, full of secrets and danger.  You have supernatural gifts that will threaten my safety and even my sanity.  And you go like the clappers.”

It’s not going to happen is it?

Qualities I absolutely need in a partner: Understanding. Open mindedness. Lycanthropy.
Qualities I absolutely need in a partner: Understanding. Open mindedness. Lycanthropy.

It’d be great if it did.  She could bring Lucifer round, because I think he and I would get on quite well.  I mean we’re both generally misunderstood.  And probably both like Led Zeppelin.  Maybe he plays bass, and we could try ‘Black Country Woman‘.  Anyway.  I digress.

Hoobree.  Let hoobree be your watchword.

I’m off round Miss Ives’.

x

ps – I’m disproportionately excited about the new season of Penny Dreadful.  I think I’m going to put on my black velvet coat and ponce about in old London pubs.  Like I did after reading Johnathan Strange and Mr Norrell.

The Reassurance Boogie vs. The Denial Twist

Goodness!  The sun!  Isn’t it glorious?

Yes, it’s another day in that cosmic circle of disappointment that is online dating.  I’m waiting for your message, you’re waiting for his, and he copped off last night with someone so unsuitable that he is now creating an inbox rule that will send all of her emails tumbling into his junk folder. Marvellous isn’t it?

It’s like being back in the school playground.  Rob fancies Jenny, but Jenny fancies Mark.  Mark fancies George, but George’s parents are involved in a messy divorce, so he’s busy pulling the legs off flies.  Yes.  Happy days.

Actually it’s not like the playground at all.  My son is six, and he’s got a girlfriend.  They hug and kiss and discuss their mutual interests with passion.  Which is mostly dragons, but don’t knock it.  On the evenings before their playdates, they each get so excited that they can’t sleep.  Which makes them infinitely more clued-up than any of us.  Fact.

Although there maybe something worrying lurking in the gene pool.

He bounced out of the classroom door on Friday with a grin that would make the Cheshire Cat slink off and consider its options.

“What?”

“She said it!”

“Said what?”

“She said it, she said it, she said it, she said it …”

Turns out that, during tidying-up time, my son had found it necessary to throw a few advanced wrestling techniques on the boy who was competing for his girlfriend’s attention.  Which I think mostly involved sitting on his head.

After he had sat there for a while, releasing the obligatory fart into his opponent’s face and flexing his muscles (think Achilles dragging the body of Hector around the walls of Troy), his girlfriend had said, “I love you”.

Man, he was giddy as, well, a schoolboy.  And I know the feeling.  That kind of affirmative message you get after displaying like a demented silverback (whether it’s wrestling all-comers , or discussing a mutual love of Neil Gaiman over email) is pure intoxication.

Four hours later, and he’s as glum as anything.  Quiet, and avoiding eye contact.

“What’s the matter?  We’ve had an awesome day!  Remember what she said.”

[beat]

“I want to hear her say it again.”

Oh.

Oh dear.

OH YOU ARE JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER!

Yes. The old reassurance boogie.  Bad at the best of times.  But infinitely fucking worse in the digital age.

For each loving positive message that arrives by text/email/twitter, there seems to be a rapid countdown after which its meaning and validity decays at the rate of minutes passed.

You get a lovely message.  Funny, and thoughtful.  And although not spelled out explicitly, indicates that the small amount that the person knows about you is floating their boat.

You reply immediately, because you’re shit at being aloof.

A minute passes.  Maybe ten.  Suddenly you’re hitting the ‘check mail’ button like John Bonham kicked his squeaky pedal.

OH MY GOD.  She’s met somebody else.  That guy she gave up on has got back in touch.  That bastard.  Actually she was never into you.  ACTUALLY SHE’S BEEN MESSAGING YOUR MATE.  BLAAARRRRGGHHH …

I'm sorry.  It's been 45 minutes. Indications are that she's shagging your mate.
I’m sorry. It’s been 45 minutes. Indications are that she’s shagging your mate.

I blame twenty four-hour news.  Has the headline changed?  No?  You mean the last report filed was an hour ago?  THEY COULD ALL BE DEAD BY NOW!

But your correspondence is not like world news.  Wolf Blitzer is not sitting at his desk bullet-pointing all the humiliating things that might have happened, or are likely to.  It’s not life or death.

Let’s institute a law.  We’ll call it Maturin’s law.

Your budding relationship or friendship is as good as your last message, and remains that way, inviolate, until you specifically hear otherwise.

Unless it’s been ten days, and you can tell that they’ve been on the dating site EVERY DAY SINCE, and that they HAVEN’T LOOKED AT YOUR FUCKING PROFILE ONCE.

AARRRGGHHH!!

[pants]

Fuck the reassurance boogie, this just might be the denial twist.

x

Advice for ladies on their Guardian Soulmates profile …

Okay, so this is a random collection of inappropriate tittle-tattle based on a great deal of surfing the popular online self-harming festival that is Guardian Soulmates.  It is for ladies over the age of about thirty, as I tend to avoid women younger than that.  I’m sorry, but you’re often frighteningly well-adjusted.  And that won’t do.

There are many things to consider when constructing your profile.  I mean, this is going to go out there and represent you.  You want people to laugh when you’re being funny, and to furrow their brow when you are channelling your inner Keats.  Not the other way round.

Firstly, it’s important to get the basics right.  You are a WOMAN looking for a MAN, or whatever.  Just pause for a second, and make sure you’ve got that bit right.  You would be surprised how many punters actually get that bit wrong.  AlphaWolf77 often shows up in my suggestions, talking about his love of weight training and his impressive way with the ladies.  And I’ve got a beard.

Then there’s the photo.  A few ground rules.  Crop EVERYBODY else out.  Especially if there’s a *slight chance* that they’re prettier than you.  You don’t want his first reaction to be “who’s your mate”.

The same goes for other guys.  I don’t care if he’s gay, or your brother.  Or even your gay brother.  From this angle it looks like he could probably beat me up.  And he’s almost certainly better equipped than I am.

Don’t pose.  Don’t recline, or do that thing where you put your finger to your mouth in that “who? lil ol’ me?” fashion.  It’s just odd.  A really good smile is great, or if you look like you might laugh at my jokes.  That’ll work.

Don't do this.
Don’t do this.

Oh, and despite preconceptions, you don’t have to show any, you know, décolletage, or anything.  I mean, it’s nice that you have some, but no two guys like the same thing.  And we’re honestly not that straightforward.

And there’s a good deal of guff going around that we don’t read profiles.  Cobblers.  Of course we do, if only to see if you absolutely require us to be ‘financially savvy’.  Because that counts most of us out.

And, do you want to know a secret?  of course you do.  One of the ones I really fell for, she didn’t have a picture.  Sure, there were a couple in her gallery.  But no upfront glossy.  Just a lovely profile.  What can I tell you?  Good writers are hot.

hot.
hot.

Talking of profiles, you really don’t have to declare your love for adventure, or that you’re equally as happy practising your capoeira in the park as you are climbing the campaniles on a windy day.  Or that you like to round it off by throwing some shapes on the dance floor.  I’m in my forties, and that sounds fucking exhausting.  I’m happy to watch ‘Game of Thrones’ and have a good snog.

Basically, think of your ideal guy, give him a name, imagine what he’s into, and write it for him.  Don’t be afraid of frightening anyone, or being intimidating.  Go niche.  Because that’s entirely what you deserve.  And he’s probably out there.  Somewhere.  Having the same torrid time as you.

If you follow some of these rules, I’m not sure if you’ll be successful, but you might find me knocking on your door.  Which if you’ve read anything else on this blog, you may find blisteringly terrifying.

Finally, if at any point you suspect that the guy that you’re talking to does not feel any of the above, steer well clear.  He’s only talking to you because the twenty-something he’s been grooming has finally laughed in his stupid shiny face.