I'll Get My Coat

What does it take to attract someone?  Damned if I know.  Aside from sexual availability and an impressive rack I find it difficult to see myself as being in any way desirable.  I am always surprised when someone else finds me sexy because I find myself resolutely lumpish and ungainly.  The fact remains that I’ve never struggled to attract potential bedfellows, both online and in real life.  I choose online for convenience and because it allows me to be incredibly open about what I’m looking for, not because it’s the only route open to me.

I suspect the same isn’t true for everyone.

What does it take to turn someone off?  Well, I can’t speak for everyone but it takes ridiculously little to turn me off.  My initial attraction is a precarious and fragile thing that requires nurturing, and in the early stages the slightest thing can leave me wincing and leaving a conversation.

I had been chatting to N for a little while when we decided to try to meet up.  He was a small town boy who had turned into a small town man.  He’d spent his life in a village in North Wales and showed a surprising reluctance to come to the bright lights and sprawling metropolis of… erm… Chester.  Ooookay then.

I thought it was quite funny, but already I was starting to have some doubts.  I agreed to drive the 90 minute journey into Wales but drew the line at going round to his house on first meeting him.  I found a coffee shop relatively close to him and drove there to meet up with him after work one night.

We were getting along OK, not exactly lust at first sight but it was a pleasant enough coffee, when he said something that instantly made me turn cold and made my normally very welcoming vagina drier than the Sahara: “so are you looking for some yumyum?”.

What?

Literally, what?

I’ve heard some euphemisms for sex in my time, but that instantly put me in mind of the breastfeeding adult in Little Britain who used to refer to “bitty”.  Was there ever a less arousing thought?  I’ve a very expressive face and I’m fairly certain my grimace of distaste was perfectly visible as I asked him to rephrase.

Unbelievably he moved on, only to ask “what do you like for yumyum?”.  I explained that for a start I preferred it not to be referred to as yumyum, which seemed to perplex him a little.

Our coffee drunk, we had the usual “thanks but no thanks” chat (you seem a great guy but there just isn’t a spark there, it’s a really long drive which doesn’t work for the regular arrangement I want, and oh yes, YOU REFERRED TO SEX AS BLOODY YUMYUM.  MORE THAN ONCE), then headed our separate ways.

A few leeks later I received a message from N on the hookup site we were using: “so have you found any yumyum?”.  I suspect that in not referring to it as yumyum I managed to find far more than he did.  Not that I know, I blocked him the instant I read it.

S, thankfully, was less keen on twee euphemisms.  He lived in northern Manchester and we arranged to meet in a Cheshire pub to see how we got on.  As it happened, we got along beautifully and I was tingling in all the right places and keen to meet up again.

I had a message from S two days before he was due at my flat to say that his car was off the road.  I am usually quite territorial and don’t much like going to someone else’s home, but I had precious little free time at that point and didn’t want to let our chance of meeting up pass me by.

I try not to judge people by their homes – there are myriad reasons a home may not reflect the personality of its occupant.  Nevertheless it was a shock to arrive at S’s home to find bare floorboards in the lounge that were spotted with various stains and felt slightly sticky underfoot.  I accepted a cup of tea (while I genuinely normally prefer an overnight stay I wasn’t comfortable enough to have an alcoholic drink knowing it would mean I wouldn’t be able to drive myself home should I need to) and afterwards asked to use his bathroom.

I don’t have the words to describe the horror of that bathroom, except that after I’d used the toilet I debated whether washing my hands in the filthy sink would make them cleaner or dirtier.  The toilet bowl was black with what I can only assume is the accumulated grime of many years.  It wouldn’t have looked out of place in Trainspotting.

Just as I was recoiling from the horror of the toilet I noticed right along the edge of the bath large lumps of crud-stiffened hair, presumably fished from the drain of the bath.  Everywhere I looked in that tiny space was a fresh horror, from dubious marks on the floor to a certain amount of spatter on the wall next to the toilet.  Suddenly I really regretted my decision to accept a drink without checking the state of the kitchen first.  It was overwhelming to be standing in so much utter filth.

I did wash my hands, but pulled the sleeve of my top down so I didn’t have to touch the tap with my bare hands afterwards.  I also opened the bathroom door with my hand in my sleeve.  By this point my ever-active imagination was painting pictures of crunchy sheets and stained underwear, and I was itching (literally) to leave the filth behind me.

It is one of the most awkward conversations I’ve ever had (and I’ve had some crackers over the years).  I’m sorry, but I can’t bring myself to get skin to skin with someone who can use that bathroom with gay abandon.  I steeled myself for grief that never came: I’m not sure whether S didn’t pick up on what I was saying had turned me off or whether he thought I was joking.  Either way he showed me out with remarkably good grace, making me even more sorry that he lived in such utter squalor.  I still stopped at the motorway services to give my hands a good wash though.