She appeared as my top match on OKCupid when I went onto that site just to see what’s changed. I was also wondering if I said goodbye to Busty Blonde what my prospects were. I immediately liked the look of this new woman, she was just my type: blonde hair and blue eyes. Her photos were of an elegant, sophisticated lady and her narrative echoed this. We were a 98% match but when I read some of her answers to the hundreds of questions she had answered I came away with the impression that we would get on each other’s nerves as we had polar opposite views on several important things. She also seemed undecided about wanting a child.
Shaking my head in disbelief I sent her a quick message saying that I had lost faith in OKCupid’s algorithm and that by the end of the first date she would want to claw my eyes out and I would want to delete my account. She wrote back with a cute reply and quick-fire banter commenced. She was Slovakian and worked in academia at one of London’s many universities.
For several weeks we sent each other a weekly feisty and humorous riposte. After a month of this banter we had descended into bemoaning our dating experiences and sharing other insights about our lives. It started to look like we had more in common than I first thought. Of course I felt pangs of guilt about doing this while still seeing Busty Blonde, but I knew in my heart that she wasn’t right for me
One Monday night the Slovakian and I swapped about a dozen messages and hers were much more lengthy than mine. This told me that she was more into me than I was into her. I was still curious about her and decided to suggest that we meet for a coffee one lunchtime. Before I knew it she suggested that we meet for dinner that Thursday night.
Could this Slovakian academic be The One?
I am quite excited about meeting this Slovakian. If she’s anything like The Fitness Freak then she’ll be good fun. I’m expecting the same kind of intensity as I felt with Baltic Babe because she seems highly intelligent. I am also being realistic in that she might want a child, so there’s no real prospect of a relationship, but I just have to meet her.
So why am I going to meet her? Largely out of curiosity and to see what I might be missing out on by way of attraction. There have been times lately too when I’ve been out in public and seen cute little girls. No not women that I want to bed, I’m talking about little toddlers with their hair up in knots, gurgling laughs and happy smiles. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have one of those in my life. Is my insistence on avoiding parenthood coming with too heavy a price?
I think it’s because I’ve been writing about Baltic Babe lately that my train of thought has wondered over to that topic. Despite that, the question remains: would my life be better if I had people in my life whom I loved? If so, for how long? How long would the woman love me for until the stresses and strains of parenthood tore us apart? How long before I became bored and felt trapped by the routine that children require?
It is my first new date in London in over 5 months. It feels like I haven’t been dating for ages. Yes, meeting The Saffa last week was a date, but it didn’t really feel like it because of it being in a cottage. I feel as guilty as hell for doing this without having broken up with Busty Blonde first. I convince myself that I’m letting her down gently by not springing a horrendous surprise on her. It’s easy to believe your own bullshit.
It’s Thursday evening and I’m standing outside Tower Hill Tube station with butterflies galloping around in my stomach. It’s the middle of May and it’s a balmy evening. Some pretty young things are already wearing short skirts and swaying their hips. Is it the week before their period, the time when a woman sways her hips the most?
Suddenly a woman with brown hair and green eyes comes up to me and calls me by my name. She tells me hers.
What the fuck?! This is my date?!
I’m expecting blonde hair and blue eyes. What’s going on here?
She also has lots of wrinkles that aren’t there in the photos on her dating profile. She’s definitely not thirty-seven years old as she claims in her profile; she’s at least forty-two, perhaps even older. Much of that can be explained away but the fact remains that she doesn’t have blue eyes. Who is this person?
Surely there’s been a mistake somewhere? What have I missed here?
Then it dawns on me: I’m dealing with an imposter. Someone is standing in for a friend or, like with the Wild Animal Tickler, someone else has been handling her dating profile.
Deceit kills it for me, instantly, no matter how small. If somebody is weak enough to lie about small things, they’ll definitely be weak enough to lie about big things. This woman – whoever she might be – is not for me.
What should I do? Should I just end the date now and walk away? Should I confront her and ask about the obvious? Or should I play along with this and see what happens?
I opt for the latter choice. I think it was that famous psychopath, Nicolo Machiavelli, who wrote “it is a double pleasure to deceive a deceiver”. I’m going with that approach on this date. I’m keeping my best poker face on.
What is this woman hoping to achieve here? What’s her motivation? Is she standing in for a friend who chickened out? Does she need dating practise? Is she horny and hoping to get laid tonight? I now think of her as The Imposter.
I smile and offer her my arm when we’re at the stairs that lead down to St Katharine Dock. My customary “Do you like chicken? Take a wing,” I think is lost in translation and falls flat. At The Dickens Inn my favourite waiter finds us a table on the balcony. We have the perfect view over the marina, but all I want is a view of The Imposter’s brain. I want to get inside that; I need to find a way. I have no interest in availing myself of any of her orifices, even if she offers them to me. She’s too skinny for my liking; I like some cushion for the pushin’.
My demeanour is relaxed and passive-disinterested, because that’s exactly what I feel about her: disinterested. Our chit-chat is civil and positive, but it feels like I’m swimming with a shark. I can’t let my guard down, I have to focus. I don’t care what she thinks of me, but for some reason I’m still inclined to pay attention because there might be some opportunity to come out of this farce.
I convince her to try some South African chenin blanc. On my other dates wine has had the effect of calming a nervous date down, loosening her lips and occasionally loosening the lips between her legs. Let’s see what happens.
Ordering food turns into a painful chore. What is it with Eastern European women and their fussy eating habits? The waiter gives me an annoyed expression as she asks yet another question about the ingredients of a dish on the menu. Does his look say, “No mate, she’s not the one for you,”?
The Imposter is in essence allergic to food, so that’s a big no-no to me. Basics shouldn’t be so difficult. Food should be fun, not a problem, especially as I like to cook for my woman. I’m learning that if a woman is fussy about food, she’s bloody fussy about everything. I’m developing an allergy to high-maintenance women.
About halfway through the meal The Imposter confesses that she has lied about her age on her profile. I feign shock and disapproval, then wind her up about it by saying that I find that trust is badly damaged by people telling lies on their dating profiles. Then I give her my naughtiest boyish smile. She seems to appreciate my sense of humour.
“Tell me something. Do you think that I look like my photographs?” she asks.
Is she playing games now? Obviously she doesn’t. Is she testing my honesty?
“I was expecting you to be blonde,” is my reply. The matter of the blue eyes remains unspoken. Why bother?
The Imposter laughs to herself and takes another sip of the wine. Does alcohol make her more confident, more brazen? She says nothing more about this and resumes hiding behind her own poker face.
We talk some more about our jobs. I should have known better. Very few of the women I’ve dated have said anything good about their jobs. It’s an instant downer topic of conversation. The Imposter almost slumps into a depressed stupor as she finishes telling me about her daily grind that finances her ability to live in an over-priced shoebox in a dodgy part of London.
I change tack and start talking about something we had discussed via email: starting our own business. I’ve started and built several businesses over the years. I know what’s involved and what it takes to be a successful entrepreneur. The Imposter starts telling me of her ill-conceived plan and I can’t help but offer some tips and advice. She rebuffs my contribution and is adamant that her airy-fairy ideas will work. She is quite uptight and rigid-minded. My freedom of spirit and unconventional thinking is probably uncomfortable for her.
To avoid an unnecessary argument I move the conversation onto other topics we’ve discussed before meeting tonight. She bats her eyelids at me, obviously nonplussed by my words. After prompts from me about several things we had exchanged emails about the conversation finally dies. Ah, there’s confirmation that she wasn’t the recipient of my emails.
The Imposter looks at me sheepishly. I think she realizes that she’s been rumbled. I give her a stern look, largely in an attempt to let her know that I don’t approve but also to let her know that the date is coming to an end.
I don’t care what she’s up to, this is just a waste of my time. Yes, I’d like to know what was going on from her side, but I just won’t believe anything she tells me. She foregoes having dessert because it might change the colour of her belly-button fluff, or something frivolous like that.
I stupidly pay for the meal; I just can’t stop being a gentleman. We’re both heading in the same direction so I stay on the same Tube line as her until I need to get off.
“It was nice to meet you,” is all I say as I get off the train. She doesn’t deserve more than that.
Looking past the deception was the evening positive in any way? No it wasn’t. It’s one of my worst dates ever. If she initially came clean and then we had great chemistry, then perhaps something might have come of it. However, I didn’t fancy her and there was no chemistry.
Her and her friend are obviously single for a reason. I now know what they’re about. They’re scheming, deceitful, manipulative bitches. I have no time for women like that.
I now also have no faith in OKCupid’s algorithm. I now call that site ‘OKStoopid’.
My curiosity was satisfied though. It seems that the pickings on the dating sites are slim and just a different flavour of the same old shit scene that I was wading through last year. Do I really have cause for optimism once I’ve dumped Busty Blonde? No.
On the train home it hits me. I deserved this date. I’m the deceitful one. I’m out dating women before having broken up with Busty Blonde. I need to do something about that and soon. Until then I’ll continue to wear my poker face.
Tomorrow I’m meeting The Saffa for our second date…
Lady GaGa – Poker Face