My excruciating speed dating follow-up

by Sarah Bull

After going speed dating and finding a few prospective boyfriends, I decided to try and get to know one of the potentials a little better on a follow-up date. You would think after chatting to this man, lets call him Mr. X, for 4 minutes, I would be able to tell if a second date would be worthwhile or just an excruciating series of dating faux-pas. Once again I have found proof that first impressions are very deceptive. It all started when we met in a bar in Liverpool Street, London, on a (fairly) warm August day.

Despite the temperature, it certainly was not hot enough to explain his profuse sweating – especially as the bar we met it was heavily air-conditioned and the drink he was drinking was heavily iced. Tentatively giving him a quick ‘hello’ peck on the cheek, I then attempted to ignore the fact he was sweating so much that he was starting to drip onto his shirt. When he got out his handkerchief in an attempt to discreetly wipe away the beads that were building up on his face and on the top of his bald head, I politely looked away and continued the fairly innocuous small talk in which we were indulging.

The next problem (and I keep a mental black mark list when I am on a date) was that he seemed unable to make eye contact with me, instead preferring to focus his gaze on an area lower than my face – notably my breasts. Now, I do understand that men, for some reason, have an inexplicable desire to gaze at a woman’s cleavage – but I believe it should be done in a discreet manner when said woman isn’t looking. Not, in the way my date insisted on doing, staring at them while making conversation. I wasn’t even wearing a low-cut top, instead choosing to wear my work outfit – a modest white shirt and pencil skirt - on the date.

There is no way to politely say, ‘Stop looking at my breasts’, so I decided to fiddle with the necklace I was wearing in the hope the movement would distract him and he would move his gaze up to meet my eyes. However, my hope for redeeming what was so far a pretty terrible date were completely dashed when Mr. X decided to make a comment about the size of my cleavage. I gave a tight smile, said thank you and attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction. This also backfired, as the conversation drifted onto Mr. X’s next favourite topic other than breasts – himself.

After an excruciating two hours of small talk (I do like to give a date a proper go, and don’t like to leave before two hours) and hearing about Mr. X’s work-related crises, I decided to excuse myself from what had turned out to be a fairly horrifying date. And then came the point – the point I hate after any bad date – the goodbye.
The awkwardness of this moment cannot really be explained to anyone who has not experienced it themselves. I am always baffled by how the date thinks a ‘goodnight kiss’ is a good idea when the date had gone as badly as this one.

As we approached my train platform, Mr. X leaned towards me – clearly heading for my mouth. I quickly turned my head, and then came an awkward headbutt/kiss on the cheek. After an equally awkward goodbye chat, and his promise to call me, I boarded my train to go home – disappointed by the way the evening had progressed, but equally as determined that these evenings are merely obstacles on the path to finding my Mr. Right.