The second datePosted: August 15, 2011
Finally! The Pirate and I went on our second date on Saturday night.
Well, if we’re counting in the traditional manner, it was probably the 30th or so date. But as none of the others seem to have moved our relationship forwards at all – our sex life, yes, the mushy stuff, no – they all count as one long, tedious first date.
But Saturday – Saturday was definitely a second date. How can I tell?
- He kissed me properly when he arrived at my house. With a teeny bit of tongue. Respectful, discreet, but definitely there.
- He told me I looked nice. Twice.
- He held my hand in the taxi on the way to the restaurant. Heady stuff.
- At the end of the meal, he went downstairs for a cigarette while I went to the loo, and he kissed me before he left. And then again when I went down to meet him. Yes. Kisses in public. This is getting serious, people. Start choosing your hats…
- We went to a champagne bar, got drunk, and stared meaningfully into each other’s eyes. He didn’t run away, or cry, or run away crying.
- I was my normal, tactile, personal-space-invading self and he seemed comfortable. Or at least resigned to his fate.
- When I spilled Mojito on my boobs, he told me he’d lick it off later. Flirting! Innocent or sexual, this has never happened before. I didn’t know he’d even noticed my boobs – and anyone reading who has actually met me will appreciate the enormity of this, what with the enormity of my boobs.
- We went back to mine and listened to music – he played me a lot of Steeleye Span, which was odd – and then we were too tired and drunk to have sex, and fell asleep in a snuggly tangled heap of limbs.
There. That’s a second date, right? Maybe even a third, actually. Would I expect public displays of affection on date two? Perhaps not. Shit – we might actually have had our third date. Imagine that!
He also told me about another of his exes. I do like hearing about The Pirate’s exes. Nothing like finding out about the ex-child actress (turned porn star, as one of my friend’s Googling uncovered), or the model, or the rich one he shared a suite at the Ritz with, or the one he planned to have a baby with (called Scrumper – he may have been taking the piss…), to make me feel like a particularly dumpy, fat, unattractive, unsophisticated oaf.
Saturday night’s ex: the tall, lithe, leggy Italian brunette, daughter of local Mafia boss. He spent a year living with her out in Italy. Awesome! Because of her family connections, they didn’t have to pay for any of their meals, got the best rooms in hotels and got sent gifts all the time. Fabulous! No really, tell me more about the dolce vita, arsehole.
I did ask him why on earth he’d split up with her. I mean, *I* wanted to go out with her. Did I mention how tall and leggy she was, or how long her chestnut hair was? I mean, obviously not as many times as he did, but really – she sounds like a catch. Why let that go?
(Huge pause) “I started not to like her any more. We fell out of lov- no, love is too strong. I didn’t love her. I stopped liking her.”
I asked why, he evaded in that unique Pirate way that is utterly infuriating. But see me learn! Last time he evaded majorly on an ex, I prodded. This time? Keep it zipped, lady. Keep it zipped.
I do wonder sometimes how our little romance will be recounted to his future conquests.
“I was seeing this girl from Derbyshire – quite pretty, big tits, HUGE arse, said ‘dinner and tea’ not ‘lunch and dinner’ – and we went clamming…” And that’s not a euphemism. On a beach in the rain, pouring salt down little holes in the sand. Clamming.
There will be no Ritz or glamorous jobs or tales of cocaine decadence and airport cavity searches; no mob connections or false nails and highlights and designer handbags. Instead, there will be big knickers (oh! I forgot to mention the control pants on our first date! Hysterically funny looking back, painfully embarrassing at the time), geeky glasses, welly boots, cellulite, sunburn, bras with three hooks, ankle length dressing gowns, neurotic angsty emails…
I must be really good in bed.