The antidote to Valentine’s Day: compilation of cringe

(First published: 02/14/2021)

In the last few years, I've been rejected in favour of ironing shirts, dunking sardines in hot chocolate and watching local soap operas in pubs – none of which are euphemisms, although maybe it would be better for my self-esteem if they were. I’ve also been served  “I wish you could meet my flatmate – he’d find you attractive” as an accompaniment to "hi" on a first date.

But then there’s the opposite extreme: creepy obsession from characters who'd turn up at an event and stare at you with 'Overly attached girlfriend'-style eyes for hours. I'm unveiling those stories this Valentine's Day in a bumper collection of 'Now that's what I call cringe'. Enter BreadMan, Pornking, Ponytail and Deckchair. 

‍

Bullet journaling is meant to make you more productive, so I scribbled this in my notebook in the hope it also applies to men. [Sketch: Julia Graham]

The antidote to Valentine's Day 2021

1. BreadMan

The one who lived in a parallel universe

My proudest moment is still convincing a bloke to balance bread on his head like a beret under the pretence of me finding it a turn-on. What else are you supposed to do with a guy who demands to give you 10 orgasms after you just have a cheeky late night snog? It was my act of rebellion on behalf of all the women who’ve had men set off a creep Geiger counter.

2. Pornking 

The one who thought he was Christian Grey

I didn’t think anyone could surpass BreadMan. He set the bar high. That was until I encountered someone who offered to rate my vagina. I wasn’t aware I’d ticked the box for this service. In fact, I was so taken aback I forgot to offer to rate his nether regions. I guess I was put off by the lack of clarity surrounding the scoring system – was it going to be like ice dancing where I’d get evaluated on individual elements or was it just one overall mark? His interim report delivered between "mmm"s and "yeah"s sounded promising, but I decided not to hang around to find out. 

But before I could escape out the door, I was encouraged to browse his fleshlight collection. I dunno if this is an invite he extends to all visitors or just those he’s sorely disappointed with moves he’s supposedly learnt by studying pornstars for hours.

You know how grannies hold court about their prescriptions and pill box system? He talked about how often he self-medicated with fleshlights and his routine for cleaning them with the same enthusiasm. He’s now blocked in my phone under the name ‘WhatwasIthinking’.

3. Ponytail 

The one who knew no boundaries 

“You’re almost as beautiful as the fear before a car crash.”*

Ponytail’s testimonial has probably been my most compelling to date – so much so I feel it ought to feature on my CV. 

But anyway, context. I suppose I should take some ownership for the crash – don’t worry, he’s fine. I mean, that might explain him attempting to serendade me with an out of tune rendition of Nirvana via audio file, discussing European toilet systems at lenth or sending photos of dead fish – a thankfully much-underused flirting technique.

We’d been to a nudist beach, which I thought of as just a day by the sea with a mate, while he saw it was as the natural step before asking me to be his lover at the time his girlfriend was ill. Where do you start the unpacking with that one?

The beach itself was like stepping into a Mr Bingo nude advent calendar. When we got there, one woman was hauling herself on top of her leathery tanned man, like a seal on rocks. An older guy in shorts stopped in front of them, stunned. It’s as well he hadn’t turned up while she was examining his pubic hair otherwise he may have tested my sketchy CPR skills.

The thing no one tells you about these place is you’ll be whiping sand out your areas for days after. Maybe I should sell the concept to these vagina spas and call it exfoliation. A week later, I’d still be standing at the bus stop, shaking sand out my arse in an x-rated remake of The Great Escape.

Believe it or not, this wasn’t even the most traumatic part of the trip. That was reserved for when he lunged in for a weird neck kiss in the car. But not the hot kind; more like rubbing a snotty nose on a handkerchief while whimpering and shoving his head into my boobs, almost like a needy cat wanting pet. Someone call pest control quick.

*I want to know who his shrink is because they’re getting 0 stars on Google review from me.

4. Deckchair 

The one who was so laid back he was literally horizontal 

Either I wasn’t kizomba-ing right or it really is just foreplay with clothes on. A few hours of so-called dancing later and we were kissing on his couch. The only thing was, well, two things: he seemed an alcoholic and very lazy. He lay back on the bed and put his hands behind his head like he was stretching out on a beach, leaving me to do all the work. 

The only sign of movement was when he reached over for a sip of wine. Or when he felt sufficiently rejuvenated from his shut-eye to push me off and paddle into the kitchen for the bottle of wine before continuing with his horizontal zen. When I asked for assistance, his ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ attempt had his hand landing somewhere vaguely below my navel. At first, I wondered if it was a Portugese thing, but local friends were quick to clear their country of such crimes against the clit. I guess he’d snoozed through biology class as well.

Don't get me wrong, I like low hassle, but not to the extent that he can’t even manage a "hello" when we meet in public and instead stares mutely at my boobs. Especially not after declaring he was having an orgasm just by flopping his finger on my fanjo and leaving it there motionlessly like it was some sort of wireless charging mat.

With hindsight, I should have confiscated his wine, or, as a confidant suggested, tried a less strenuous date activity beforehand. In case you’re tempted to A/B test the deckchair moves, I already outsourced that to a friend who got a bollocking from his partner for lying there like he was on a mortuary slab. 

Fast-forward to lockdown 3.0 and I’ve been living in the countryside for so long that flirt deficiency is real. Symptoms include finding the fisherman attractive (I’m vegan) and blurting out "sewage drainage systems" while talking to the postie. I'm expecting to feature in someone's blog post on sleazy women any day now.