The Date

So first of all, big thanks to Surviving Online Dating - the dress and FMBs went down a treat. (Sorry, Positronic and Tony, but I decided to go with the female vote).

We meet up at the Portobello Gold (yes, Notting Hill again, but hell, I was expecting a sleepover and there's no way I'm running the risk of taking him back to my place - to say it's a dive would be an understatement). The Gold is this laid-back pub/restaurant right on the Portobello Road - looks like a pub when you first walk in but there's a restaurant in the back with a glass roof and so much foliage it feels as if you're in a jungle. I'm liking it, and I'm liking being with James because damn, he is so hot. You know how sometimes you forget the finer details when there's been a few days of absence? Well, that's how it is for me and as soon as I lay eyes on James last night it hit me like a punch in the face; he is seriously good looking and there's something else about him as well, maybe in the way he stands, or his mannerisms, but just looking at him makes me feel a bit funny. Which is kind of odd as I'm pretty laid back when it comes to guys.

So we're standing around for a bit while the waitress pretends that she's really really busy, and James goes, oh fuck it, I know where our table is, let's go sit down otherwise we'll be here all night. I'm like, sure, lead the way. James smiles at me and points upwards. My eyes follow the direction of his finger, up a ladder, and there's a bloody treehouse up on stilts in the corner of the room. Yep, it turns out that there's a table in there, really low, with cushions for seats. They call it the 'hippie table'. How cool is that?

I love being surprised and I really love it when a guy makes an effort - not in the flowers and chocolates kind of way, too boring, but when a guy shows he's put some thought in, when he does something with the express intention of making me smile. And it worked; that smile stayed on my face right through two courses, pudding, and two bottles of Rioja.

Then James gets close to spoiling it all by saying, so Sara, tell me why you work in a club? I don't want to be rude or anything but it's not exactly a career is it? I'm like, no, I don't think you could describe it as that. And he says, so what's the big deal? Why don't you get a proper job?

I have had this conversation many times over the years and I still find it as unappealing as the first time. But since I'm hoping to get laid tonight I decide I have to play nice.

James, I go, the very thought of being confined in an office for the rest of forever makes me itch. I tried it once and I didn't like it. I did not like being a tiny cog in a huge wheel. I did not like being told, not asked- told - to make coffee for my lardy-arse boss and then criticised on my coffee making skills, like it really makes a fucking difference in the great scheme of things if I brewed the bloody stuff for one minute too long. I didn't like getting the wild eye from the office bitch if I turned up late. And I really didn't like the general attitude that I should be grateful for the 'opportunity' - as if shuffling paper and trying to type crappy letters about nothing much was some kind of vocation rather than a fast track to Hell on Earth.

James is like, oh. OK. I guess that pretty much explains it then. I go, I guess it does.

But he doesn't give up. Halfway through pudding, he goes, are you planning to still be working behind the bar when you're fifty? Or do you have a fallback plan? I'm like, what are you, my mother? Let's talk about you James, because I have to be honest with you, this line of conversation is starting to seriously bore me. And there's nothing I dislike more than being bored.

I guess I'm coming off as a bit of a bitch, but the job thing really bugs me, and other people's reaction to it really bugs me, like I'm some kind of loser because I'm not willing to trade my freedom and my brain function for the prospect of a gold watch and a kiss on the arse in thirty years time... anyway, whatever... it's a sore point, let's leave it at that.

Fortunately it doesn't seem that James is easily offended so we get back into flirting and subtle innuendo mode - much more enjoyable - and as I'd planned, we end up at his place.

James goes, want to come back for a coffee? And yes, there is a twinkle in his eye. I'm like, no thanks, I don't drink coffee. He looks a little downcast. I feel a brief stab of pity so I decide to stop screwing with him and add; but I'd love to come back to your place for sex - if that's also on offer.

It was. And afterwards (no, I'm not giving you the details you bunch of pervs; I'm sure you can figure it out for yourselves) we had a bath together, with red wine and a spliff, and he washed my hair. Excuse me for getting excited but this is, in my experience, a rare and beautiful thing. Having your hair washed by a naked man, properly, with your head slowly, oh so slowly massaged, along with the occasional nibble on your earlobe, is an amazing feeling. Sensual, gentle, and incredibly, incredibly sexy.

As I type this I can still smell James' shampoo in my hair.

I think I kind of like him.