almost witty

One of the worst things about dating is the eternal, oft-quoted cliche about how long you leave it before you call back, or they call you. Although of course in these digital times, you could also wait for a text, for them to text you, for an email or for them to email you.

Of course, the cold hard reality is that if you have to ask how long you leave it before you call/text/email someone, you’ve already lost the battle, if not the war.

Ug.

Braved the dating scene again in Cardiff last night, by going on a blind date with someone. A woman in her late-20s, dyed-blonde hair but not stereotypically blonde aside from the fact she has a young daughter. And the award to quote of the evening goes to her for saying:

“I don’t do doormen or DJs any more.”

Fortunately, a good knowledge of musicals for once stood me in good stead for most of the evening.

“A Chinese-Australian woman has taken out a giant billboard in a busy part of Sydney to advertise for a husband … of Caucasian appearance”.

Note that I in no way believe people ought to stick to their own or any other race when dating, but are we really that repulsive?

Oh.

So said the local snack shop vendor to me, as we chatted about his Chinese wife, who he said he “met” via that ultra-suspicious side, asianfriendfinder.com. He said that, and I went into a slightly ill-advised rant about how it was men like him who meant people like me couldn’t get a date… which led to him asking why I hadn’t found a gay Chinese man in Cardiff. Cue slightly uncomfortable silence.

To be fair, mr. Snack Shop has never particularly struck me as the intelligent intellectual cosmopolitian person in Cardiff. He’s referred to beating people up for the hell of it in the past, and talks of his ex-wife in the most murderous ways possible. Plus he wears a medallion, and refers darkly to his days in the Army. Probably yer typical Cardiff’ian.

His relationship with his second wife seems a tad odd too. She’s from China, he went over there to marry her and bring her back here. Apparently she hates the pub and socialising, and likes nothing better than looking after their kid. And going to the odd garden centre. Not exactly my idea of the perfect relationship - but it’s probably his.
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I’ve stumbled back from a stag weekend in London with an old University friend/flatmate - albeit one I haven’t seen for nigh-on 10 years. And of course, there’s an unwritten rule somewhere that all stag nights must end at a strip club.

Why that is, I don’t know. In the age of Page Three and Internet porn, naked women aren’t exactly hard to come by. To come in, well, that’s another story. Or fable, if you’re me. Besides which, to be a stag, presumably you’ve already found someone willing to strip for you. So why bother?

I’ve got nothing against strippers, prostitution, escort work, pornography or any other aspects of the commercialisation of sex. It’s just not for me. I’d much rather have a woman who was stripping because she liked or wanted me, as opposed to just the contents in my wallet. Or is that far too romantic a notion these days?

Mind you, the same attitude means that I think you should split costs on the first few dates (within reason) with someone so that they’re with you because they enjoy your company, as opposed to your wallet. Then again, I haven’t had a date for eons, and some former female dates say that’s precisely why I haven’t had a date.

So with this attitude in mind, I entered the strip club with the rest of the stag attendees with a certain amount of trepidation. The pranks with the stag (throwing ice down his pants etc.) were done with the usual aplomb. The group then peeled off as mates found a stripper they liked, and slapped down their £10 to watch as a woman dangled her breasts in front of him. While two security guards would watch for any signs of actual touchage. One of my friends paid for 8 dances…

As drunken male groups tend to do, they will notice the one pleb who’s “not enjoying himself” ie not partaking in it. Me. I’m just supping my drinks by the bar and chatting to my friends.

Said friends realised I wasn’t partaking in the fun of paying a woman to jiggle in front of me for 10 minutes. And so sent a stripper along to talk to me and persuade me. Now, given my usual preference isn’t for a stick-thin blonde, who do they send over? A stick-thin blonde.

Said woman then tries to cajole me into having a dance or a strip. I say no. She keeps cajoling. I say no, and change the topic of conversation. She changes it back. Back and forth. Back and forth. Bit like her breasts if she actually had any.

What’s the point in a stick-thin stripper anyway ?! Surely in order to strip, you have to have something to strip to!

Eventually, we appear to be having an almost-normal conversation. Then she asks why we’re all here, I point at the stag. And as the lightbulb goes off in my head, I reach down to my pocket to get £10 to give to her so the lucky stag can have another dance. No sooner has the money appeared, than she literally snatches it from my hand and goes off to give the stag another dance. Thereby encapsulating the money-greediness of the place, and the reason why I don’t like strip clubs.

(Having said that, if a busty redhead/brunette is in one, I might change my mind)

Other stag night(s) memories to come. Unless it bores you.