Dear diary, last night I had my third date with Deano and it was awful. I’ve always had it on pretty good authority that date three was when the magic happened, but the only thing magical about my dates with Deano is the fact I manage to endure them.
I could feel bad, using Deano like this, but when he does things that reminds me he’s using me too (and with arguably worse intentions: I’m doing this for love, he’s doing this to sleep with me so he can move on to the next chick), I don’t feel quite so bad any more.
Tonight was a fine example. I’ve noticed something: Deano hasn’t tried to kiss me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want him to kiss me and it is a relief that he isn’t trying to because that would be harder to get out of, but I think it says it all that he has no desire to do it. He really does just want to sleep with me, and he’s not even trying to pretend otherwise – so I had to be ready with another excuse tonight.
It was only 10:30pm as we strolled along Park Row. The street was still busy, the bars were still full, but I’d insisted I wanted an early night. Yes, OK, maybe that wasn’t the best turn of phrase, but I did mean it literally.
‘We going back to yours?’ Deano asked.
I bit my lip and pulled a bit of a face.
‘About that…’ I started.
I had a feeling this might happen. I also figured that even Deano would realise I was having a never-ending period, so I looked up different excuses to get out of sex. Some of them were hilarious, like: “the dog is watching” or “I’ve eaten too much dairy” but, sadly, Deano knows I don’t have a dog, and he’s seen that I haven’t eaten anything all night. It’s unpleasant, and it’s awkward, but I had to go with the only excuse I figured would work.
‘I have thrush,’ I told him.
‘What do you mean?’ he inevitably asked.
‘It’s a fungal infection,’ I told him. ‘Downstairs.’
Deano recoiled in horror.
‘Who have you caught that off?’ he asked accusingly.
‘You don’t catch it from anyone,’ I told him. ‘It’s when the natural balance of your vagina is…off.’ I’m pretty sure, I can’t remember what I read on the NHS website word for word, despite trying to memorise it earlier.
‘So I can’t catch it, we’re fine,’ he said with a shrug.
I can’t help but be amazed, and a little impressed, at just how much Deano will put up with for a shag. The fact I told him I have a “fungal infection” – and I used those exact words – didn’t put him off. Never mind the fact it would probably mean I didn’t feel up to sex at all, that’s a non-issue.
‘Well, there’s a chance I could pass it on to you,’ I told him, because I did read that, even though it was uncommon, it could still happen. ‘I wouldn’t wish this on you.’ Much. ‘It’s horrible. Itching, burning – discharge.’
If that isn’t a boner-killer of a statement, nothing is.
‘Fuck,’ he replied. ‘No way do I want that. When will it be gone?’
‘Few days, tops.’
I smiled sweetly and we parted ways, as usual.
I’ve just relayed this story to Millsy, who finds it absolutely hilarious.
‘Ruby, I told you he was an absolute animal,’ he cackles. ‘That’s grim.’
‘I know, right?’
I’ve been rehearsing lines with Millsy all morning, but I couldn’t keep this story in a second longer so we’ve taken a coffee break. Even though Uncle Mills is never here, his flat has all the bells and whistles you could imagine – including an epic coffee machine that might intimidate most people, but can be easily navigated by a couple of trained baristas. We made our drinks and took them outside. Even though it’s late October, there’s something so relaxing about getting wrapped up and sitting on the benches outside, looking over the river, people-watching, sipping good coffee and chatting rubbish with your best friend.
‘Anyway, we need to get back to rehearsing,’ Millsy insists, jumping to his feet before pulling me up with his free hand.
‘But you haven’t sorted my problem for me,’ I tell him.
‘I think you get a cream from the doctor for it – Nick might get you some, mates rates,’ he tells me. ‘In fact, getting him to give you the once-over might be the best way to seduce him.’
‘You know I don’t mean my faux-thrush, and that’s a disgusting joke, even for you,’ I reply.
We head back inside and sit down on the sofa, grabbing our scripts and opening them on the page where we left off.
I sigh deeply.
‘Mate, come on, he’s not worth it,’ Millsy tells me, giving my shoulder a gentle, semi-patronising bump with his fist.
I pull a face.
‘Maybe,’ I reply.
Millsy screams theatrically.
‘I hate seeing you like this,’ he tells me, exasperated. ‘Look, I’m telling you, Lady Macbeth his ass. Emasculate him.’
I roll my eyes.
‘And how do you propose I do that?’ I ask. ‘Because there isn’t a jar in the world that I’ll be able to get into quicker and easier than he can, not even Nutella. And I fucking love Nutella.’
‘I know you do,’ he replies. ‘I’m still not over that sweet lasagne you made. But I’m not talking about out-macho-ing him. If I were, I’d just out-macho him for you.’
I think for a moment.
‘He already has a girlfriend who wears the fair trade trousers, she’s doing a pretty good job of emasculating him all on her own.’
‘That’s it,’ Millsy says victoriously, clapping his hands. ‘Have her do it.’
‘How?’ I ask.
Millsy thinks so hard it looks like it physically hurts him.
‘I don’t know,’ he says slowly. ‘Yet. But you’ll think of something. You’ve always been good at improvisation.’
‘Well, sticking to the script certainly isn’t doing me any good,’ I reply.
A message comes through on my phone, snapping me from my thoughts.
‘Oh, for fuck sake,’ I complain. ‘It’s Deano, he keeps trying to sext me.’
‘Oh man, he is desperate,’ Millsy laughs. ‘He sent you any dick pics yet?’
‘Not yet,’ I tell him, just as another message comes through. And there it is. ‘Now he has.’
Why do men think it’s a good idea to send unsolicited dick pics? Seriously, what thought process takes place that ends with: I know, I’ll send her a picture of my junk? And, I’m not saying I would appreciate them if they had some artistic merit, but they’re always so awful. Bad angles, poor personal hygiene and, arguably one of the weirdest moves I see so often, using something like the TV remote control for perspective – something that doesn’t make me think: “my, what big junk you have”, it just makes me less likely to want to change the channel at your house. Nope, I’ll never understand dick pics. It’s the photographic equivalent of when a cat brings you a dead mouse as a gift. Like, I appreciate the gesture, I guess, but what the fuck do you actually expect me to do with that?
‘You going to send him something back?’ Millsy asks curiously.
‘What, like sext him back out of duty? Like it’s admin work?’
‘Exactly,’ he laughs. ‘Sexting is a mere formality of modern dating.’
As Millsy continues to deliver his lines, I wonder just how happily I could drive a rift between Nick and Heather. I mean obviously I could happily do it just because I don’t like her, but I’m talking about morally. Yes, I have morals too. No matter how much I want him for myself, I’m not sure I could comfortably use underhand tactics to steal a man from a fellow female. I don’t struggle to understand why she likes him, but even though I’m unsure what he sees in her, he must see something, and if that’s what he wants, I should let him have it, right? I’ll just have to try and get over this stupid crush.