I tried not to write about my date. I didn’t want to be like one of those characters on TV who comes out and then stops having a personality because they’re too busy being gay. But I couldn’t not write about yesterday.
Yesterday started with a run. 25 minutes non-stop. Over 4 km. That’s just how I roll now. Connor, the Doer of Hard Stuff. That’s me.
After the run, the day was about the date. And nothing else.
I had been talking to two different guys online about meeting up. One of them was demanding naked photos and had really bad punctuation. The other punctuated very well. I made a coffee date with the one who could punctuate.
Punctuation is hot.
I had three hours in college before I met up with him. I fretted and flapped. I was very nervous. The last time I’d been with a guy was in 2008, during the first Lisbon Treaty referendum campaign, before Sharon Osbourne left the X Factor. Over the following few years, I gained 8 stone. I got fired. I nearly got dumped by my bank. I couldn’t afford to have my own place any more. I did lots of good stuff too, but the main trend was downward. And there were no boys for Connor. For four long years.
As I fretted about the date, I prayed that I’d behave normally with this boy. That I wouldn’t cry during the date. That I wouldn’t vomit. That I wouldn’t start talking about hysterectomies. That I wouldn’t mention One Direction more than once. If you don’t believe that these were actual thoughts in my head, then you don’t know me.
We met. And it was wonderful. I didn’t do or say anything stupid. More importantly, he was lovely. And hot. And interesting. And hot. And interested in me. And hot. And a good conversationalist. And hot.
We talked for well over an hour and a half. I still can’t believe that someone can be hot and simultaneously interested in me. That’s not how the world I know works.
At the end of our date, he walked me back to college. He gave me a big strong hug. He took my number and promised to get in touch soon.
I was on a high. I went up to my office. There was no one around to tell about the date. I sent out a few excited text messages. The only person on the corridor was one of the lecturers. His young daughter was with him. It was a real struggle not to throw my arms around him and tell him all about the afternoon. I held myself back. Instead I went to my secret place in the stairwell of the Arts Building and played Carly Rae Jepson’s Call Me Maybe three times in a row while bopping around insanely.
I went home. Most of the boys were in the kitchen. They looked up expectantly. Finally, someone to tell! I announced my success and then grabbed one of the boys, gave him a big cuddle and dry-humped him for a minute.
I calmed down as the evening went on. I’m teaching today. I got a text from him at 12:00. We’ve arranged a second date. I was so happy, I think the next hour may have been the best teaching I’ve done in all of the the past nine years.
I don’t really know why I had my life on pause for four years, but I can’t wait to finish my adolescence properly. I know this sounds silly, but I’m even looking forward to getting dumped. I feel like a real human being. It’s a long time since I last felt like this and I don’t want it to end.