I’d come to the agreement with Mr. S.P. that I’d organise our second date. I wanted to give him a taste of who I was. No, pick your mind out of the gutter, I didn’t mean it literally. That would come later…
The first part of my second date with Mr. S.P was dinner. He picked me up from work in a taxi, and as I slid in next to him, I felt my tummy do a little flip. Was this the first sign of chemistry between us? I kept looking at him the entire journey, and I came to the conclusion that I did fancy him, but in more of a I-want-you-to-fancy-me kind of way, rather than the intense urge to rip his clothes off.
At dinner, conversation flowed and, yet again, I was intrigued by Mr. S.P. Tucked away in a quiet corner, we sipped wine, shared food and exchanged accidental, but electrifying, touches. Despite living very different lives – me; the eternally single, twenty-something, party girl with a flair for words and him; the forty-something, divorced, doting father with a passion for science – we seemed to have so much in common. Perhaps our commonalities come from our Mediterranean/British genes or the similarity of our upbringing, despite the age gap. Whatever it was, somehow, it had me hooked.
As a modern day woman, I paid for dinner. I wanted to. For a man to pay is expected but when a woman pays, I think it shows a lot more. I am financially independent, I’ve worked hard to be able to afford these luxuries, I have a generous nature, I do not take men for granted and I do not want you to think I will jump into bed with you because you buy me dinner. I like to start as I mean to go on and, in my mind, paying for a date shows that I’m an equal. There’s plenty of room for chivalry, but at no point do I want to feel that if I need to flee this relationship, will I feel bad for doing so because of all the expensive dates you’ve taken me on, without me doing anything in return.
After dinner, we strolled over to the mall. Mr. S.P kept frantically trying to guess what we would be doing next, but I decided to keep him guessing. It added a bit of mysteriousness to our dates and kept them fresh. It was only when he saw the ice rink that Mr. S.P realised what we would be doing. Now, I’m no pro on ice, but I’m no rookie either, so I figured I wouldn’t embarrass myself too much. Mr.S.P didn’t lag too far behind me when it came to ice-skating skills, although it took him far longer to get used to it than I did. We chased each other around the rink, gave each other rides and I even tried to teach him how to skate backwards. It was great fun, and after the bottle of wine at dinner, we both had enough dutch-courage to give it our best shot without being too drunk to stand up on skates.
We’d been skating for just over an hour and both of us had worked up a sweat, so we decided we deserved a well earned drink. Back in our regular shoes, we jumped in a cab and headed off for the third and final part of our date. Luckily, when I told the cab driver where to take us, Mr. S.P still had no idea where we would be going. I led him upstairs in Emirates Towers and into a small, smoky room with TV screens. Yes, I took him to karaoke!
Anyone who knows me will tell you I love karaoke. It’s entertaining for everyone; the amazing singers who show off their talent, the drunk group having a laugh and the non-participants who can’t help but sing along anyway. Mr. S.P. was pleased with the discovery of a new bar and he laughed at my confidence and creativity. I sang. Twice. And I think my self-assurance was attractive to Mr. S.P.
At the end of the evening, as we walked towards the taxi rank, Mr. S.P. slipped his arm around my waist. That was the most physical contact we’d had and, in a way, it was incredibly intimate without it being intimate at all. I reciprocated by putting my arm around him and tilting my head onto his shoulder. I felt so close to Mr. S.P. but the chemistry was still missing and it was then I questioned if I could continue dating Mr.S.P. There would definitely be one more date, as we had already agreed that it was his turn to arrange something, but beyond that, I was starting to think it might be a lost cause.
At the taxi rank, we wished each other goodnight. I desperately wanted to find out if there was any chemistry between Mr. S.P and I and so I tried to give him a peck on the lips, in the hope it would leave me wanting more, but he turned his head slightly so I ended up kissing him on the cheek. It was disappointing.
In the taxi, on my way home, Mr. S.P. sent me a flurry of text messages telling me how much of a good time he had. This was then followed by a phone call when I made it home. Now, I don’t know much about men, but I know a guy is keen when he follows up after a date like that. I’m not going to lie, it was nice and I was flattered, but I felt bad that I didn’t feel the same way. I wanted to feel like ripping his clothes off, I wanted to feel as though I couldn’t keep my hands off him and I wanted to feel that I wasn’t seeing him enough but, the truth is, I didn’t feel any of those things. All I could do was hope that our third date would finally set sparks flying…
