Look at me, I’m on a roll, must be becoming a proper blogger now.
Today, we will be delving into my very limited dating experience, practically non-existant.
Here’s some context.
When I was younger, I used to read the Confessions of Georgia Nicolson by Louise Rennison. This is my first introduction to the world of boys being at a girls school. In the first book, you meet Peter Dyer, kissing extradordinaire, who tells Georgia to avoid “Washing Machine Syndrome”. Basically it’s all tongue and salvia in your mouth.
Not very appealing, and I was pretty much adamant I never was going to experience that.
I was wrong.
After a few weeks of me attempting flirting, to be known to my friends as nan flirting (abysmal to say the least), we decided to go out with a group of friends.
The night began in an aeroplane theme cocktail bar (The LP Bar – go check it out!). As the drinks racked up so did our minimal confidence. We walked over to the next destination of the night, there was a live DJ set in the pub across the road. A few more drinks down, we started to get closer to each other, there was only one person in between when dancing!
Gold Digger by Kanye West came on, and this is when we started singing in each others faces and stayed that close for the rest of the evening. Me and a couple of girls then went in toilets to psyche me up.
“He’s so into you!”
“Devs you’ve got to kiss him!”
I have a few rules when it comes to boys:
- The boy can’t be shorter than you.
- They have to make the first move.
Just to name a couple. As you can see, I’m not for equality in romance, I hate making any sort of move. That’s more to my socially awkwardness and the fact I hate rejection. So in my head I decided that he had to be the one to do anything.
Throughout the night, he began pulling me in and holding my hand whilst dancing (thank God for Red Stripe). Brilliant. He started making his move. But then he started pecking me on the cheek, forehead, nose…it seemed everywhere but my lips.
At this point, I became inpatient, was there something wrong with my lips? No. I made a bold decision, I was going to go in for a proper kiss. In the middle of the dance floor.
I experienced the washing machine, all tongue and salvia in my mouth, all I could think of at this moment in time was Peter Dyer. It wasn’t very pleasant for me. I was to polite to tell him. He led me outside to the smoking area. My lady friends were giving me thumbs up, little did they know.
We kissed twice more. Good Lord.
Luckily, the lead singer of Foals came from the terrace area and my tonsil tennis companion freed himself from my mouth. Thank God, he was more interested in Yannis Philippakis.
So there we have it. Maybe there will be more stories to tell, otherwise I will have to become a crazy cat lady.
Ciao for now,
DISCLAIMER: I would like to point out that I am still currently friends with said boy (until he reads this).