As I seem to date better (well, more) in Dubai I rounded up another for my most recent trip. I thought I might land two until I realised that the reason his Tinder pic looked so familiar is because it’s also his Twitter pic. Very hard to land a night with someone when they know their every move will be reviewed within the month. So I settle for the ‘maybe’ – the guy you pick on Tinder when you’re not feeling so selective. He seemed quite good on paper: good job (lawyer), nice apartment, not been in Dubai long (ie hadn’t slept with half or was likely to know anyone I knew) and wasn’t looking for anything too serious (perfect when you only work there a percentage of the time).
We tried to meet a couple of times but work got in the way. He then wanted to come to my hotel’s bar on a night a was grumpy and tired so I said no. The next night, following dinner with an old friend that wrapped up at 10pm I text him to say I was not far from his and would be in Kanpai having a cocktail should he want to meet. Of course he did.
He walked in, and around a bit, searching for me. There’s me thinking being the solo brunette at the bar might be a giveaway. He eventually found me and bought me another drink. I assessed him and apart from the awful jeans he was better in person. And in profile.
The chat wasn’t poor, it was just stilted. I’m not asking for an immediate intellectual connection at 10pm in a bar after I’ve put away a bottle of wine but I would like to feel like I’m not interviewing. Something told me he was bored, shy, bit clueless or just didn’t fancy me. But when he did speak he kept touching my leg; so maybe it wasn’t the last one.
After several rose martinis (me) and a couple of beers (him) we were talking about shisha. I’m not too fussed by smoking shisha but he was very excited that he had his own and invited me back to his. Part of my head was saying ‘it’s midnight Cinders and this isn’t a great date. Cut your losses now’ and the part that causes me to get in to blog worthy situations said ‘sod it, you’ve wasted a couple of hours so you may as well get a snog out of it’. So, I hopped off my bar stool, realised that the date was a bit shorter than me, and followed his skinny legs out of the bar.
Back at his the conversation did flow better and we were laughing and joking. He went through the palaver of setting up the shisha and I took the piss out of the effort he was going to just to get a girl to suck something in his new apartment. Of course lines like that do me no favours but he grabbed me and kissed me. So far so good. Nice pressure, hands not wandering just yet, no saliva issues and…
Next thing I know my top has been yanked up around my neck, my bra ripped down and he is sucking on my nipple. Okaaaay, bit fast but feels nice until…
He proceeds to chew on my nipple. I squirm, say ouch, kick a leg out and move his head off. So he turns to the other to even the pain out. Bastard.
At this point I regain composure and ask him to call me a taxi. I need ice and my own (hotel) bed. If he worked nipples like he was chewing toffee there was no way he was going anywhere else.
He continued to text over the next few days and he was included in the drunken texting the following Friday. I was horny and decided I wanted to play. I was also so drunk I had one eye shut. So when he replied to ask where I was I thought better of it and said it was too late, I’d bumped in to a friend. That did not go down well it seems.
The next day I text to apologise for drunk texting (I sent 4 people apologies). His reply was a little precious: ‘I didn’t like the way you blew me off. Not cool’.
Calm it sweetheart. I didn’t like you bruising my nips but was still drunk enough to consider a second chance.
I didn’t bother to reply. There’s no point. And my nipples are thankful.