In addition to the flirting and topless photo sending while in the bath with Boy Widower, I’ve been a bit naughty and dabbling with the wonder that is the dating app, Tinder. BW has no idea that I’ve gone on dates. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, although I’m not sure what feelings are there in the first place. For now, he doesn’t need to know but I’m pretty sure my lack of ability to multitask (wife did most stuff whilst I’d sit and look desirable) is shortly going to end in some sort of mis-messaging disaster. One lucky girl with whom I’ve only ever exchanged three texts will mistakenly receive a sexy shot of me in lace knickers accompanied by info on my favourite sex positions. I’ll simply have to follow up with, “Drink?” and a winking emoticon.
Despite widowhood, despite Boy Widower and despite the resulting question mark over my sexual orientation, I still fancy the pants off women and want sex. Breasts, soft lips, soft skin, silky hair. Beautiful women. Non-widowed readers, I know you’re already coming to learn this but, just to spell it out for you, some widows don’t behave. We may have had our hearts broken and our lives torn apart, but that doesn’t stop some of us wanting a really fucking good shag, preferably followed by a cuddle and spooning. Still, we remain women and men in love with a dead person. Complicated much?
A couple of weekends ago, I had my first two Tinder dates. Saturday evening drinks and Sunday afternoon coffee. Thought I’d pack them in, you know? I figured I’d only have to shave my legs and tidy my house once. #widowefficiency. Getting ready for a date is a lot of effort. And depending on the date’s capability of conversation, the actual date can be a heck of a lot of effort too, as I discovered.
The key facts on Tinder girl #1. Blonde. Can spell. Proper job. Red brick educated. Was in Thailand on a yoga retreat for New Year.
The key facts on Tinder girl #2. Brunette. Can spell. No set career. Irish. Likes travelling to the US and drinking.
So on the face of things, #1 is winning.
Date number one with Tinder girl #1 involved drinks next to the Thames in a lovely little gastropub. Much thought went into my outfit (and about £200 on a Russell and Bromley handbag and Reiss silk blouse). £25 also went into the bottle of wine. This is the shit thing about dating girls – you always end up paying for something, be it the whole amount or half. TG#1, as I now shall call her, met me at the Cutty Sark, an amazing ye olde ship which is now a maritime museum. “How romantic,” I thought, except it was really fucking freezing cold outside. TG#1 ended up texting me while I was lost on a bus to let me know she was standing in the nearby Nando’s chicken shop for warmth. Practical but unromantic. When we met, it turned out that she was wearing trainers, looked nothing like her Tinder photo and was clearly far wittier in writing than in real life (takes one to know one).
I am EXCELLENT at talking shit at introverted people, I must say. It comes with the trade of being in marketing but I think this also partly comes down to having a brother with Aspergers. I have a knack for finding that one thing the person is passionate about. In the case of TG#1, the topic that brought our her passion was her pet love birds. Yes, birds. Called Moose and Lemon. I have fantastic control over my micro facial expressions so my thoughts of “what the holy fuck?” and “she’s a fucking weirdo” we’re not so obvious. I proceeded to tell her a story about a TV programme I once watched about a grieving budgie that had started to lose its feathers because one of its owners had died. Her posture and body language was totally off and I left the date disheartened, kicking myself for being duped by good spelling. Better luck next time. No follow up texts.
Tinder girl #2, aka TG#2, and I met outside the tube station on a cold but sunny Sunday afternoon with the intention of going to the pub. Pubbage did not occur – she text in advance to inform me of her hungover state and that she was running late. Excellent pedigree and grounded, responsible 28 year old. I was pissed off. I warned my mother to call the police in the event that she was a paedophile tinder trucker. OMG, she turned up with cute little traces of glitter on her face from the night before, toppled her bicycle while trying to take off her helmet and looked simply adorable. We spent the next SEVERAL hours totally sober, walking up and down, popping into little coffee shops and venturing to Columbia Road Flower Market. I was the true gentleman of the lesbian pair and bought her a bunch of roses. I also bought myself a bunch so I’m not sure how one interprets this sort of gesture. In any case, the date resulted in me coming out as a widow and her STILL KISSING ME BACK. Score. Follow up texting occurred.
Second date with TG#2 happened just two days later. Fuelled by several expensive glasses of wine (paid for by eerily cheerily richer lesbian) I offered her a meal of potato waffles and baked beans for an 11pm dinner. Eerily Cheerily has her mojo back. I say back. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had it. I’ve created it with wine and a “nothing can be worse than what’s already happened” attitude, Turns out frozen food offers are appealing to fit Irish musical lesbians. I lured TG#2, the easier catch, back to my house, discovered I was out of waffles, fed her posh frozen Waitrose veggie burgers, despite them being coated in breadcrumbs and her being a coeliac, and burned sweet potatoes then got fucked on the sofa. Then in my bed. And then again in the morning. It was different. She had her period. No sperm and egg issues – advantage over Boy Widower. Well done me.
Now I have a girl texting me. She thinks I’m amazing despite the widow shit. How on earth?! She really has no idea what she’s in for. I have a house full of couple memories, of Eerily Cheerily and wife mementos. I stop short of having an epitaph in the bedroom, however. There’s a plus for her. Now for the emotional roller coaster. I’ve booty called her for tomorrow. I’ve never booty called a woman in my life. I’m not even sure if it counts as a booty call if I’m also cooking dinner. We will have to see how the reciprocation goes since I am now on my period (wife, are you fucking with me from heaven?!) and have only had sex with five women ever. Yikes.
I’ve cleaned, I’ve preened, I’ve gotten some crying out of the way. Let the storm rage on.