Dating a nice guy

What a marvellous idea

This is part I of a II part essay,

At some point in my 30s, I decided that I could solve all my problems, or at least all my guy-related problems, through the procurement of a so-called nice guy.

If you looked through the murky back catalogue of my dating history, many words came to mind but nice wasn’t one of them.

There was the musician who stroked my arm in a soothing manner whilst simultaneously goggling at other women on the train, the artist whose departure from my flat always coincided with the disappearance of any loose change, or the scientist who pressured me into sex with the eminent excuse that he was ‘about to burst’.

With the exception of an ex-boyfriend, a comic-reading engineer, that I was still in love with, the catalogue was a head-scratching sequence of questionable characters, and one had to ask whether my obsession with eccentrics had not gone too far.

Thus, when I met Alan, a different chore was struck. Here was a polite, well-mannered and interesting man.

A failed musician turned computer programmer with a rather spectacular on-the-side hobby of trying to solve the biggest problem in physics.

The first thing I noticed about Alan was how much there was to talk about. After we were done talking about the futility of corporate life, we covered genetics, chromosomes and the connectivity of trees. I marvelled at all the new bits of info flying out of this man like protons. Talking to Alan was like having a Turkish bath for the mind.

I went to order myself a Grapefruit juice at the bar, which, upon taking the first sip, I found had gone off, and the bartender only charged me £1 as a result.

‘I paid £1 for this juice. How good is that?’ I told Alan and explained what happened.

‘A £1 juice miracle!’ he said, smiling.

How nice. There was no facade of arrogance or distance, or sarcastic commentary so often deployed by other men to undermine you in a dysfunctional quest for romance. Talking to Alan was like talking to an old Kindergarten buddy.

I gave him a good going over with the eye.

The only unfortunate thing about him was his hair. It confused me. He didn’t look like the sort of man who cared about his hair, but here was the evidence. A greasy mass of spiky collisions crafted in a ridiculous fashion that made it look like he was carrying a prototype of a skyscraper on his head.

At 9pm the blues music started, and it was too loud to carry on a conversation, so we leaned back in our seats and retreated into our private listening modes.

I closed my eyes and listened to the beautiful voice of an elderly man who was singing about not being able to find his left shoe in the morning, and when I turned to check if Alan was equally fond of the music, I found that he was staring straight at me in this odd, sentimental sort of way.

It confused me at first until I got around to the point.

Did he like me?!

The deadlock went on for an abnormal amount of time. He stared at me with his unapologetic eye, and his skyscraper hair, and I stared straight back at him with the startled look of a flamingo caught off guard. It was rather unpleasant.

We were like two flamingos stuck in one of those staring matches that wouldn’t end in copulation.

The man was strange beyond belief. He liked a woman on a first date, and he wasn’t trying to hide it? What was wrong with him?

I had to restrain myself from breaking out into a lecture.

‘Don’t you know anything about the unwritten rules of dating? You’re not supposed to give away that you like a woman this early in the timeline! You’ve just ruined the element of surprise.’

I was annoyed, not only at his forwardness but because he had sabotaged my cathartic experience of a brilliant song. By the time my confusion subsided, the song was over.

It only occurred to me much later that if I had fancied Alan, I would’ve been delighted to find him staring at me instead of annoyed that he had interrupted the narrative of a Blues singer looking for his left shoe.

As the dates continued, there was no denying it. The facts stood for themselves.

I liked talking to Alan for hours. I liked listening to him explaining quantum physics, and I liked his attentive listening in return, but for some reason I did not fancy Alan.

There was no hormonal influx of delight when his knee brushed past mine under the table, and I felt not the slightest inkling to reach out for his hand, not to mention going anywhere near his face.

By the end of the 3rd date, I found myself in a frenzy of panic because I knew he would have to make a move and go in for the dreaded kiss, and I decided to get ahead of him and sabotage the event.

‘So guess what I found out today?’ I interrupted mid-physics talk.

He was talking about gravity or something or other, not being the same thing as gravity.

‘What’s that?’

‘So apparently I’m pansexual! Can you believe it?’ I said.

Alan stared at me without comment as if he was trying to trace my change of topic, from Einstein’s relativity theory to my sexuality.

‘Yeah, this comedian told me she only recently found out about it herself, and I didn’t even know what it meant cause it never bothered me, but apparently I don’t want to be touched! At least, until I get to know someone, I mean.’

‘I see, ’ Alan said and took a stoic sip of his ale.

I stared at him and noticed that he was no longer blinking.

‘But eventually you do want to?’ he asked.

‘Be touched? Oh yes, absolutely.’ I said with a careless wave of the hand as if I was getting rid of a fly.

‘It’s just at the start…that I don’t want to be touched.’

I kept emphasising the word ‘touched’, really putting a zing into the letters to make sure we were on the same page, i.e. that he understood I did not want him to touch me.

Alan did not try to kiss me at the end of the date, and I walked back to Euston train station with the bliss of escape playing upon my lips. I had won back the concept of time.

This is how I saw it. All I needed was more time.

After all, Alan was a kind and interesting person, and it was only a matter of time until I started fancying him.

By the 4th date, however, it became apparent that time was not on my side. As usual, we were discussing physics. Alan was writing a book with this theory that was apparently going to solve the biggest problem in physics.

I started to cross-examine him about why this was important to him. Quite frankly, I was hoping he would say something bold or unexpected or noble so my jaw could finally unclench and I’ll want to kiss the bastard, but alas, he did not.

‘The fundamental problem is…What are things made of…There is not a single theory that explains it…The metaphysics theory and Einstein’s theory of gravity contradict each other, so there’s this big gap and no one is trying to crack it -’, he explains.

‘But a lot of people wouldn’t care about that, so my point is, why this? Why physics?’

‘Well, it’s a big mystery, I mean…I don’t understand why no one else cares about it…There’s this great puzzle on the floor, and next to it there’s a coat hanger with the Superman cape on it -’

I laugh.

‘And everyone else is just walking past.’

It is moments like these that make me think the universe has played a deliberate trick on me. Alan and I both measure our value in terms of productivity; we are both appalled at the same things, and we laugh at the same things, and yet, I do not fancy him. Why do I not fancy him? Zilch, nada, absolutely no feelings uberhaupt.

I look at him. His face might as well be the face of a dead relative. A larger-than-necessary forehead, a slightly protruding nose, a tucked-in chin.

Still, I’ve had crushes on uglier men, so clearly, this is an issue beyond symmetry.

Something is missing, but the missing ingredient is not disposable.

It’s not the basil but the sauce that’s missing. I’m looking at an overcooked bowl of wholesome fusilli, but where’s the sauce?

‘WHERE’S THE SAUCE?’ I want to shout into Alan’s large forehead, then I snap out of it.

His forehead isn’t the problem. You are the problem, I tell myself. Why can’t you fancy a man who is good for you? What’s wrong with you?

‘So, what happened in your last relationship?’ I ask Alan, with the hope that I might sabotage the whole thing before the obligatory kiss.

‘Oh, we’re doing this now, are we?’ Alan smiles.

I shrug. Why not? Let the ship burn if it will.

‘Well, she was…She was a lovely girl to be honest...mm’

Come on, Alan, let’s get you out in the open.

‘Was she a nightmare?’ I interrupt.

‘Not at all. We clicked really well, like the personality match was perfect…But at the time I thought that there might be something missing…I suppose I thought…that I should fancy her more…’

Well touche, Alan.

You’ve hit the problem like the head of a nail.

‘I mean, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have broken up with her…but it’s too late now. She’s married with children.’

Well, sweep me off my feet and drag me off the carpet. Is every man on earth grieving over an ex-girlfriend, or is it just the men I end up with?

I take a long sip of my Grapefruit juice and click my tongue against the acidity. Tsk tsk tsk.

‘What about you? What happened to the fella you mentioned?’ Alan asks.

‘Oh, you know, the usual story. He tossed my heart away like a rotten apple! Let’s not dwell on the details.’

Alan smiles and then, for some ungodly reason, decides that this is the right time to place his hand on top of my hand, which is lying stretched out in front of my Cranberry juice.

The sensation is unnerving. Un-nerving.

On the few occasions in life when a man, whom I was fond of, had reached out to take my hand, I have felt a jolt of excitement, a pyrotechnical stream of chemicals let loose in the body.

On this occasion, however, as Alan keeps holding my hand, I get the sense that I am holding hands with something that I shouldn’t be holding hands with, something unnatural, like a chicken leg.

Yes, I am holding hands with an uncooked, raw chicken leg. Oh dear. What a shame it all is.

I go quiet and start feeling sorry for myself.

Alan doesn’t notice. He has gone back to talking about his book.

‘So the first part is a summary of the history of physics, and in the second part I’m going to outline the new theory, and what it would mean for the concept of gravity.’

He removes his grip from my hand, then repositions it, opens his palm and braids my fingers, and I mimic his movement without thinking.

I start feeling like a fraud, but a fraud who is also a whore. A hostage, a whore and a fraud who will never find true love. That’s me.

‘So if I can prove that there is another dimension, next to travelling at the speed of light, it means we could change the way gravity works.’

I stare at Alan like a hostage with sad hostage eyes and notice that his forehead appears even bigger when he talks about physics.

How fascinated I was with his physics talk on the first date. I had a dozen questions, and he had all the answers. And yet, here we are, a few dates in, and I would rather listen to a speaker turned on white noise. Shhhhhh. Anything to drown him out.

‘Well, that’s a pretty big deal…if you can change gravity, ’ I say, sounding as bored as ever.

He gives my hand a squeeze, and I meet his gaze to find that he did not do this out of endearment but rather to shut me up because he goes on in the same breath.

‘The discovery of something like this could open the door for new technologies. Right now, if you drop a stone from a tall building -’

He could’ve said building. Why did he say tall building? Not a very economical use of language if you ask me.

‘Is it relevant that it’s tall?’ I ask.

He looks up at me, clearly annoyed about the interruption.

‘What?’

‘Is it relevant to the story that the building is tall?’ I repeat.

‘Mm no.’

‘Okay…Just checking.’

‘So as I was saying, if you drop a stone from a tall building-’

Look at that! He doesn’t even take audience feedback. Pppshhh. He wouldn’t last a day as a comedian, that’s for sure.

I take a deep breath. I have the sudden impulse to withdraw my hand, but if I do, it’ll mark the end of the relationship. You can’t survive a withdrawal of the hand this early on in a relationship.

‘So if you used this technology, the stone would not fall to the ground; it would levitate mid-air. So it would be as if, well, in theory, it would be as if the stone had an invisibility cloak.’

Goodness. I couldn’t take it anymore. Is this what people felt when I went on about comedy?

I wanted to shout, ‘Who cares about the invisibility cloak of a stone? We are talking about a stone here!’

I withdraw my hand, without thinking. Whoopsiedaisy.

‘Are you okay?’ Alan asks.

All that effort, and I mock it up in the last minute.

‘Oh me? Yeah, I just got a cramp in my hand.’, I explain, massaging my fictional cramp.

‘You look like you’re ready to press the fuck-it button, ’ Alan says.

‘Oh?’

‘Too much physics talk?’ he asks, as if he’s innocent in all this.

‘Not at all, just a hand cramp. But we can definitely continue our physics talk at a later point as well.’

This is the nice thing about Alan. As soon as you find yourself near a precipice, the man stops talking and saves you the awful trouble of having to jump.

Whilst Alan orders the check, and we settle the bill, I become increasingly jittery at the thought of what’s awaiting. There is no putting it off any longer. The kiss, the blighted kiss.

On this occasion, Alan visited me up north, and I offer to walk him to the train station, hoping our kissing will be cut short by an oncoming train. I check the train board with a grimace of pleading mercy.

Only a 5-minute wait! YES! I high-five myself.

5 minutes is not enough for a long lip fumbling session, and I can kill a few minutes with preamble.

‘Well, look at that. Your train is in 5 minutes. Perfect.’

Alan smiles and reaches out to take my hand. THIS again.

We walk down to the platform, scattered by a few people on both sides, admittedly not enough to deter an Englishman from going in for a kiss.

We settle under one of the spotlights, and he draws me closer to him. There’s a glow in his eyes, the glow of child-like anticipation, which makes him look even more unappealing than he did before, if such a thing were possible, and it is.

‘Well, it was nice to see you, ’ I say, biding for time.

‘The weather has been quite good too…a few clouds, I mea,n but not as many as usual…’

He remains silent, and I know damn well what that means. We stare at each other for a second or two, and a smirk harps on his lips.

This is it. It’s happening. I brace myself, gulping a pointless gulp of oxygen like a fish on land. Then he puts his hands on my lower back and applies a gentle shove, drawing me closer to him. What happens next bypasses any centre of sense or logic in my brain.

My left foot blocks his move. Oh dear. Oh crikey.

His pride, his poor pride! I disguise it by doing a little dance. Step, step. Oh, look at how clumsy I am.

‘Gosh sorry about that, ’ I say.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks, smiling and clearly missing the point. How could he keep missing the point? I smile a reassuring smile, and he repeats the same act, applying a gentle shove on my back and pushing me closer. My left leg bolts his move again.

‘Goodness, sorry. I have no idea what’s going on with my left leg.’

‘That’s okay, ’ he says, but appears flustered.

I bend down and start massaging my supposed cramp in a sequence of jabs and karate moves, occasionally looking up at him to check he believes in my fictional cramp, whilst he watches me.

I engage in a little self-talk.

Come on now, you can do this, this is important. You are going to date a nice man and spend the rest of your life being very, very happy.

‘Right, all good now, ’ I say and rise to my full posture.

‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure.’

He draws me closer for a third time. Alright, this is happening. Let’s get this clown show over with.

I close my eyes and wait. Then I wait some more. What is he doing?

I open my eyes and find to my horror that he is moving towards me in slow motion and his mouth is opened in an unnecessarily wide gape as if he’s about to tackle a double-decker hamburger. Oh, for Pete’s sake.