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I was determined not to go out every Wednesday during my third year of university. I should have been aiming for the highest grade I could possibly get, not getting home at 3am with doner kebab leaking in my bag. But lo and behold, there were only two Wednesday nights throughout the year that I missed (I’d consider that some sort of an achievement, no?).
My commitment to the cause was because somebody caught my eye on the dance floor. I soon discovered, via some social media stalking, that he played football and was therefore out most Wednesday nights, after match days. I was sceptical about making the first move, but he was a dreamboat so I took my chances. I strutted across the room, flicked my hair and fluttered my false eyelashes. Looking back, perhaps opening with feeding his ego about his footballing skills was setting myself up for disaster…
We went from talking in the club, to the occasional Instagram message, to talking constantly on WhatsApp.
Not heading home together after a night-out made me think he had intentions other than a one-night stand. I didn’t want a boyfriend initially, but the longevity of our chatting made me think, “Maybe he’s the one I’m not looking for, standing right in front of me!”
We finally arranged to meet up. He even accepted my offer to make dinner beforehand. Dinner and sex? With a guy I was really attracted to? I was giddy.
We had a laugh over dinner and it wasn’t long before we headed to my room to ‘Netflix and chill’. I was hot and flustered and ready to go. Unfortunately, fluster soon turned into frustration, as months of grafting and excitement came crashing down within an hour – after one seriously underwhelming escapade and an ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, he left before I even had the chance to pretend I had fun.
So, people, learn from my mistakes: don’t cook your date Spag Bol unless you know they’ll make it worth your while.
Enjoyed this article? Read more here: My worst period