Dating should be fun. If it feels like pulling teeth, move on. Sure, there’s such a thing as ‘the chase’, but when it feels like you’re running the Boston Marathon while inside an oxygen tent, forget it. If he’s interested in you, he’ll make time to see you – and you won’t be the one always taking the initiative and doing all the running.
It takes time to get to know someone, and of course, it’s foolhardy to reveal everything about your life within the first few dates but beware the guy who is withholding too much. Secrets aren’t necessarily sexy, particularly when you find out there’s another boyfriend on the go, your dream date goes under three different names and the income he says comes from running an “art shop” is in fact derived from his extremely busy “arse shop”. Google is your friend.
The first thing he asks you, as you sip your drink, is how many times a week you wank. Then he chooses the moment you’re biting into that Quarter Pounder with Cheese to ask what sort of porn you prefer – oh, and to casually drop in the fact that he’s considering a little foray into the porn industry himself, would mind? The killer, of course, is when you come back from the toilet to find him checking out his Grindr – or slipping the bartender his phone number.
It was legendary bitch hotelier Leona Helmsley who famously quipped “only little people pay taxes”, just before being banged up for massive tax fraud. Beware of the queen who thinks what he does for a living and what he earns makes him better than others. Some gays wear their privilege like a colostomy bag. If he’s rude to the waiter, he’ll turn against you in time – so be warned.
Everything about him is immaculate, just too polished. He’s dripping in designer labels, and when you check out his Instagram you see him posing and pouting like a wannabee pop star – in fact, a little more digging and you find out he is a wannabee pop star – and worse still, a reject from the X Factor. Perhaps that’s why he’s been not too subtly asking you about your “friends” (i.e. connections). And just who is that older, fatter guy he’s with in those Facebook photographs? His ‘manager’, naturally. There’s always been a fine line between ‘networking’ and prostitution.
There have been signs all along, but you’ve ignored them. At first, you find the possessiveness nice – it shows he’s really into you – but the questions about where you’ve been and who you’ve seen become endless, and the implication that you’re getting pounded by every male friend you have is rather tedious. And then there’s his apartment: the colour coordinated closet, the endless bottles of bleach, the neatly stacked tins in the kitchen with the labels all facing the same way. He’ll probably pass you hand sanitizer and dental floss before you nosh him off – and, no, of course, he won’t reciprocate.
He’s charmed your mother. He can talk his way out of bankruptcy. He whips his t-shirt off at every conceivable opportunity. He screams if he doesn’t get his way. He boasts about fucking gay models and porn stars. He demands respect from bin men. He has a library of films cataloguing his sexual exploits, which he plays on a loop. And then, just when you think things can’t get any worse, you find a copy of Donald Trump’s “Think Big and Kick Ass” under the bed. Run for the hills.
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