Seeking a lady of class and distinction it seemed too much to wish for that she would appear in my life mere hours after dipping my toe (yes, I said my toe; there’s some filthy minds out there…) back into the online dating pool.
Not only was I tingling with the anticipation of meeting camaltoe2’s acquaintance, there also dangled in front of me the possibility that, in the unlikely event that camaltoe2 wasn’t the lady of class and distinction that the early signs indicated, there may well be a camaltoe1 cruising the waters in search of a Brian Cox-alike.
Despite the temptation to reply immediately, and exercising considerable restraint, I decided to wait before I replied. I’d like to say I was playing it cool, not wanting to appear too keen, but reader…
Sure, there was the obvious risk that every minute wasted carried camaltoe closer to the embrace of another man, but if I was going to reply – and clearly I was – then it had to be… Just. Right. This needed time, it needed to be written in the language of the heart.
Only prose worthy of Aphrodite would do.
As I considered my response another message arrived. The initial surge of electricity soon subsided as waves of fear rippled through me,
‘That’s it, you’ve left it too long, she was never going to wait for you with so many other suitors to choose from.
‘Matthew: you bell-end’.
As Cupid’s arrow whistled past I resigned myself to the loss of my greatest shot at happiness, and clicked on my messages.
It turns out camaltoe2 was…. well, let’s say she wasn’t Matty’s cup of Earl Grey.
I was prepared to overlook the spelling – I don’t care what anyone says, love is about more than being able to use capital letters and the odd full stop now and again. And let me tell you ‘somethink’ else, true love doesn’t care how you choose to spell camel.
But despite all that, this particular camaltoe was going to have to take her ample humps elsewhere. And she wasn’t going without a fight. If persistence was an Olympic sport then I might have put my reservations aside and looked forward to spending a summer of samba in Rio.
But however many times she told me she wanted to ‘get her hands on’ me, no matter how many times she told me she wanted me ‘in her bed’, despite her offer to be ‘just friends been wild’ until I met Miss Right, and in spite of the tantalising promise of ‘the things she could of done to me in the bedroom’… it was time to let the impossible dream go and to move on.
Only one thing remained, one final act of letting go. With heavy heart, I cancelled my next tattoo…