Doctor Dick, Pilot Prick [Part Two] -The London Datress xo

I realise I now have less than one hour to wash my hair and get ready. Panic! (Hey now, as much as I Know this date is going to fail, that’s no reason not to look ShitHot.) As I run around (OK more like prance around) getting ready, I laugh to myself; for some reason an episode of Saved By the Bell pops into my head. The one where Kelly Kapowski is late for a date with Zack Morris because she had to wash her hair, to which Zack asks, “How many TIMES?!”, and I wonder if this excuse for being late would go over well with the Psychiatrist. Probably not, and so I keep my preparation-pace at the speed of a prance...

Outfit approved by my fashionista flatmate Griff (sidenote: are homos fashionistas or fashionisters? I never know) and out the door!

I can see him arriving outside the bar as I stride the zebra crossing in my black leather boots and my first thought is, “Well, I certainly wouldn’t do a double take. He’s fatter than his photos.” Apparently the look of disappointment is written all over my face (or so he later mentions) and after a kiss-kiss-hello, we’re inside and I request a Small (but expensive) Sangiovese and seat myself at the nearest table while he gets the drinks. The table is apparently the “longest table he’s ever sat at” and apparently “we couldn’t be further away, it’s as if you don’t want to be too close”. I ignore the commentary, a finely tuned skill that I practice and perfect several more times over the course of the next 2 hours.

A couch behind us frees up and he suggests we move over. I agree, before turning to realise it is one of those plush, deeply seated, brown leather love-seat couches that you are excited to find when you’re with someone you actually fancy- perfect for a PDA (public display of affection), and cringe-worthy for a first date with someone who actually makes your skin crawl. I made friends with the armrest to my left and position myself so that gap between us is as large as possible. With my neck craned at an awkward angle, my date continues to hound me about my reasons for not wanting to get into his car, bombards me with 20 questions that I must answer as quickly as possible without hesitation. I argue and comply where appropriate, and notice that the man sat next to us, alone, sipping his glass of russet Red (Cabernet Sauvignon?) and reading a paper, periodically looks over at the two of us, and makes eye contact with me. I am sure he is failing to telepathically communicate his willingness to step in and save me from this Psycho-analysing (which, when I asked, is apparently a normal way of getting to know someone on dates... as if I don’t have experience dating and will learn in time), and I am slightly saddened when my one ally packs up his papers and leaves.

I turn my attention, and thoughts, back to Doctor Dick, who, by the way, looks nothing of the pre-pubescent school-boy I had earlier envisioned, but actually a slightly overweight, slightly balding 30-something Jewish man… in D&G. I am repeatedly plied with meaningless compliments about my cute outfit, my cute ‘American’ smile, (of course I remind him it is in fact, 100% Canadian- my place of birth) and how generally ‘cute’ I am (what am I, a puppy?!) It all reads nauseatingly false and I make a mental note that THIS is how he gets girls, along with his MASSIVE wallet, and at least 3 tokes of shisha-roofies. In between this slime in the guise of compliments, he asks me my ‘type’ in men, and quivers in his Gucci shoes when I suggest I like real men who tend to favour growing a beard instead of using a mountain of gels, foams, waxes, and whatever other products men use, and who, on occasion aren’t afraid to throw a baseball cap over their bed-head hair. He takes this personally and his defences are pricked: I somewhat enjoy listening to him try to justify his metro-sexual lifestyle. OK, maybe I am slightly sadistic as well. ;)

He tires of trying to mask his arrogance and changes the subject to his ex-girlfriend who is apparently a supermodel, and relives how he hated being at parties with her. “Why?” “I Hated not being the person everyone knew. I Hated standing behind her and being introduced as HER boyfriend. I want to be the One everyone knows. I want to take My girlfriend by the hand, and be the one to introduce HER.”
My body automatically reacts, and I swallowed the little bit of vomit in my mouth before playing the one-up game and name dropping myself. A gent I had previously dated was with an actress who was nominated for Best Actress at the Oscars this year. Uncomfortable with this game, he changes the subject...

“So what do you think we should do on our second date?”
I hesitate, but realise that this is the perfect opportunity to Freudian-slip the matt out from under this Psychiatrist’s Ego...

“I don’t think there Should be a second date...”
(Cue confused face, wrinkled nose and all)
“Why?”
This is where I politely suggest that I just don’t think we’re well suited, because even though he had mentioned earlier that he has tough skin and would rather hear it straight (when talking about sending that “thanks but no thanks” text to a hopeful lad) I still couldn’t be mean, and hey at least I was saying it to his face, right? Wrong. He wants reasons and examples of why we’re not suited. I mention the situation with the supermodel-ex (whose Daddy, by the way, used to be the richest man in the world, because it’s vital information) and how I wouldn’t want to be with someone who can’t take pride in their partner’s successes, and how I am not a docile wallflower who is willing to be “taken by the hand” and led around.

He accepts defeat (or so I thought) and we head for the door, would I like a ride home? No thank you. Have a good week. Thanks, safe drive home. Kiss-kiss-buh-bye.

As I walk home, I call Scottish B and give a wee recap, laughing all the way.
I enter the warmth of my flat and barely have time to light my debrief cigarette with Griff before my Berry buzzes.

“I just realised u dumped Me [yes, he capitalised Me] twice in one night now that’s a record! :) x”

One hour later- Berry buzzes- facebook mail:

“Between You and [Doctor Dick]
14 March at 23:39
I meant what i said btw, I really thought you were interesting and nice, ok so you did not feel any chemistry i think i realised that off the bat when you ordered a small wine!

But I would like to stay friends, as I think even our love of planes could make for some good future hangings out, despite the irony of what i said about not wanting to meet you to be friends, it is better than nothing , no?

I am sorry you did not like what I said about not feeling the man in the relationship when dating a famous girl, but I don't REALLY believe that is why you didn't think another date was a good idea, but that is ok, I am glad I came out, I am sorry I pricked your defences! I told you my dog should go not me xx sleep well and maybe we can go out again and do something fun as friends when we both are back in london?”

Ignored, but not before sharing with Griff, Scottish B and SW Datress.

Off to bed, thinking to myself how hilarious this social experiment was, how scary it is that people like this exist, and how the final score actually turned out to be a highly unanticipated:
Sadism= 6+
Masochism= 3+ (give or take a few)

Morning. Coffee. Facebook. (I take note of the fact that I have one less ‘friend’ and chuckle. Cursor hovering over the Delete button last night, Griff had advised that I had bruised this man’s Ego enough for one day and should let him be the one to delete me). Dating website. New mail:

“Date: 15 March 2010 - 12:54
Subject: Fuck yourself

I can't believe I was so nice to you last night, you are such a miserable cold fish. I knew when I spoke to you and you had no sense of humour I should not have bothered, next time just be honest and sooner about it instead of wasting 2.5 hours of someones life! No wonder you are on this site, no sane man would come anywhere near you let alone "hug" such a misery. No wonder you don't like pilots because they actually HAVE personalities!

Good luck with your beardy , cap wearing oafs, and YES not only do MODELS have brains they also have looks, neither of which you have. Good luck being a glorified waitress.”

I am tempted to send a message recommending a good Psychologist, but then realise I don’t actually Know any. And THANK FUCK for that.

Findings:
Score: Unknown.
Diagnosis reached: Delusional Psychopath.

[P.S. Advice to anyone seeking psychiatric treatment through the NHS, go Private, or better yet, enjoy your own crazyland]