Welcome to How I Do It, the series in which we give you a seven-day sneak peek into the sex life of a stranger.
This week, we hear from Gloria*, a straight 27-year-old marketing account manager.
Gloria’s had a bit of an eventful week, what with it being her birthday and all.
Not only did she sleep with two men at her party, much to her joy, but she’s been on a couple of dates too.
Now, she describes her relationship status as ‘TBC’ – read on to find out why…
I woke up today with a spring in my step, so excited that it was finally the day I’d be meeting my date.
After speaking for three weeks, Dylan* and I scheduled a date for this evening.
Over text, he was giving self-assured, witty, poetic, and complimentary.
I woke up at 6am to shower and wash, dry, straighten, and then curl my hair. I did my 10-step skincare routine to ensure I would be glowing, and thought of interesting topics of conversation on the way to work, so I could wow him with my intellect.
After work, I floated off to meet him, smelling of vanilla and excitement.
I jumped off the bus, and clocked him… he was a decent looking guy – just surely not the same boy from the pictures I’d been pouring over for the past three weeks?
I know first impressions aren’t everything, so I settled in for an evening of what I thought was sure to be delicious food and enchanting conversation at the pub, followed by dinner at his.
The more we chatted, the more I realised that I was driving the conversation. I paused to let him ask me a question and the space between us fell silent. I told him about work, my travels, my recent weekend at Glastonbury… nothing.
Having been promised a three-course meal, I had only consumed three Tangfastics all day and therefore the wine was slowly making me incredibly light-headed.
Midway through the evening, I asked him: ‘Are you going to ask me a question then?’ He stared at me blankly and poured another glass.
Running out of topics, I turned to sports (yikes). I brought up the fact that I enjoy surfing, and his eyes lit up. He got out his phone and showed me some videos of him surfing and pictures of a surf trip he attended three years ago.
As I stared at the pictures, I recognised the person looking back at me as the boy from the Hinge profile, but looking at Dylan I saw no resemblance. How could three years have been so unkind?
Just as I thought things couldn’t get any more boring or worse, we went for a final cigarette, by which point I was utterly inebriated. By chance, we walk past a group of boys I know from university. I’m flushed with embarrassment about them seeing me with my date.
As we began to part ways, with no mention of the promised dinner, he leaned in, and in pure panic, I kissed him. I genuinely think that I would rather marry someone to not hurt their feelings, instead of telling them how I feel.
F*ck me I’m hungover.
What the utter HELL.
My birthday party day has arrived! The woes of Thursday night won’t stop me from celebrating my 27th to the fullest.
The plan was to have a few beers before ambling home and having more pre-drinks, then heading to a restaurant.
Something must be in the water, or it might be my new hair extensions, but I am turning the head of every ‘overly masculine, has never spoken about their feelings, sees women as an object’ man. If only I could turn the thoughtful metrosexual ones’ heads instead.
When we got to the restaurant, everyone was in high spirits. Two boys from uni walked in, one of which is someone I have been in love with since I was 19. (Although bear in mind, I’m pretty much in love with everyone.)
Once the limoncello slips down my throat I’m focused. It’s my birthday, and I’m making a beeline.
I have a great time dancing with Hugo*, my crush from uni. He’s recently single and up for some fun. Perfect.
We make it back to my house, and we have a brief conversation before we follow each other to my bedroom. Thank god I tidied up. Five minutes later all my university dreams came true.
I can happily say to my 19-year-old self: ‘You did it!’
Afterwards, Hugo left, and so did a lot of my memory. I know I went downstairs and met all the people who’d just arrived. Ethan*, a past fling, made it all the way to London to celebrate – how fun.
We got chatting and caught up and before I knew it, we started kissing.
I started the day by peeping my eyes open to a wave of sunlight shocking me into existence, having left the curtains open from the night before.
I turned to my right and saw a familiar face. It’s Ethan and the fresh realisation that I had bedded two boys in one night set in and made me laugh. I’m my own personal hero – and a hypermasculine male’s worst nightmare.
I spent the rest of the day nursing my hangover and laughing with my housemates about the night before. Birthday celebrations well spent.
Monday was less fun. I’ve gone from having two boys in my bed to zero, and the cheap red wine from two nights before still feels like it hasn’t left my system.
Anxiety crept in when Hugo messaged me saying ‘Sorry about Saturday’. What does this mean? Why was he sorry? Does he mean sorry for leaving straight away? Sorry that it happened?
I assured him there is nothing to be sorry for. He then informed me that I had recommended he start writing poetry to soothe his broken heart, which had really helped him recently.
I have literally no idea what he is talking about, but I’ve taken the compliment.
I mulled over Hugo’s texts today. Should I reach out and ask him for a date or do I let what we had be?
I decided that I was not emotionally ready to take on the fear of rejection if I were to go out on a limb and ask him for a drink.
So, as with every other boy I’ve ever liked, I shove the feeling to the bottom of my brain and my heart, only to be shared as a fun anecdote over drinks to entertain my friends the next week.
A work-from-home day – bliss.
I’ve been feeling much better since my birthday and looking forward to my next date. Amongst all the commotion of the past week, I forgot that I’m going on my third date with a boy I met at Glastonbury.
He’s planning to take me out to a fancy restaurant in central London, and I was thrilled at the prospect of being treated. This date literally cannot be as bad as last Thursday.
I went through the motions of making myself look incredible once more, adding two layers of fake tan, laying out my outfit, and choosing earrings.
I was excited today, knowing I was in for a good evening, having actually met this boy before. Work ended and all the girls complemented my outfit.
I made my way to the fanciest restaurant a boy has ever taken me to. I was impressed and touched.
The evening went well, and we got drunk and giddy. My tactic on dates is to tell him everything he wants to hear, not entirely sure if I mean it myself.
The giddiness all came crashing down when this boy asked me a question that I’ve wanted so many boys before me to ask: ‘Would you like to be exclusive with me?’
Gulp. My stomach dropped, and my forehead sweating. I knew deep down it was too fast and a bit much.
But, as I acknowledged on the same day last week, I would rather marry someone that hurt their feelings. So naturally I agreed.
And now I’m accidentally exclusive with someone.
I wonder if he would be as interested in me if he knew what I’ve been up to this week…
*Names have been changed.
How I Do It
In Metro.co.uk’s How I Do It you get a sneak peek into a week of a person’s sex and love life – from vanilla love-making to fetishes, threesomes and polyamorous relationships, they reveal it all.
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