I’d fancied him like mad when I was a teenager. I thought he was the coolest, fittest boy ever to grace the earth. He painted and listened to very cool music that I had never heard of and wouldn't get if I had. In fact, I fancied him so much I went a little bit mad. In that frenzied way that completely envelops you as a teen. My best friend lived on his road and although I mostly stayed at hers in order to spend time with her I can now admit that I thought it might help my chances if I was within in close proximity. Well, what if he was to text and I did just so happen to be a 20 second walk away?
Alas, nothing happened and I moved on. Developed more mad crushes on a stream of other boys that amounted to nothing. But then I bumped into him. We were older now, I probably stank a little less of desperation and we had a chat and a flirt in the smoking area of a bar I’d never heard of’s closing party.
I was back home on holiday from uni and he invited me round for dinner the following week. I’m sure I thought the idea of a man cooking dinner for me in his own flat was pretty much the height of sophistication. Considering that my tipple at the time was brashly called ‘Spanish White’ (the ‘wine’ either being inferred or technically untrue) I guess you could say that I wasn’t exactly a discerning date.
He didn’t have a doorbell and I had misplaced/broken my phone but against all odds I managed to get myself there. No mountain too high etc. I must admit that he had put in a fair amount of effort. He’d made burgers from scratch and even coleslaw which was tantamount to a Michelin star at the time. Apart from the fact that it very, very quickly transpired that he was incredibly stoned.
And I mean the type of stoned which made conversation difficult. Any attempt at chat was blighted by the fog which seemed to surround him. Although not partial myself I’ve never been overly fussed by people smoking weed but this was a little much. Only exacerbated by the spliff he smoked after dinner. He ambled out of his bay window onto a little ledge and I joined him, quietly smoking a cigarette while he had a bellowed conversation with a friend on the street below.
I probably should have bowed out when I realised that the man was sleeping on a mattress on the floor in a bare room. But I stayed a bit longer, and was only finally tipped over the edge when he examined my feet. Very soft apparently and ‘not a callus on them’ is the phrase I still remember very vividly. Maybe this was my naivety but this didn’t even seem like a fetish, he seemed genuinely impressed that I had very smooth feet. This was quite enough, teenage dreams shattered, the facsimile of a ‘grown up date’ ruined, I dug my return bus ticket from my pocket and went home.