I try not to pick the gentlemen. It’s not particularly from a moral standpoint, it just makes the whole thing easier. Quicker.
You can usually tell from their profiles and, if not from there, definitely from their messages. Some of them are filthy from the off. Mind you, I try not to pick those ones either, keeping in mind that I generally have to sit through a whole evening with them first before we get down to it.
I have grown a little tired of the dance. Each date starts with a fairly unsubtle appraisal the minute we lay eyes on each other; then, if neither of us bolts on sight, the small talk starts, the alcohol is knocked back and the flirting weaves around us, pulling us together into an inseparable little bundle.
Tonight, I thought I had picked well. He does something or other in the media, is good-looking enough (although I’m not bothered by looks), easy to talk to and has a touch of casual cockiness that will make things easier. He gave me a moment’s worry earlier in the evening when he spoke of wanting to find a serious relationship – I thought he might not come back with me at the end of the night – but when I said I was only looking for a good time, his eyes lit up.
After that it was easy. The bar was not far from my home and I suggested we walk along the canal which would be deserted, and private, at this time of night. We had barely lost ourselves in the shadows on the tow-path when he made a move, pulling me down to the floor in his passion.
I broke away from him momentarily, to check there was no sound or sight of anybody, and then turned to him again, taking his face in my hands. “Let me give you a lovebite.” As he laughed, I turned his head aside, found the pulsing artery I’d been transfixed by all night, bit right through the ribbons of veins, and drank and drank until I felt him crumple away.