Another one bites the dust

No word from Latin Banker and at this point in the game I think it’s safe to assume that he has gone off to the Island of Lost Men. I’m pretty blasé about the whole thing – he was lovely and cute but at no point in the evening did I think Chuck Woolery was going to pop out and declare it a Love Connection. But we did have a good time and I am a bit surprised that I haven’t heard from him, so I guess it’s time to deconstruct: was it me or was it The Rules?

On the one hand, I’m pretty sure what killed the evening was the Great Cab Search. You know how it is – the evening is coming to a close, you’re nicely buzzed, a fine time was had by all and warm and lovely feelings abound… and then you have to spend 30 minutes standing on a street corner, necks anxiously craning to see the fabled yellow light on the top of the cab, sobriety rapidly rearing its unwelcome head. You try to keep up upbeat conversation but you just desperately want to be hurtling towards home alone with your ipod in. So in that way, The Rules was right – I should have just run off down the street as soon as the bill was paid, coattails flapping in the breeze, air of mystery trailing behind me. Instead, Latin Banker and I were stuck in stasis in the middle of West London.

On the other hand, what I REALLY think sent him off in his rowboat to the Island was the fact that, when the long-awaited taxi dropped me off first, I completely forgot to offer Latin Banker money for it. Obviously by doing so I was effectively following The Rules, but it filled me with an overwhelming sense of anxiety that lingered well into the following day. Normally, I would have texted him the next day to thank him again for dinner and apologize for not offering him cab fare but because of The Rules gag order I had to remain silent. Which I just think is rude.

The Rules insist that men really want to pay for a woman – according to them, they derive a great amount of pleasure from it because it appeals to their basic caveman provider instincts or something. It’s all well and good to think a man should appreciate ones company (and at times even be grateful for it) but I just can’t get behind the idea that he should be PAYING for the pleasure of my company (hooker dress or no hooker dress). At the end of the evening, I felt a bit like a professional escort without the sex. And that, to me, feels like a lose-lose situation; I mean, if a guy’s going to pay for my dinner I’d at least hope to get laid at the end of the night.

So, onwards and upwards to Kiwi date tomorrow…

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