I require a man. A man good-looking by my standards, who will be amusing company for an evening, who will be an exciting and satisfying bedfellow, and who will be perfectly happy to leave it at that. A fuck-buddy situation is fine, but just actually finding one is the first objective.
I’m bored. As, I’m sure, are you. While this year and hence this blog hasn’t been a complete desert, I freely admit I need to get off my arse and make things happen. Lately, my social life and plans for Paris have eclipsed my mission to work my way through the frogs of London, but now I’m very much feeling the need to pull my finger out.
Oh dear. The double entendres speak for themselves.
Well then, what to do? My workmate A, (who is battling his woeful way through an equally dry spell) and I were discussing our mutual frustration at lunch today, and he suggested I try looking around at my gym.
Well, it’s certainly do-able. Plenty of men go to my gym, after all, but there are two fairly significant drawbacks.
Firstly, quite a lot of men who work in my office go to that gym, and I’m not sure how keen I am to become known as the girl who weirdly and inexplicably smiles at everyone (and is therefore probably extremely desperate). The other problem is that, unlike a lot of the girls at my gym, who first of all have slightly better attire than whatever baggy ensemble I’ve thrown on, I do not breeze through my exercise sessions with a sexy flush, nary but a light mist of sweat on my glowing brow and a total absence of weird perspiration patches. In fact, I look like such a huffing, red, sweat-drenched nightmare at the gym, that to try and woo a member of the opposite sex seems to be at best, touchingly futile, at worst, a gesture of extreme self-mocking.
Another possible lead might be this cute little fruit and veg market I go to before work sometimes, and which, at least on Fridays and Saturdays, has THE hottest man working there. We had quite a giggle-filled exchange a few weeks ago, in which he was apologetically half-asleep and almost charged me £421 for six stalks of rhubarb and an onion (he pressed the wrong button on the till, I believe). I’ve been back a couple of times since, but it’s always busy. However, in the interests of being proactive, I shall go this week, and attempt to muster actual words again. I’ve already bought more strawberries than Wimbledon does in June and July.
However, the gym is the only plan I’ve got tonight (well, that and the supermarket), so I shall cast my eye over promising-looking specimens there (and actually MAKE EYE CONTACT instead of wimping out). Seriously, something will have to be done. The only naked body I’ve been in proximity to recently is that of the woman who was getting changed next to me after my gym session yesterday, and I found myself even eyeing her up.
Seriously.
PS: In the meantime, if you have any suggestions about where to meet men, I'd love to hear your comments!
