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Real Dating Stories: TNT

Updated: Feb 3, 2023

I wasn’t sure whether to wrongly categorise my misfortunate meeting with TNT as a real dating story, because the truth in the matter is, it wasn't even an actual date. The night our eyes locked over a cocaine-stained toilet was subsequently filled with unforgiving and uncouth behaviour married with completely cringeworthy experiences, but we’ve all had them, haven't we?

So, in comradery to my brothers and sisters who have had truly catastrophic one-night stands, this one's for you.

The night had reached its penultimate level of drunken stupidity. We’d already lost one man to the forces of the alcohol spirit in an Uber, where she’d find her way back to her palace for a tray of midnight hashbrowns and a pre-bed hair of the dog.

There were two men left standing, me and my unbreakable after-dark associate, my ride-or-die comrade, Kyle.

We’d met for a pre-Christmas dinner and tipple, the kind that starts with the words “I only want a quiet one tonight”, but ends with the words “What time did we leave, and did you make it home with your dignity intact???”

After some merriful pints and a toast to the harsh winter, we’d made our way into the only bar in Angel open beyond sociable hours, the only place that accommodates the night-time-crawlers, signature bedtime callers, and the sleepwalkers of London, the infamous Slim Jims. The same dive bar that hosts all of the lost bras of many unwillful nights on their ceiling as trophies (it’s OK, mine hasn’t made it there yet).

After being lost to many hours of signature bartalk, myself and Kyle made unfriendly acquaintances with a city couple, bankers, or accountants of some kind, who spent more time complaining about the noise and low-grade prosecco than submitting to the mood or meaning of a dive bar.

I soon began to feel the ground beneath my barstool start to open, and my mind started to capsize with it, so I sensed it was probably time to call this unexpected charade a night. After my mandatory end-of-night bladder check, I stumbled out of the cubicle to find a brown-eyed demi-goddess waiting on the other side of it. She made immediate eye contact, and I caught a wave of impulsive desire. She appeared as if by some kind of manifestation magick, and told me I was beautiful. Before I knew my head from my vagisires, I propelled myself onto her lips, and the night offered me a new fatal sense of renewal.

The night had slowly begun to capsize, and with it went all mandatory senses required for a stable and grounded existence. As if my 5 minute toilet break had offered me some sort of personality extraction, Kyle was now met with a more hysterical version of myself, offering him no alternative than to stay and humour my very wise and honourable 2am decisions.

Upon surfacing to the corner of the bar where TNT and her troupe of intoxicated men had been sharing stories of “that time they went to that metal gig”, I saw no red flags, only rainbows. Of course between the unicorns and broken-winged butterflies, there was a polyamorous couple, and a newly-founded bisexual woman looking to experiment. I of course wasn’t aware of that at the time that I was gracefully complimenting her with a slurry of badly constructed sentences all while swaying from one wobbly knee to the next, but through some stroke of luck, or more idiocy, all appeared to be working in my favour.

After kick out, there truly was nowhere else to go. We all frequented the street corners for a while, in hope and desperation that somewhere else might take us in, but our attempts were futile, and there was only one direction, home.

TNT had somehow made it into my Uber, and back to my apartment, which to my memory arrived at approximately 4am. I checked on at least eight occasions that I had saved her number to my phone, but I couldn’t remember her name, though she had expressly told me more than five times, she is still to this day saved under the name TNT, an appropriate name for the explosive hole that had been left in what was to be an otherwise civilised event.

We spent the next hour untangling our jewellery, alarming my displeased cats, and drinking more prosecco, as well as one or two other mood enhancers we’d picked up on our travels back to my place. My memory also alerts me that we had circulated the same singular conversation for approximately three hours, which repeatedly ended with the same sentence from TNT’s mouth, “I want to see you again, I’d like to take you on a real date”. These words send ominous chills down my spine, each and every time I relive them. I never want to permit such an unpolished encounter into my personal space ever again.

Knowing that I had no desire to see this night-time sorceress again, unwilling to live another torpedo of an event, I had also acknowledged that a newly bisexual polyamorous woman who was ten years younger than me who I’d met in the toilet of Slim Jim’s, wasn’t going to be a love story I wanted to share with my future children. And yet, in the swept-up moment, I humoured every word.

With the rising sun, we’d begun to lose our enthusiasm for the absolute catastrophe we’d both endured, but not before she’d requested I walk to the shop at 8am for a packet of cigarettes and leveraged my Uber account for a ride home, which I’d apparently promised but have no recollection of saying, and the night was over.

The evening might have come to an anticlimactic end, but my hangover and shame hung around for another 72 hours. After the £150 hole in my wallet, I’d asked TNT to make a donation back to me for a very unwelcomed experience, upon my tenth request, she Monzo’d me £50, still keeping up the pretense of a date offer. It’s been one month since that bomb exploded all over my festive activities, and I haven't heard from TNT.

I actually hate Christmas, I wonder if it was my unconscious desire to fill it with more unrelenting memories of woe, which was a monumental success.

So the lesson is, if you ever meet someone in a toilet, probably best not to take them home.

Until next time bessies.


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