Speed Dating Part II (The Big Night)

After weeks of anticipation, the speed dating night arrived. With a friend in tow, we descended on the bar where the evening’s frivolities were to commence. I was confident whereas my friend was nervous and apprehensive.

We ordered drinks, had name badges slapped on us by a tall, jolly woman with a booming voice and were ushered to a table where two other speed daters sat. It was apparent they were close friends and I was immediately drawn to one of them, a willowy brunette who resembled a young Suzi Quatro. Here is where I made a big mistake. With irritating regularity, in any lesbian bar or club I venture into, I tend to fancy the first person I talk to ignoring any other potential suitor. Not a good idea for me to be so blinkered by Suzi Q’s radiance when there were nearly 20 other women I had to speak to that evening. My friend made the more sensible decision of keeping her options open. I gabbled at Suzi Q until three minutes were up and she moved to another table.

My concern that there would not be enough time to write down accurate descriptions of every person I spoke to was valid but at least my mate and I stayed seated in the same place all night, giving us ample opportunity to compare notes. It was bewildering how different our opinions were. While I thought Suzi Q was great my mate thought she was mousy. I liked an Australian with big azure eyes (she responded well to my question of which celebrity she’d like to be stranded with on a desert island) but my friend found her dull as dishwater. The person we disagreed most about was an American who was more abrasive than a cheese grater. I spoke to the woman and trying to find a common topic of interest I mentioned how I’d lived in the US. She ridiculed the state (it was Kansas which is a great state) and when I said I had travelled across America she was negative about the places I visited except for New York City which is where she came from. Glad when the three minutes were over abrasive American changed seats and promptly melted into a puddle talking to my mate. Rampant flirting ensued with the exchanging of telephone numbers. I did not and still do not understand.

Thankfully, there were women we agreed on. One poor girl could barely string a sentence together. We found out she’d been dragged there by a loquacious work colleague. She got a large X pencilled against her name as did the woman whom, when asked if she’d encountered any uncomfortable silences, fixed me with a piercing stare and said, “I like silence. What’s wrong with silence?” Well love, I like silence too but not when I’m at a speed dating evening.

Two women came from my local area. The first was a squiffy blonde whose drunken perkiness I found endearing and the second, a lucid brunette who went to the same school I did, confirming my suspicions that there are more gay bars in the Gaza Strip than there are in my home county. It seemed the only way I, my mate, drunken blonde and sober brunette could meet lady-loving women was by crossing county borders and heading towards the bright lights of a big city.

Strangely, there were quite a few accountants. Prior to the evening I decided not to ask anyone about their job because I seriously could care less. Unless you are an undercover agent with perfect hair, working for a mysterious millionaire called Charlie, I‘m not fussed what career you have. Alas, conversation did become stilted on a couple of occasions so I asked the question and feigned interest when balance sheets were mentioned.

A fifteen-minute intermission gave me a chance to visit the loos, imbibe more vodka and, with my friend, verbally dissect the three-minute dates we had been on. The tall, jolly woman blew a whistle and round two began.

This is where it became blurry and I swear it wasn't the Smirnoff impairing my concentration. I believe there are only so many new people the average human can withstand meeting in the course of a day before rapidly losing interest. More frigging accountants emerged. Even women I would normally enjoy talking to, like a pixie-faced girl who was a Japanese cinema aficionado, left me cold.

By speed dater number fourteen, I was ready to throw in the towel. When it came to number fifteen's turn the desire to ask fun, yet challenging questions was replaced by, "So, what do you do for a living...You're an accountant? Nice." After speed dater number seventeen it all came to a merciful end.

My friend and I lurked in the bar for a while longer, allowing her the opportunity to practise body language with the American and then we left. Apart from the strange girls, it was a safe and easy way to socialise with a group of lesbians I probably would not have chatted to if I had been in a club. Walking back to the train station we realised what a good evening we had and predicted who we would get responses from, who we wanted to see again as friends and who we wouldn't mind getting romantic with. Of course, it was never going to turn out the way we expected.