via Huffpost Gay Voices, by The Guyliner
There is no ego boost greater than being contacted by someone very good-looking. I know that beauty is both only skin deep and in the eye of the beholder, and you can call me a shallow old sucker, but you can't beat a winning smile and a pair of bright, sparkling eyes.
He first contacts me after he sees I've looked at his profile. I had only looked in awe, not daring to click 'Like', but he gets in touch and tells me the usual openers about liking my profile, and we chat for a few days.
He's astoundingly hot and intelligent, the kind of guy that would have overbearing mothers salivating and speeding off to M&S to choose their two-piece for your wedding, which would take place in summer in a country house.
Before we can ever get that far, however, we have to arrange a date and I am not keen to ask him out, so fearful am I of the inevitable rejection. Congratulations, I think, you're a 15-year-old burbling schoolgirl. This can only end badly.
He asks for my number and sends me a few text messages, effectively asking me for a drink. Despite his age, he appears remarkably grown-up.
He can't meet me on Saturday because he is hosting an afternoon tea for his friends, he says, but he does want to meet me sooner rather than later. Ooooh. And so we plump for Sunday.
It's a hot day, and I am thrown into a wild panic. I don't cope well in the heat, and have no idea what to wear.
He's chosen the venue - a cocktail bar I've never heard of - and the thought of arriving there 'fresh' off the bus all sweaty and flustered makes me cringe.
I burrow through the piles of clothes scattered around my bedroom, finally selecting a T-shirt and chinos. I'm running late, so throw on my shoes and wince at my crimson face in the bathroom mirror. I mustn't keep him waiting.
Just as I am beginning to wonder if I should invent some dramatic explanation for my tardiness, my phone rings. It is him.
Read the rest
He first contacts me after he sees I've looked at his profile. I had only looked in awe, not daring to click 'Like', but he gets in touch and tells me the usual openers about liking my profile, and we chat for a few days.
He's astoundingly hot and intelligent, the kind of guy that would have overbearing mothers salivating and speeding off to M&S to choose their two-piece for your wedding, which would take place in summer in a country house.
Before we can ever get that far, however, we have to arrange a date and I am not keen to ask him out, so fearful am I of the inevitable rejection. Congratulations, I think, you're a 15-year-old burbling schoolgirl. This can only end badly.
He asks for my number and sends me a few text messages, effectively asking me for a drink. Despite his age, he appears remarkably grown-up.
He can't meet me on Saturday because he is hosting an afternoon tea for his friends, he says, but he does want to meet me sooner rather than later. Ooooh. And so we plump for Sunday.
It's a hot day, and I am thrown into a wild panic. I don't cope well in the heat, and have no idea what to wear.
He's chosen the venue - a cocktail bar I've never heard of - and the thought of arriving there 'fresh' off the bus all sweaty and flustered makes me cringe.
I burrow through the piles of clothes scattered around my bedroom, finally selecting a T-shirt and chinos. I'm running late, so throw on my shoes and wince at my crimson face in the bathroom mirror. I mustn't keep him waiting.
Just as I am beginning to wonder if I should invent some dramatic explanation for my tardiness, my phone rings. It is him.
Read the rest
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