‘Er, yes we are,’ Raj says, smiling.
‘Cool,’ is all he says, before wandering off.
‘Right Raj, pass us your glass, let’s get these jars filled and start to introduce a bit of British into this frat party.’
With beers in hand, we stand in the centre of the sitting room. We are like invisible men, sober spectators to the drunken carnage. The party has only been going for an hour or two, apparently, but they are like schoolkids tasting their first sip of alcohol. For some of them this is not far off the truth. The room is divided between the semi-seasoned seniors and the learner drinkers that are the freshers. But even the seniors seem pretty foxed.
‘Hey, Raj, isn’t that the cheerleader from earlier?’ I point with my glass at some girl who has just walked in with two friends.
‘Yeah, I reckon it is, oh shit, she’s coming over.’
Sure enough, the girl has spotted us and is whispering to her friends. The three of them bounce over towards us.
‘Hi,’ she says, in that high-pitched sickly way that only Californian girls know how. Not that it’s not attractive, in moderation.
‘Er, hello,’ says Raj. He’s not so confident outside the security of the car.
‘So you guys are the English guys on the exchange, right?’
‘Yes, that’s right, we sure are,’ Raj maintains our pretence.
‘I’m Mandy,’ she introduces herself. ‘These are my friends Jo and Kerry-Lee – they’re cheerleaders too.’ The saucy little minx giggles, the others giggle too. If you could see Raj blush, he’d be blushing.
I change the subject, ‘So how many of those keg things do you normally get through at one of these parties?’
They look at each other with incomprehension. Then they look at me, blankly. Have I made a faux pas? It’s as if I’ve asked when we sacrifice the neighbour’s dog.
‘Well,’ Mandy says, ‘just the one.’
Just the one? But they’re all steaming! There can only be 60 pints of beer in the entire keg – and there must be 40 people in the party. The girls see the shock on my face.
‘You know this is a dry campus!’ pipes up Kerry-Lee.
‘Dry campus?’ Raj bemuses.
‘Yes, we don’t have alcohol on campus, only in the frat houses,’ Jo kindly explains.
We decide that it’s best not to explain that alcohol is one of the raisons d’être for doing a degree in the UK. Our American cousins get awfully prudish about this sort of thing and, after all, we are looking to impress these girls.
‘Oh yes, of course it is,’ I say quickly, before Raj says something, which will get us branded AA loser members of the year. Thankfully the girls soon move onto the comfortable topic of our ‘adorable’ accents. Like dogs doing tricks, we perform to their giggles, whoops and cries for encore. Pronouncing this word, saying that phrase.
‘So, you boys are just here for a week or so?’ Mandy enquires.
‘Yes, afraid so, we have to get back to our own studies in the UK,’ Raj lies.
We thought this would be the safest cover. If we had said that we are over at Cal Poly for the whole semester, it would have raised questions on course credits, academic supervisors, accommodation etc. – none of which we could answer convincingly. But this is our downfall.
‘It’s a shame you guys aren’t here for longer, you would have girls falling at your feet,’ says Mandy, flirtatiously. And I’m smiling at her flattery, when her message hits home. There’s a whopping great ‘if’ in there. If we were here for longer.
‘Well, we are here for a week or so,’ I plead.
They do that annoying thing of looking at each other again, as if they are communicating telepathically. Mandy, clearly the designated spokesperson, sounds as if she is making some moral statement, ‘Yes, but no Californian girl will go out with you for a week, what’s the point?’
It’s my turn to read Raj’s mind. It reminds me of a movie tagline – Inside your head no one can hear you scream! Apart from your best mate of course, in situations like this. I was screaming too. I don’t want to go out with one of them, neither does Raj. We live on the other side of the Atlantic for pity’s sake. But we would like to go out on the town and party with some local girls, perhaps be a little crazy and embark on a totally frivolous affair. A romance that is intrinsically carefree, yet not utterly meaningless. Something that you would look back on in future years with a certain fondness. It’s one of those things that makes youth what it is. Fun.
The irony dawns on us that the type of women we would want for a holiday fling are the exact women that we left at home. American girls are the types that we could actually date, if we lived in the same place. We should be living in the States and holidaying in Britain. These girls are far from easy.
But it’s clear that it isn’t to be. There is no convincing these girls. We look around us and notice that there isn’t a single couple making out. Certainly, some are unconscious, one kid (and he really does just look like a kid) has even fallen asleep underneath the holy keg; which still isn’t empty by the way. But not a single student is lip-locking with another. In England there would be a queue for the toilet, and any other small mildly intimate storage space, in which to nail the bird of your choosing. Not here. We soon realise that while our infamy as San Luis’s resident English guys has spread like wild fire, so has the news that we are leaving town within the week. As such, we would never be considered as viable mates.
As if to mark this awful truth, sirens strike up outside the front lawn. The boy under the keg moans. Some of the more sober frat guys begin to swear. Already one or two guests have started to collect their jackets and other accoutrements.
‘Ah dude, the fuckin’ cops,’ someone yells.
We soon deduce that the police are on their way to break up the evening’s proceedings. Our disbelief can’t get any greater. Not only are their parties tame, and to be honest, pretty dull, but the police really do break them up. Sure enough, as we reach the door, up swagger the bluebottles, complete with flashlights, yelling orders here and there. And do you know what? The students all do as they are told. I would love to see any police patrol unit in the UK, not that we really have them, try and break up a house party. They wouldn’t dare, they’d be pelted with bottles. Ah, therein lies the problem, the keg doesn’t lend itself as ammunition.
We follow the other disheartened guests down the drive. It’s only half past nine and our perfectly planned evening, the highlight of our trip, is over. We sit in the car, pause for a moment to reflect in silence, and then buckle up.
14
Online
So Thai-brides-R-Us it is! California had been a disaster. As I came through customs I felt like I should have walked through the Something to Declare aisle at Heathrow – ‘Yes I’d like to declare my inability to get a woman; for letting down mankind; for being the only British guy to go to the States and not get nookie with an American girl.’ As I walked through I should have handed them my penis back for lack of use.
I had thought about it on the plane back to the UK. It seemed that there was only one thing left to try – an online dating agency. What could I do? I’ve tried everything else. I blame it on the semi-clad dirty blonde in the advert at the back of GQ. It’s her fault I reached for my laptop and signed up to Dating World.
I wish that was the truth. The reality is that I was scouting through Loot for a new sofa and saw their Personals section. Out of curiosity, I clicked on the link and arrived at Dating World. It seems very different to Single Solution – my previous experience with online dating. All the girls place their photos on the site and tell you a little about themselves – age, profession, minimum bank balance preferred and the DNA of their ideal man etc.
But this disclosure works both ways. The fact that there is an initial vetting procedure must make it easier to wean out the bunny boilers. I suppose it’s like a box of chocolates; Thornton’s Continental. Or perhaps a large packet of Revels is more appropriate. One date m
ight be a coffee cream, not the best in the bag, but you never know if you’ll come across a chocolate-coated ball of toffee, the connoisseurs pick of the bunch.
I go through the laborious procedure of entering all my personal details and requirements. I hand over my £30 for three months unlimited membership and waste no time in browsing through the endless catalogue of potential suitors.
I can search against age, locality etc. But what about breast size, length of legs, likelihood to put out on the first date? Actually, the girls have been very helpful in this department. Most of them have posted a photo on their profile when they signed up. This answers so many of my questions – at least the important ones. It will go part of the way in the search for the chocolate-coated toffee Revel.
I spot one girl who looks reasonably attractive. It takes me to her homepage, which tells me all the important trivia about ‘Claire’. Having looked at Claire I become like a madman, gorging myself on the profiles of potential dates. These are women I could make contact with, from the safety of my own couch. No awkward approaches in dimly lit bars. I could apply the scattergun approach and if 40% get back to you there’s a result. And the thing is, I know that all these women are single and keen. Keen is, perhaps, the wrong word. Desperate. As am I, granted.
I read through the first 20 girls that take my fancy and I wonder if they have thought about what they have written about themselves. They clearly have but they all seem to say the same thing. I don’t think they realise what sort of mental picture will be painted by the men who are scanning their profiles. It’s certainly not the type of image that a man looking for a ‘partner’ would be looking to picture. They all go along the lines of:
Hi, well I’ve never done this before (you so have). How crazy am I! (not very) So what can I tell you about me?!? Well my friends say I’m bubbly and outgoing (read fat). I like reading, swimming and tennis. I also love football, my favourite team is Manchester United (good try) and I’m really into cars (yeah right, and I cross-stitch). I like going out to party, don’t mind the odd drink but sometimes I just want to stay in and crash on the couch with a DVD and a bottle of vino (you have reached the time to find a husband and want to have your social life amputated). Looking to meet someone for some fun and who knows where it will go! (Entice the man with the promise of sex and then it’s ding dong, ‘We’re going to the chapel…’).
Despite my cynicism, and self-disbelief at resorting to this medium, I add a few of the women to ‘My Favourites’. I tell myself to stop being such a love-scrooge; this might actually work. Surely this will be better than a blind date. From the photo you can tell if she’s attractive or not. What’s more you get a bit of an idea about what she’s like; her profession, figure, education, likes and dislikes etc. And I’m hoping that women will be less likely to lie when they fill out this form. Flagrant, whopping untruths are more the sort of thing that a guy would employ; use photographs that are ten years are out of date, make out they are not married, that kind of stuff. Having completed this pre-date disclosure, surely on any first meeting it will simply be a question of whether you actually hit it off. And that is always an unknown.
I review My Favourites and decide to send a message to the five most attractive women from the 15 that I have selected. Two are lawyers, one’s in media, another is a primary school teacher and the last is a history student at UCL. They all seem to be fairly confident and outgoing and have a variety of interests. They are all quite attractive – or I should say that their photos look good. I bang off the same message to all five, taking care not to cut and paste the previous girl’s name in the next message. It reads as follows;
Hi
I thought I’d drop you a line because I read your profile and liked what I saw. (true) Seems like we’re looking for the same thing. Guess I had better tell you a bit about me. (trying to be laid back) I work in PR in the City (yep think ‘cash,’ go on bite!) I’m quite a creative person. Outside of work, apart from the usual partying and seeing friends, I like to write and paint (modern oils mostly, some portraits). (I’m in touch with my feminine side, I’m a nice guy) I recently started to learn Spanish, and I also speak Italian.
I’m very outgoing and confident but also a good listener. (yes, mr perfect does exist)
I’m looking for someone I will have a great time being with, snuggling up sometimes and also going out with and having fun.
I hope you’ll get in touch, yours
Max
It takes ages to write that first email. It’s almost like filling in one of those annoying graduate recruitment forms. I’m sure it won’t be long before the dating agencies have you sitting psychometric tests. Should that be psychometric or psychotic? I’m not sure. Anyhow, I pondered over the words for what seemed to be ever. It’s difficult to get it just right. To sell yourself and yet not sound arrogant. To be cool, but not too cool. A splattering of modesty here and there, and yet still make them want you like a nun wants a dildo.
You have to apply a careful strategy. Emails and texts can so often be taken in different ways. You have to measure each word and its meaning, to make sure you create the exact, desired effect. It’s like writing the Book of Job or the Declaration of Independence, each word stands out on the page like its own continent. Equally, it can be difficult to understand the true meaning in those written words. Great importance is placed on small, insignificant prose that can give greater or lesser meanings.
I feel excited, making direct contact with all those women who I know are single and who are looking for a man. My carefully drafted message has moved from my out tray and now sits in the inbox of my favourite five. I twiddle my fingers for a minute or two. I turn my attention to the press release of a well-known west London restaurant that I’m supposed to be drafting. The wait is too much, I click on the inbox icon to see if any of the girls have written back to me yet? It’s been four minutes. The inbox is empty. I feel dejected. This is ridiculous, it’s been a further five minutes. I go and make a cup of tea. I come back and check a second, a third and even a fourth time within the space of twenty minutes. Ping. At the fifth attempt a new message from Victoria1975 arrives in my inbox.
Hi,
What area of PR are you in?
This will sound like an odd question!
But do you mind telling me how tall you are? I am 5’11” so it is kind of relevant!
Look forward to hearing from you,
Victoria x
Relevant. Why is it relevant? Unless I’m wrong, she is, like me, unable to find someone out in the ‘open market’. And so she is resorting to the help of an online dating forum – namely Loot. It’s not even the most glamorous of online dating channels. It’s the place where you search for pee-stained old furniture and spares for a Ford Capri. Yes, I know, I’m there as well. But I’m approaching it with a slightly more open mind. And I’m desperate.
She’s 5’11 which is pretty tall for a girl. In heels that will boost her up to a potential 6’2. When I’m in shoes it means she would be a conceivable two inches taller than me – two inches. I appreciate the fact that women like to feel secure and that part of that feeling is created by the man’s physical stature. But surely women are supposed to have a new found security, independence and confidence. Height, like a man’s personal property, should no longer be prerequisite for a perfect match. Being an inch or two taller than their other half – or in this case the same height in your socks – shouldn’t create an insurmountable boundary to being with someone.
How can you be that picky, how can you disregard another human being, their life and all their qualities over two inches – and not even in the area where it counts. I mean, ideally any woman I date should be slimmer than me, have a firmer bottom and have boobs that are at least three times the size of mine. But if I told a slightly porky lass with B cup breasts to sling her hook, well that would be downright unacceptable. And yet I’d be more than willing to give Bridget Jones a try the way I’m feeling at the moment.
/> Perhaps this online dating forum was not such a good idea after all. Perhaps the women weren’t going to be as amenable as I first thought. I feel really down. The last thing I was expecting is that these women would be highly picky – but then again why shouldn’t they? Just because they have subscribed to an online dating society, they haven’t forfeited their right to be selective. (Or have they?)
I think to myself ‘what the heck’ and reply to Victoria, enclosing my exact height. An hour later still nothing. The site sends me an email alert when she’s read my message. Still no reply. I don’t hear from her again. This is horrendous, I want her to write back, even if it’s a ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ It’s like a little seed in my mind, I can’t help but think about her. Its roots sprout out, niggling as they spread their tendrils. The rejection is too much. I write to her again, with a chatty email. Nothing.
But, as I go into my inbox for the fifteenth time that hour, I have two new messages – neither of which are from Victoria. One is from Amber, an American girl in her late twenties. The second is from the student, Jayne. My spirits instantly lift. I’m back in the picture. Life is good again. Victoria… Victoria, who? As quickly as she had entered my life as a potential partner, Victoria walked out of my life.
Jayne is in her final year at UCL, reading ancient history. Apparently she is looking for a man to make her laugh. She describes herself as ‘very attractive’. He will be good looking and laidback. She is fed up of men looking for one night stands. He also has to have his own teeth, apparently. She sounds pretty cool and chatty in her email. And she asks if I would like to meet for a drink after work in the next couple of days. Is that it, is that all it takes? The exchange of an email, or two. She doesn’t know who I am, I could be a mad serial killer – or even a desperate failure in love!
Single White Failure Page 19
