Truth Or Date

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Same diff., right, miss? I can’t imagine vegan-friendly jokes are a thing – vegan-friendly food is barely a thing. And vegans aren’t known for their sense of humour, are they?’

  ‘Well, I won’t be telling that one at Vegan Club,’ she says with a frown.

  ‘Holy shit, Vegan Club is a thing?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ she replies. ‘We meet every Sunday at Baa Bar Blacks. All welcome.’

  ‘Wow. So I’m going to guess the first rule of Vegan Club is the opposite of the first rule of Fight Club,’ I joke.

  I’m not sure if Heather doesn’t get the reference or just doesn’t find me funny, but she ignores me, turning to Nick.

  ‘Darling, what do vegan zombies eat?’

  ‘What?’ he asks, without much enthusiasm. I can tell he’s just enduring the seconds until I leave, so they can get on with their boring night.

  ‘Graaaaaains,’ she replies, laughing her head off. ‘And you said vegans didn’t have a sense of humour, Ruby.’

  ‘I did say that, didn’t?’ I reply, pulling myself to my feet. ‘But it was still nice to have you confirm it to be true. I’m going to get going, enjoy your night, you crazy kids.’

  Neither of them say goodbye to me, but as I head out through the door, in the seconds before I close it I overhear a snippet of their conversation.

  ‘How long do you think this bloke will stick around?’ Heather asks Nick.

  ‘Not long,’ he replies. ‘They never stick around for long.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘Hey, babe,’ the large, muscular blond-haired dude towering in front of me says as he pulls me close, planting a kiss on either side of my face.

  ‘Hello,’ I reply, my voice sounding funny thanks to his exceptionally tight embrace. He’s got that sort of Lenny from Of Mice and Men strength going on, where I don’t think he realises just how tightly he’s hugging me. One of my many Matcher rules (Matcher is my dating app of choice/force because I’m oh-so single) is to never go on dates with dudes who look like they could/would strangle me, and Lenny here could choke the life out of me with ease if he so chose. I’m hoping that he won’t though, because this guy is kind of a celebrity around here. His real name is Deano Gamble, and he plays for the Leeds Lions rugby team. He’s a hooker, apparently. No idea what that means but I laughed for way longer than was cute when he told me during our first phone call. I started talking to Deano on Matcher and we’ve been 21st century flirting ever since; Whatsapp-ing, Snapchat-ing and FaceTime-ing. That was until three weeks ago when I started dating Jonathan and went cold on him. Luckily when I reached out to him again, he still wanted to go on that date we’d been talking about.

  Satisfied we were both who we said we were, we’ve arranged to go for dinner - tonight is our first date. Our conversations haven’t really been too in-depth and I think he was drunk during our brief FaceTime, but if I have learned anything during my Matcher-ing, it’s that if you spend too long chatting beforehand, you have nothing to talk about on your first date and it’s super awkward.

  I didn’t know what Matcher was until I discovered that my boyfriend was on there. It’s weird, because he kept making comments to me about online dating, joking around with me about seeing what was out there… I assumed he was kidding as he chatted about it with me on the walk back to his after a night out. I was listening, of course I was, but I didn’t really care because I had a boyfriend, what did I need to know about dating apps for? David, my then boyfriend, was perfect on paper. He had a good job, his own flat, a nice car, a handsome face – all the things you’re supposed to look for in a partner if you’re shallow, but I didn’t care about any of that stuff. I felt so safe with him and when he would lie in bed with me at night, cuddled up in the dark, and he would tell me how all he wanted was for us to get our own place.

  That night we got back to his and had sex, but that’s about all I could tell you about it: that we did it. It wasn’t special or memorable in any way, and when he was done he rolled over, checked his phone and then went to sleep. I climbed over him to go to the bathroom, sat down on the loo and thought about things. About how cold he was, about his new fixation with dating apps – did he tilt his phone away from me when he checked it? I was sure he did. And when I started really thinking about it, he’d changed the passcode on his phone a matter of days ago, because ‘someone at work’ had learned it, and was on a one-man quest to ‘frape’ him – get into his Facebook account and post something embarrassing on his behalf. He never did tell me the new code…alarm bells were ringing so loud they were deafening, and it was making me dizzy.

  I walked back to the bedroom where David was fast asleep, his phone on the bed next to him. That’s when I realised he’d fallen asleep with it unlocked and then I did something I’ve never done before and I’ve never done since – I looked on his phone. I felt sick with myself for looking but that’s nothing compared with how I felt when I looked through his apps and saw Matcher. Still willing to give David the benefit of the doubt, I considered whether or not this might just be curiosity and, with my heart banging hard against my chest, I ventured inside the app. Once in there, I got lost, drowning in a sea of matches and messages from more girls than I probably have in my phone contacts. I still felt like I was reaching, looking for something to grab onto to save me, but all I was seeing was conversations my boyfriend was having with single girls, telling them how he’d been single for a while, how he’d never met any girl that was worth the effort, how he’d love to go on a date with some red-headed girl, a veterinary nurse, some chick over from Australia on holiday for two weeks, a bird looking for ‘no strings’ fun, a single mum all the way in Doncaster – my boyfriend was putting out all kinds of bait and reeling in any fish he could get his hook into.

  I locked his phone, placed it down next to him and climbed back into bed. I woke up and gave him a handful of opportunities to come clean, but he didn’t. It was lie after lie. Even though it was 3am, I packed up my things and I left, because without trust, what’s the point?

  David was my first, proper grown-up relationship, and I thought we were going to be together forever. We were together just over a year, but we got so serious so quickly, we’d be talking about moving in together. Getting a place with David in Leeds was all I wanted. When the shit hit the fan, I thought to myself: who says I need a man to move out of my parents’ place and into the city? That’s probably why I was so quick to move in with Nick, despite not knowing him all that well. He was a means to getting what I wanted, even though it turned out that I did need a man to move out: Nick. I probably would’ve been happier living with my lying, cheating bastard of an ex.

  One of the things I’ve learned about Matcher is that it makes people greedy. Because you can’t just chat to one person, you wind up chatting to a whole bunch of different people. Say you pick just one to go on a date with and wind up having a blast – you don’t think maybe something could go somewhere with this person, you realise just how easy it is to get more dates. Why date one person when you can feasibly date at least four people a week? It’s horrible really. But that’s the world we’re living in now..

  When I first started using Matcher I was very cautious about who I spoke to and I certainly didn’t plan on meeting up with anyone. I knew that Millsy was never off it, and that it allowed him a different girl to sleep with every night, but I didn’t fancy it for myself. ‘Single AF’ as Millsy described me, because the bulk of his vocabulary is internet slang these days, he told me to sign up ‘for the banter’ last year, so I did, and I was surprised when I got talking to one dude who seemed pretty cool called Jack. I chatted with him for two months before I met him – which is ages in online dating world. He had his own place in the centre, he was gorgeous and he seemed really kind and funny – until I met him. Well, when Jack turned up, he looked nothing like his photos at all. He was significantly bigger than he appeared in his pictures, and shorter that I imagined too which didn’t help. He wore these little rimles
s glasses which – and I feel bad for thinking this at the time – made him look a bit like someone you’d expect to find on the sex offenders register, but I can honestly say that I didn’t care, because he was nice, and sweet and kind and funny – except he wasn’t. He didn’t just look different in person, he acted it too. Our chats were friendly and flirtatious, but we’d never really got onto the subject of getting it on, which is why I was surprised when – fifteen minutes into our date – Jack pinned me up against a wall and kissed me like a porno director had just shouted ‘action’. And right in the city centre, on a Tuesday lunchtime too. I wiggled free of his grasp awkwardly, steering him into the nearest shop in an attempt to halt his horses a little. I thought I was being a bit of a prude – which is unlike me – but Jack only got worse. He was like a horny teenager that had been granted unlimited access to boobs for the first time – except he hadn’t. When he wasn’t grabbing me, he was going behind me to try and unzip my dress. I let this go on for fifty minutes – forty-nine minutes longer than this excuse of a date should’ve lasted. Needless to say, this knocked my Matcher confidence and it took me nine months before I even dared to meet anyone again, but I did, and I have continued to meet fellas since, but no one has ever dazzled me. Everyone has been weird or, worse, boring. It’s full of vapid, topknot wankers who bang on about ‘cheeky Nando’s’ and how much they lift at the gym, and are on a one-man quest to shag as many birds as possible by any means necessary – people like Millsy, but he’s OK, because he might be a topknot wanker, but he’s my topknot wanker.

  These days, I don’t really give meeting up with dudes a second thought, and I’d rather do it sooner than later, get it out of the way, see if they’re weird or boring and then move on to the next one if they are. I breeze through it like it’s dull, mindless admin work. This one is no good, on to the next. Unlike Millsy, I’m not sleeping with my dates – I rarely find Matcher dudes tolerable enough to sleep with. Millsy teases me and says I’m weird, but I just can’t fancy someone if I think they’re a bit of a dickhead, no matter how hot they are. This is why Millsy tells me I’m ‘doing Matcher wrong’ because I’m not ‘making the most of the D’.

  So, back to Deano. It sounds strange, but I’m instantly more trusting of ‘known’ people because I feel like they have too much to lose to rape and murder birds they meet on Matcher. Another reason Deano seemed safe was because Millsy could vouch for him – well, the opposite of vouch for him, it turns out. When Millsy was a teenager he had a choice, he could pursue rugby or acting and he chose acting, much to his dad’s disappointment – and his own, to be honest, because he’s really struggled to find work, that’s why he’s so psyched about this Macbeth gig. In an attempt to sort of feel like he was acting and still be a part of the team his dad so wanted him to play for, Millsy took on the job of team mascot, which basically means he dresses in a big, stupid lion costume and roars on the side-lines during games. I often remind him that this particular job neither counts as acting nor being a sportsman, and I think he did feel a little daft to start with until he realised he’d get all the chicks that the real players didn’t want, so he’s quite happy with it now. Millsy has lots of silly little jobs, it’s surprising he’s found time to sleep with the entire female population of Leeds.

  When I found out Deano played for the Lions the first thing I did was ask my lion what he was like.

  ‘He’s a monumental bellend,’ Millsy told me.

  ‘So are you,’ I reminded him playfully.

  ‘He just fucks his way through Matcher.’

  ‘Again – are you talking about you or him?’ I laughed.

  ‘I’m serious, Rubes, most of the team have Matcher and we just use it to plough through girls.’

  ‘You say “we” like you’re one of the team and not the glorified stuffed animal who twerks to “Sexy and I Know It” at halftime,’ I persisted with my teasing, unwilling to take his advice.

  ‘Fine, go out with him, but he isn’t your type. You heard it here first: Ruby wouldn’t.’

  So here I am, with Deano the hooker, and I have to say he scrubs up well. He’s wearing black trousers with a black shirt that his muscles look fit to burst out of. He’s clean-shaven, something that seems to be a rarity amongst the menfolk of Leeds these days, and his short blond hair is perfectly messy.

  A waiter shows us to a quiet corner of Vici, an Italian restaurant. Deano’s choice and one that scores him major brownie points (or tries, if we’re sticking with the rugby theme) because I love Italian food.

  It’s such a romantic setting, with its rustic feel, twinkling fairy lights and soft music – the perfect environment for a date.

  ‘So have you had a good day?’ I ask, making small talk as we wait for our food. I don’t know what it is, but the conversation feels forced and difficult. Deano is quiet, but in a strange way. He’s clearly not shy, he just seems to have nothing to say.

  ‘Good, cheers,’ he replies in his thick Yorkshire accent. ‘I had physio this morning, chilled this afternoon.’

  ‘Cool,’ I reply, giving him a few seconds to ask how my day was, but he doesn’t. ‘Well, mine has sucked. I had a hangover this morning, I was late for work and then a customer was absolutely horrible to me.’

  ‘You should’ve told them to “piss off”,’ he laughs.

  ‘Well, I would’ve liked to, but you know what they say: the customer is always right. Expect when they’re wrong, like today,’ I laugh.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks.

  ‘What do I mean?’ I echo.

  ‘The customer is always right expect when they’re wrong,’ he repeats back to me.

  I can’t help but cock my head and furrow my brow in confusion.

  ‘It’s a joke,’ I tell him. I mean, I know it’s not my best material, but even so.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he tells me.

  ‘Never mind,’ I smile as the waiter sets a steak down in front of Deano and a pizza in front of me.

  As the smell of the food fills my nostrils I feel my mood lift, it looks incredible too. I can’t wait to tuck in, except…

  ‘Come on, what do you mean?’ he persists, clearly annoyed he’s not getting it.

  ‘It’s just a saying, it doesn’t matter. You know what they say: explaining a joke is a like dissecting a frog; you learn a lot but the frog dies in the process.’

  Deano thinks for a second.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks again.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I laugh, taking the pizza slicer and resisting the urge to use it on myself instead of my food. I’ve just realised something: Deano is dumb. Maybe it’s come from years of getting his head stomped on out on the rugby field, I don’t know, but that’s why he’s so quiet, he has nothing to say, and I instantly don’t like anyone who doesn’t get my jokes because personally I think I’m hilarious.

  We eat our food in near perfect silence, with the exception of “That’s Amore” playing in the background, the quiet buzz of everyone else’s conversations, and the sound of Deano chomping on his steak loudly. His steak is so rare I’m surprised I can’t here it mooing – not that it would have a chance to open its mouth at the rate he’s shovelling it down.

  As the waiter heads over to clear our plates, he asks us if we’d like to see the dessert menu. To be honest, I’m bored out of my mind and I want this date to be over, but my pizza was so delicious and I know they have amazing desserts here, and something yummy and sweet would mean the night wasn’t a complete washout.

  ‘Yes please,’ I reply. He promptly brings me a menu, so I start scanning the list.

  ‘They do bomboloni,’ I say excitedly out loud.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Deano asks – his catchphrase it seems.

  ‘They’re Italian doughnuts,’ I reply.

  ‘If it fits your macros,’ he replies, and it’s my turn to be confused.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, followed by a little chuckle be
cause I just inadvertently did a Deano.

  ‘Heavy on the carbs, high in fat – is it really worth it?’

  ‘Dude, they’re doughnuts,’ I remind him. Everyone knows doughnuts are bad for you but we still eat them because they’re doughnuts. And these are Italian, cream-filled doughnuts with chocolate sauce, so they’re super impossible to resist.

  ‘So, what can I get you?’ our very enthusiastic waiter asks.

  ‘Nothing for me, cheers,’ Deano replies.

  ‘Yeah, I think I’ll give it a miss too, thanks,’ I tell him, handing my menu back.

  The enthusiastic waiter’s face falls, like a kid who just found out there’s no Santa Claus. I feel similar inside.

  ‘I’ll get you the bill,’ he tells us.

  It’s not that I’m taking this muscly moron’s advice, but I don’t really want to spend any more time with him. He’s not a bad person, but he’s boring and his priorities are all wrong. Doughnuts above everything.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he tells me, wandering off in the direction of the toilets.

  The only thing stopping me leaving right now is my manners, so I sit and wait until he returns.

  Moments later Deano is back as promised and I am happy because it means I can go home.

  ‘The men’s room was out of order, I had to use the disabled toilet,’ he tells me.

  ‘Good for you,’ I reply, confused as to why he thought I’d be interested, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he did have some kind of brain damage courtesy of his job.

  ‘Anyway, while I was in there, I was just thinking about how much I want to take you in there and fuck you right now.’

  I stare at him blankly, blinking my eyes in disbelief once or twice. Not only is that a pretty gross request anyway, but it’s not like we’ve been getting on, we have zero chemistry and he said no to doughnuts – so why would I want to have sex with him?

  ‘Well, I mean, that’s why they have the handles on the walls, right?’ I joke, no better words coming to mind.