There’s a reason why I don’t go on dates; they’re awkward, nerve-wracking and fucking embarrassing. So obviously I went on one last week, well sort of. It was only a drink but it’s a step in the right direction after four years of nothing. Indeed, the one and only proper date I’ve been on was about five years ago. It was so bad I ended up paying for both of us to go to the cinema just so I wouldn’t have to talk to him; suffice to say we never made it to round two.
But anyway, last week found me in a bar. The trouble with bars is that they’re noisy. You end up shouting at your date or missing out on entire chunks of conversation. It also means you have to stand closer to them, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing but then when that inevitable awkward silence comes into force, you have no where to look except their face, smiling like a goon.
The only real redeeming quality of getting to know someone in a bar is the alcohol. It helps to loosen the tongue. Unfortunately it has another side effect.
After bullshitting my way (badly) through the evening like I do on most job interviews, he leaned in for a kiss. I’d like to say our lips met in a crushing-life-altering kiss, but then I’d be lying. It was so much more erotic than that. I burped in his mouth.
Yes you read that right.
I BURPED IN HIS MOUTH.
Shame didn’t colour my cheeks, it flooded the place. Stupid, stupid Corona.
Next time I’ll stick with the wine.

