Gelato Pt. I
As we know by now, I’m a big fan of fck boys. They’re funny, and I like them.
But my friends do not like them. Any of them. And they’re always saying I need a nice one. So just to show them how LostItGirl being with a nice boy works out, I decided to go on a date with a “Mr Nice”. Just as a kind of case study.
Below are the results:
We talk, and to be honest he has bars. I mean, he isn’t funny, but he has chat.
He voice notes and he sounds like a robot. I throw up some sick in my mouth.
I play voice note to a friend. I’m now ready to pull out of the experiment. I’m told that “voice notes can make people nervous, give him a chance.” I reply: “Don’t fckin send voice notes then.”
I learn he works with handicapped kids. NICE.
He likes dogs. NICE.
He hasn’t at any point asked for nudes. NICE.
He doesn’t have Facebook. NICE and hot.
He doesn’t watch Love Island. NICE and hot.
Decide he is the perfect candidate for this ‘nice guy’ everyone’s talking about, so I’ll give it a go. After the voice note I already know I’m going to hate him, but he’s the lab rat and I’m the scientist.
I definitely do hate him. His WhatsApp picture is him with his mum. Sure, he looks hot, and his mum was a bit of a milf. And all men should respect their mothers to the highest extent. That’s great if you do, in fact it’s to be encouraged. But if I’m gonna start sexting you, I don’t really want to send my tits to a picture of your mum looking back at me.
He sent me a picture of his dinner which I ain’t even asked for. It had the attached recipe. I didn’t read it. Clearly he wants to show me he can cook. I don’t give a fck mate. I certainly don’t wanna see a picture of what you made, unless perhaps requested. Like, we weren’t even talking about food, just unannounced I found some bullshit fish supper in my inbox. And I sure as shit don’t care about your lime drizzle from ten feet up.
My hate is growing. He suggests that we meet up. Text reads as follows:
“Cool, I’m thinking we grab some gelato, head for St James Park, strut a little, soak up some afternoon rays and go from there…”
First, sorry but wtf is a gelato? Also, no. The queens on Ru Paul’s Drag Queen strut. I do not strut. And certainly not in public round a park. Also, I don’t know you; I’m not strutting round a park with a stranger clutching some bullshit ice cream (I’ve since learned that gelato is different from ice cream because it contains more milk, less cream, and is churned slower leaving it denser). Get all of that the fck outta my face.
Maybe some of you think all roads lead to him being perfectly nice and cute? Fine. You have him.
All of it is creeping me the fck out, and so I consult with some friends. General consensus is that this isn’t the guy for me, but perhaps I should just go because you never know. Well maybe they never know, but I do. Is also suggested “it will make for a good blog” so I am sent on my way…
I reply to his strut around a park text (I can’t at this point get the image out of my head of him turning up in his mum’s patent red heels whilst clutching two melting ice cream cones).
I simply ignore the suggestion and write: “Maybe let’s just find a pub and grab a beer outside…”
The findings will be presented tomorrow… TBC