I went tangoing again this week; this time to a very trrrrrendy place full of trrrrrendy kids. I’d forgotten what men with fashion hairstyles looked like. If I’m honest, I wasn’t that pleased to see them. It was like going out in London’s fashionable Hackney where you immediately feel really old and boring because you’re not wearing the contents of a charity shop layered over laddered tights, you don’t go to a weekly organic guitar-making class and you do don’t run a business supplying cupcakes to shabby chic East End pubs.

Nonetheless, concealed amongst them were some real gems: it was sort of like walking into a fantasy only it was real life. It being winter here, many of them were even sporting my most favouritist man thing: NICE JUMPERS. They sat at rickety tables drinking cerveza and laughing heartily with each other. With only a few exceptions most of them had the appearance of being single.

Why is there not a venue like this in London? WHY? The place was crawling with fitness!

I was a little annoyed about this because a) I was there to learn tango rather than to make significant glances at men – so had not made any sort of an effort with my appearance and b) I was not drinking so found myself incapable of even making eye contact  with them, let alone talking. At one point as I stood at the bar queuing for a diet coke, a  nice-looking gentleman leaned over and said “there’s a group of men making crude comments about you in Spanish on your left hand side. You don’t understand what they’re saying, do you?” I shook my head and went bright red. “Do you want me to pretend I’m ‘with’ you?” he asked, mimicking as if to put his arm round me.

Sober and thus incapable of so much as looking at him, I muttered “no, you’re alright” to his left elbow and then left the bar area at a gallop.

This is probably something I need to work on.

Anyway, I did some tango, continued to love it – even felt a little bit sexy, y’know – and then left in a taxi somewhere in the region of 3am. I was a bit fed up with myself for having such a spack attack about being sober, and thus ignoring the golden opportunities that come with being in a room full of beautiful men, but resolved to return next week to give it a crack.

When I got back to my apartment block I paused outside to stare at the bar/restaurant/cafe/whatever it is opposite which contains many fit men (as previously discussed). Perving quite openly from the steps of my building I didn’t notice that a very tall hombre with a nice scarf round his neck and a slightly improprietous look in his eye was standing next to me. I have no idea where he came from or when he arrived; whether he had walked along the street and stopped, whether he had just come out of my building or whether he was simply transported directly from heaven on the back of the angel Gabriel. Either way, he frightened me.

“ARRGHHHH!!!!” I screamed by way of greeting. He smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t vant to scare you.”


“NO, IT’S OK, YOU DIDN’T, NOT EVEN A TINY BIT, I AM JUST  HIGHLY STRUNG” I screamed, and then realised that this is a faux-pas in just about every imaginable respect. Screaming? Lying? Telling a hot stranger that you are highly strung? Way to go!

After I had made up some further lies regarding my spying/perving activities we started chatting on my step. We chatted for a good thirty minutes. I would like to say that it was a clear night and that the stars shone above us as we gazed into each others’ eyes; I’m afraid the reality is that it was overcast and a bit humid (how is it possible to be cold and humid?) and that because I was still feeling a bit sober and bashful I barely looked at him. He was too good-looking, there would have been no point. Here is all you need to know about him at this stage:

1. His name is Will (Vill)

2. He is, um, 26

3. He is here for another three months.

4. My initial feeling that he had an improprietous look in his eye was, I think, incorrect. He actually seems very nice and in no way lewd. Either that or he was pretending.

5. I would like to french kiss him.

To cut a long story short, we are going on a non-date tomorrow night. Non-date in that we will be in the same place at the same time and have exchanged Argentine phone numbers and have had a text banter conversation today.

I won’t lie, I’m a bit excited. But nervous. I’ve never dabbled with a Younger Man before. Reader G (are you still out there, G?) once suggested I embrace a bit of cougardom and although I admired her own efforts in this arena I rejected the suggestion on the grounds that it was ‘not for me.’

But now I am in the land of passion and steak and wine. I am thirty and single. Anything is possible. Vatch this space.


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