Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (7 page)

…and the shoes.

…and good God yes – the bike as well.

It was about four degrees outside and pitch black. This guy has turned up to a date wearing a thin lycra body stocking that makes him look like a neon dildo.

I saw him ride up on the mountain bike through the window.

Café
Leon
is not blessed with a back door so I had nowhere to run.

I then watched with a sinking heart as he spent a good five minutes padlocking the bike to the railings outside. It takes him that long as he has
three
separate locks to clip round the frame and both tyres.

He double checks each one before walking away from the bike.

…then goes back and triple checks.

It’s plain that even if Graham turns out to be a wonderful guy who I fall head over heels in love with, I’ll be spending most of my time warring for his affections with the bloody bicycle.

Having established that his beloved mode of transport is less likely to be stolen than the contents of
Fort
Knox
, Graham makes his way into the coffee house crotch first.

I’ve never seen a man pull this off before (no pun intended) but he manages it. Some people lead with their heads, others lead with their feet. Graham leads with his penis.

The poor little bugger looks quite hamstrung and deeply uncomfortable in those shorts, but Graham doesn’t appear to be bothered.

He smiles broadly at me and comes over to the table.

‘Good evening! You must be Laura!’

It’s not just his clothes that are loud.

‘Yes, that’s me. Are you Graham?’

I say this with a small catch in my voice. It’s the last dying vestige of hope that there has been some kind of colossal mistake and Captain
Crotchbulge
is in fact here to meet some other poor unfortunate girl called Laura.

‘I am indeed!’

Bugger.

Graham sits down, his legs as far apart as is humanly possible – putting his genitals on display for the world to see.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he barks, ‘been on a ten mile ride and got lost in myself.’

What?

I’ve been lost in
Hastings
, Milton Keyes and
Florida
, but never ‘
in myself
’.

Was this some kind of euphemism for masturbation I’d never heard of? If so, how did he manage to keep peddling?

‘Ah… okay. Well, don’t worry. I only just got here myself.’ I reply, a suspicious look creeping across my face. There was every chance I was on a date with a lunatic.

‘What can I get you to drink, Laura?’

‘Flat white with an extra shot of espresso please.’ I’d been up since five in the morning so this seems like an appropriate order.

‘Gotcha!’ he says… and does gun fingers.

You know what gun fingers are, don’t you?

It’s when people point their index finger at you and stick their thumb up.

I say people… I mean
twats
.

It was a miracle he didn’t make ‘
peow
peow
’ gun noises as he did it.

Graham’s penis gets out of the chair and the rest of him follows it up to the counter.

I’ve never claimed to be a great judge of someone’s character from a first impression, but I’m fairly sure I’ve got a handle on Graham.

This is the type of guy who revels in strenuous outdoor activities. I’m sure he’s no stranger to paragliding, rock climbing, spelunking and extreme mountain biking.

He has a carefully controlled diet no doubt - and probably checks his own faeces for fibre on a regular basis.

I couldn’t hear him place his order at the counter, but I was willing to bet vital parts of my anatomy he was ordering something with
soya
in it...

I hate exercise.

This is because I am a normal twenty first century woman.

Exercise is only to be undertaken when a look in the mirror and a four pound gain on the scales demand it.

It is
not
something to be done in place of more entertaining pastimes, such as eating chocolate, watching soaps or having sex.

I’m pretty sure Graham would happily forego all of those things for a chance to cycle up the side of
Ben Nevis
in a force nine gale.

He’s probably watched every TV show Bear
Grylls
has ever made.

My thoughts are interrupted by Graham’s penis as he brings our drinks over. My flat white looks delicious. His latte looks anaemic.

‘Here you go, Laura!’ he booms. ‘That’s a lot of caffeine you’ve got there… you want to watch how much you’re drinking. It can cause a lot of gastrointestinal problems.’

Wow. He’s got the charming small talk off to a tee.

‘Yeah... thanks for the advice,’ I reply. I then take a gamble: ‘How’s your
decaff
soy latte?’

‘It’s great!’

Hah!

Graham slurps his coffee and I start to wish those gastrointestinal problems would strike me down right now.

‘Stephanie tells me you’ve been single for ages!’ Graham says, with no trace of tact whatsoever.

‘Um. A few months, yes.’

‘Yeah, me too! Been far too busy with work and the biking. Just haven’t had the time to squeeze a woman in!’

‘Has something changed then?’ I ask, wondering if he’s finally given up on trying to have sex with his mountain bike and wants to return to basics.

‘No, not really, but
Stepho
filled me in about you and showed me your picture - and you looked hot enough to have a go at!’

Oh good God.

‘That’s…
nice
. I certainly wish she’d told me more about you,’ I say, biting the rim of my polystyrene coffee cup.

‘Yeah, I’ve got a really interesting lifestyle. You’d love it.’

‘A lot of mountain biking involved is there?’

‘Absolutely! I’m about to enter the annual
Lake District
hundred mile cross country challenge.’

Really? I’m about to enter a state of abject despair.

 
‘That sounds difficult.’

‘It is! Going to be a real challenge, but I’ve been training for six months now. That’s why I was out riding before coming here. Can’t stop my regime just to meet up with a woman you know!’

‘No, no. It’s perfectly understandable that you’d put your training ahead of dressing to impress.’ I try to inject as much sarcasm into that statement as I can. It falls on deaf ears.

‘That’s right! I’m glad you understand!’ Graham takes another gulp of his pointlessly healthy coffee. ‘You sound like the kind of girl who likes to be active, just like me!’

Do I?

‘Do you bike Laura?’

I’m pretty sure ‘bike’ isn’t a verb, but I choose not to point it out. ‘I’ve got one in the shed. It’s pink.’

‘Do much riding?’

‘Not recently.’

Graham springs to his feet. ‘Come on then!’

‘What?’

‘Come on… let’s go outside. You can have a go on mine!’

I look with disbelief from Graham’s earnest face to the dark, cold winter evening beyond the café window. ‘Now?’

‘Yeah! Why the hell not?’

Because I’m not a bloody mentalist, that’s why, you stupid walking dildo.

‘Um… it’s a bit cold, isn’t it?’

‘Nah! Just brisk!’

Before I know it Graham has grabbed my hand and is pulling me to my feet.

The force of his sheer idiocy overwhelms my reluctance and I’m powered towards the door with a stunned expression on my face.

Outside, the elements batter my cardigan clad body. Graham appears completely impervious to the biting chill of the March wind.

The multiple locks come off the mountain bike and before I can protest further, Graham is waggling the handle bars in my direction. ‘Hop on then! It’s got active suspension, so it’s the most comfortable ride you’ll ever have!’

Shivering, I take the bike and try to mount it. It’s a man’s bike and my jeans are far too tight, so instead of throwing one leg over the bar I whack my knee on the frame.

‘
Oopsie
daisy!’ Graham says with a chuckle.

Oopsie
fucking daisy?

I’ve probably just broken my patella and all he can offer in the way of commiseration is the kinds of phrase my
Nan
stopped using in the fifties?

‘Never mind. These things can be a bit difficult to get the hang of, especially if you’re a girl on a guy’s bike.’ His tone is so patronising I want to kick him in the penis.

I never,
ever
intend to see Graham again for as long as I live. This ‘date’ will end with me handing over a fake phone number and showing him my heels as quickly as possible.

However
, I’m not going to let the little bastard get one over on me like this.

I don’t like being patronised at the best of times, and I certainly am
not
going to let this walking sex toy with a handlebar fixation get away with it.

With a grunt of effort I stretch my leg over the cross bar, fighting against the tight jeans for all I’m worth. Having successfully negotiated my way onto the bike I sit back on the saddle with a look of hardcore female determination in my eyes.

I must show this prick that women are capable of riding a stupid man’s mountain bike!

‘Good girl! Well done!’ he cries with delight. I avoid looking down at his crotch just in case he’s started to get an erection.

My heeled foot fumbles around on one pedal for a few moments, before finally getting a decent amount of purchase.

I push away with the other leg and I’m off…

I’m sure there are things in this world that are more difficult than riding a full suspension mountain bike designed for a six foot man, when you’re in three inch heels, spray on jeans and a thin cardigan, but none immediately spring to mind.