There are two types of couple in the world:
The type of couple who are healthy gym wankers, who go running together and have conversations about carb content, running shoes and personal bests, and then there are the couples who get drunk, eat take always and only break into a jog when they have got five minuets to get to the off licence for more lager before it shuts.
Ever met a couple that has worked out long term where one half’s idea of fun is checking how many calories they have burned on a fitbit and the other one just wants to see how many slices of pizza they can fit into their mouth at one time? Me neither.
I once went out with a personal trainer.
Our first date (chosen by him) was a power walk in the park. Yes, really. I was knackered and gagging for a Greggs sausage roll and a Red Bull ten minuets in, but he was having a great time chatting about his marathon running and the best type of shoes to wear for weight lifting.
I was very honest with him and told him that exercise and healthy eating really wasn’t my thing – I was quite thin then, thanks to all the cigarettes and energy drinks I lived off, so that fact wasn’t as painfully obvious as it is now that the kebabs have taken their toll– but he kept on trying to turn me to a life of treadmills and yoga. I cut the date short, feigning a stitch, and I headed to the pub for a well-earned fag and a pint of Fosters.
He was rather a good looking chap though, if a little sinewy (I do like a real man with a bit of a beer paunch) so I agreed to see him again. He asked me where I would like to go and funnily enough, I said, “let’s just go to the pub”, because a) I am classy like that and b) it’s more fun than walking and trying to hold a conversation when you can’t catch your breath and your knickers are working their way up your arse crack.
Turned out he didn’t drink. He ordered sparkling water as I necked the pints and after an awkward couple of hours where I proceeded to get more and more drunk and sat there talking at him, it was very clear we didn’t have much in common. It also turned out, a few hours later, that he had the smallest penis I have ever seen, kissed like an over excited Labrador and was apparently quite frightened of female genitalia. We didn’t see each other again.
Sexual compatibility is also really important. There is nothing worse than being really up for it all the time with a partner who can take it or leave it, especially when you have just started seeing each other and even them letting out an ear splitting fart doesn’t stop you from wanting to jump on their cock at every opportunity.
Sexting is a great way of telling early on if you are sexually compatible. I like a bit of a sext, twitter fuck or Facebook messenger fumble now and again, especially if we are in that boring time of year in between the Apprentice finishing and Celebrity Big Brother starting and I need entertainment of an evening.
I’d been seeing a man for a little while (truthfully, probably only for a few hours) when I sent him this text:
Me: “I’m really wet.”
Him: “Aww, hun! Did you get caught in the rain?”
He was serious.
It didn’t work out. I like a man who can talk like a dirty sailor on rum, and he was just too prim and proper. The one dirty text he sent me read: “Gosh, I would love to diddle with your bits this evening” which had the effect of making me piss myself laughing rather than gush forth with horniness. I never actually slept with him, but I have a feeling he was the kind of chap who would shake your hand and say thank you after he’s blown his load while calling you Mummy.
What films and Television you like is pretty high up there with ranking compatibility too. There is only so much shagging and so many takeaways that can be eaten in one weekend, so at some point, the entertainment has to be something other than seeing how many times he can make you cum in an hour.
For me, crass American cartoons, Zombies and Sci-Fi are good, anything slushy, serious or highbrow is bad. One of my boyfriends liked rom-coms. He used to cry at them and then wonder why I wasn’t up for a shag afterwards. He also loved watching Friends and worryingly, the actually quite controlling and emotionally bullying Ross was his hero.
“Do you think we will be like Ross and Rachel?” He used to ask me, staring at me wistfully and annoying twiddling my hair.
We lasted two months before I had to dump his nauseating arse. He then bombarded me with sickly sweet love letters for the next six weeks – honestly, I would have preferred abusive texts calling me a bitch.