It would appear that 2012 is shaping up to be the year of first dates. It is a strange but not unpleasant phenomenon. While most of these first dates haven’t been that extraordinary, the latest one proved quite remarkable.

It was the kind of first date that could only be devised, scripted and filmed in a popular television series. In fact, if it hadn’t actually happened to me, I wouldn’t have believed these sort of things really happen. But they do. Let me paint you the picture…

It’s a Friday night. I’m rocking it with some new friends and we end up mucking around on some “dating” apps. I say “dating” because these apps are really just pieces of software designed to help you get your end away. You know the apps I’m talking about, right? You create a profile and “matches” are served up based on your location. I say “matches” because there is no real art or science of matchmaking involved. There’s no personality profiling and no specific searching. It’s just a picture of someone who is nearby and is more than likely “up for a good time”.

Gay folk have Grindr. Heteros have Blendr.

So I’m on Blendr. And it’s fun, it’s silly and it’s mostly harmless. Yes, I was sent a cock shot. Yes, I had multiple offers of sex. And yes, I exchanged numbers with a couple of guys. But! I was all talk and went home alone.

So it’s Saturday. I’m heading to a costume party and I’m in line at the Spotlight cutting counter. The phone rings and its an unknown number. I answer and it’s a Blendr boy. I blush, make some small talk, but hastily hang up as I need to get some Lycra cut. Eventually, I call him back and we arrange to catch up the following day.

So it’s Sunday. I’m drastically hungover from the previous nights shenanigans. Somehow, I manage to drag my sorry butt out of bed, into a cute frock and out of the apartment to a local pub. We meet, he’s cute, and we get on reasonably well. However, as we’re both exhausted the date ends early and he offers to drop me home. Instead, I ask for a ride to Coles so I can grab a few things. I expect him to drop me off, but he parks the car and comes into the shops with me. It’s a bit weird.

Afterwards, he drops me home. As I get out of the car a gust of wind blows my incredibly cute frock up over my head. I turn scarlet and drop all my groceries. He sees everything. As I scramble to keep my dress down and pick my shopping up, I gasp and exclaim “welcome to my life!”.

And before you ask – yes, I had terrible undies on.

During the date I had tried to explain to him my clumsy and ridiculous nature. Can you believe he doubted me?

A second date remains to be seen.

Oh Internets, it's been so long I hardly know where to start. With the hot Columbian who appeared at my door on a Sunday evening or with the ever so eager 21 year old former virgin? Yes, it's been one of those months. I've been run off my feet with work, trying desperately to create time for myself and yet somehow, men are everywhere.

Maybe it's a summer thing?

Clearly, Operation: Hold Out Until I Meet the Love of My Life hasn't been going well. Am I any closer to meeting a leading man? Well, I would like to think so. At least I've figured out that I definitely want one. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I'm very distractible and not good at waiting. I was always one of those kids hunting for Christmas presents and spending hours under the tree trying to guess what the they were. Delayed gratification is not something I do very well. 

And I confess I have been somewhat hesitant to share my recent exploits on this blog lest a potential suitor read it and become terrified/overly judgemental. But, as a friend reminded me recently,  I have to make a choice. A choice between possibly offending the potential love of my life, or offending my  small yet exceedingly loyal readership, who have come to depend upon the tales of my single lady shenanigans. 

The reality is that lately I have been totally preoccupied being a very busy and important career woman who contemplates the future. How a woman in her soon to be late-twenties, fighting for equal pay and other feminist-y and social justice-y things is ever meant to find the time for writing between all of her sewing, cooking and shagging, I will never know. But I shall continue to try.

Of course, none of these rambling excuses changes the fact that life has once again served one Miss Anne with a remarkable sort of man-flood. One that will no doubt dry straight back up the minute I hit 'publish' on this post (actually, a week after I began writing this, it already has).  But there is one little gem that cannot go unrecorded.

May the world know that during November 2010, a not-so-young Miss Anne had sex sober for the first time. And what a time it was. All thirty seconds of it. The gentleman's visit was so brief, I was not even sure I should record the event in my iPhone period tracker ap*. I did. And the little love heart that appears on that day to signify my experience of being "intimate" continues to mock me.

And as for all the potential loves of my life reading this feeling mildly horrified/judgemental, you should probably know that I'm not sorry. Why have a blog if it cannot be used to record one of the more ridiculous moments of casual sex known to man?

And as for my lovely 5 – 10 readers, I never stopped loving you. I'm sorry I've been gone for so long.

*Yes, that's right. I have a period tracker ap on my iPhone. I love it. It's like having a diary for my vagina. I can program in my moods, my food cravings, my acne levels. And! It's really, really cute – the background 'flowers' when I'm fertile.

 So I've been getting a lot of advice lately. And considering that I have a great job and a great flat, the only thing that's really left for me to be getting advice about is relationships. I once casually commented to a friend that while I am good at many, many things, getting into a relationship is not one of them. And while at the time I think I was deflecting the ever prickly "How are you still single?" question, I actually think the statement is quite accurate. Heck, my ineptitude on this matter could easily be seen as a 'key theme' of this blog. But I have a bit of a problem. While people love dispensing advice on this issue, it tends to be very conflicting. Currently, the advice seems to be centred around the following themes:

1. Hold out for the right guy, he'll come along
2. Be less picky – get out there and just let someone (anyone!) into your life
3. Just chill the frick out

Confused and vaguely irritated by all of this I decided to have a look at the Selection Criteria I developed a little over a year ago. Interestingly, it seems that the streams of advice I was receiving at the time were much the same as they are now. And I still concur with the realisation that lead me to develop them – that not having Selection Criteria can lead to some serious, unmitigated disasters. 

A lot has happened in a year and the lessons I've learnt have changed the criteria in some rather unexpected ways. There are some fundamental incompatibilities in the mix that I never even considered. Like a requiring a man to fit into latex-free condoms – they don't come in extra-large. Seriosuly. Who'd have thought something like that could ever be a problem? Turns out, it's pretty significant.**

So I've revised the Selection Criteria. The following is a list of qualities that I am looking for in a man in October, 2010. And before you get all high'n'mighty about me using this list to keep men away I would just like to comment that not only do I reserve the right to throw the Criteria out the window for someone I really like, but that I think you should be proud of me. I actually think there are less criteria than before.

And! I know that men like this exist, it's just they don't always meet SC6 -but they do help me keep the faith.

—————

SC1 – Demonstrated ability to empathise with others and respect difference. 

SC2 – Demonstrated ability to maintain a non-judgmental attitude towards others – including their partner in crime.

SC3 - Demonstrated capacity to maintain witty and articulate communications with partner in crime and key stakeholders.

SC4 – An understanding of basic design principles, including an appreciation of vintage art deco fonts. 

SC5 – An interest in or passion for a creative endeavour. Creative endeavours may include, but are not limited to writing, photography, art or web design.

SC6 – Must. Be. Single.

**While I have not included this as a specific criteria, I think it probably falls under SC 1 & 2. I need a lover who would be respectful and understanding of my oh-so-sensitive skin. Also, I think it would be a bit crass to have a selection criteria around penis size.

*tap tap tap* 

Is thing on?

Right. Okay. 

*cough*

Okay…. My name is Anne, and I like younger men.

There. I said it. And look, I know you already know this, but the truth is I have been living in denial. I've commented on the issue of younger men before, but I think it is time I admit to myself (and the world) that this is more than a partiality. It's a god damned proclivity (gosh doesn't that sound filthy!).

In the past I have made excuses, like "it's probably just the places I'm hanging out" or "they're the only ones with the balls to approach me", but the reality is, I just like them. If you were to line three fella's up in the street, odds are I would pick the younger of the lot. Provided they looked like a man of course. Indeed, it is my rather pervy habit of ogling men in the street as my bus drives through the city that has prompted me to confront this preference. The ones that get double takes are all so young. But so hot. 

So how young is young? In recent discussions with fellow single ladies, the +/- 10 rule was mentioned. But I feel that at my current age this would be inappropriate as my lower limit would be 17. That's just wrong. So for now I'm working with a +/- 5 rule. But it's usually -'s. And occasionally, – 6's. Although the last – 6 was a particular incident that led to incredible outrage and sexual frustration, so I probably wouldn't do that again. 

I am still trying to figure out exactly what it is about the young ones that I love so much. There's that well groomed, clean cut, wholesome look they seem to do so, so well. I like that. A lot. And throw in some dark hair and dark eyes – and an occasionally swept fringe . . . . 

Then there's the earnestness, that hope and optimism for life that seems to float around them – all things are possible, including the bedding one Ms Anne. I suspect I like this because I need to be around people whose zest for life is similar to my own. This earnestness abounds among the younger kind, they haven't yet been made hard by too many broken hearts. My own psychological introspection whispers to me that this is probably a symptom of my own virginal heart, which has yet to experience proper love and as such has only been bruised and never fully broken.

Although I find myself in somewhat of a quandary because more often than not, the younger fellas are missing that level of self-assurance without arrogance, which I find extremely attractive. I guess that sort of thing comes with age, however my much less significant forays into the +'s seem to indicate that that type of confidence in oneself is reasonably rare, which is unsettling in itself. 

And that's another thing! Sometimes I think I like younger men because it is okay for me to feel older than them. Why would I want to feel older? Probably because my experiences have made me realise that being with a man who is physically older than you, but always makes you feel like the grown up is utterly infuriating. If I'm going to feel old either way, it might as well be with someone younger than me who is a smokin' hottie and a snappy dresser.

So there. I've done it – confessed! I am not ashamed.

Okay, that's a lie, I am ashamed, but in a bemused "I cannot quite believe myself" sort of way. Like when I fall over in public or realise my discussions about my vagina were a lot louder than I thought.

I am not quite a Cougar yet. They definitely operate in +/- 10-15 range. I like to think of myself as more of a Snow Leopard – young(er), cute(er) and just as sassy.