For 20 minutes today I chatted to a lovely chap on OKC. We talked about horror movies, the kind of music we like and how we like our tea.
It seemed to be going well.
I had a good feeling about this one.
And then this happened:
ME: So, what do you do for fun? (after he had asked me what I do for fun and I had responded with the usual: reading, writing, dog stuff blah blah).
HIM: Do you want the vanilla answer?
ME: Oh god, you're going to talk about sex aren't you.
HIM: Are you intrigued?
ME: Not really. I only asked what you do for fun. You know. Bowling maybe? Cinema?
HIM: I, er, have a hosiery fetish.
ME: Bit soon doncha think mate?
HIM: You're so boring.
It's not that he has a fetish. Lordy, don't we all. I mean, I don't. Pure as the driven snow. But really? 20 minutes in? When all you've spoken about so far is horror films and tea?
Even if I had been looking for a quick bang behind the bins or a bit of online how's yer father, it takes a BIT longer than that to warm me up.
Straight from Carrie's good isn't it, yes it is good, I like Stephen King to HEAR ABOUT MY TIGHTS FETISH, is so crass. So teenage. So lacking in finesse and style.
Oh no, sorry, it's not that. It's me. I'm BORRRRRRRRRRRRRRINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG.