I was three hours into my second date with Jamie, the hot musician, and despite my best attempts at conversation, we'd already had several painfully long silences. But my ears pricked up when he told me that he plays the saxophone, and considers himself an "expert on the staccato double-tonguing" technique.
There is only one phrase uttered during the course of a date that has more significance than the pick-up line, and I call it "the closer". This is the phrase that convinces a woman, who still may be undecided, to go back to his place.
"Want to come back to mine and have coffee?" he asked. Jamie and I may not have had a meeting of minds, but this sounded too good to resist.
I wasn't disappointed: Jamie has a fetish for going down on women, without them reciprocating. At first I found it strange, but I have to admit that, after years of dealing with men who only occasionally boarded the downtown bus, it was amazing to have someone who treated it as a daily commute.
My orgasm was mind-blowing, but I have to confess that the spell was broken afterwards, when he grabbed his guitar and insisted on singing me one of his new songs. It was truly awful, but I smiled and pretended to be touched.
On our third date, he invited me to see his band play a gig in a skanky bar near Whitechapel, where the toilets looked like something out of Trainspotting. That's when I found out that Jamie's skills in the bedroom don't translate on stage. His new band was heavy metal, and it sounded like cats being strangled. But afterwards, he took me home again and we had an encore oral session. I was getting hooked.
The next night he asked me to hear his band again, but I suggested we meet in a bar afterwards instead. "It's the groupies, isn't it?" he asked. "Don't be intimidated, honey, I only have eyes for you!"
I didn't have the heart to point out that, of the half-dozen people in the audience, only two had been women – and they were the waitresses.
After half an hour of waiting for him, I started to think I had the wrong address. Finally, he called me at 11pm with a lame story about how his phone had run out of credit. He sounded pissed, and invited me back to his flat. With the men I usually date, who have day jobs and responsibilities, I would have kicked them to the kerb there and then. But the chemistry between us was intense, so I agreed.
When I got to the door, he embarked on a long drunken diatribe about his " place in the universe", saying that he could never get a normal job because he "didn't have the right head space". That's when I realised that, to date a musician, I'd have to morph into a mix of fan-club president and psychiatrist. Much as I love creative men, I know that with one insane artist already in the relationship (me), it's going to be tough to add another to the mix.
Still, he's fun, has some serious oral skills, and looks great in leather trousers. I guess I'll just have to buy myself some earplugs.