Seven dates with seven men in seven days

Over the last week I've had, as the title above suggests, seven dates with seven men in seven days. Or at least I've organised seven dates with seven men in seven days. The breakdown is as follows:

Saturday: I had a lunch date scheduled with a 37 year old restauranteur, but, for the first time in my life, I was stood up.

We were supposed to meet in a little cafe at 11.30am. I prettied myself up, drove for half an hour to his part of the city, found somewhere to park, walked ten minutes to the cafe, arrived dead on 11.30am and ordered a coffee. Three minutes later I texted him to let him know I was there. Twenty five minutes after that, I texted him to let him know that I was no longer there. I spent half an hour window shopping, just in case he texted or called, but there was nothing. So I walked back to my car and drove home.

That afternoon I contacted him through Scruff, but there was no response. The texts have gone unanswered too. His Scruff profile still exists but it hasn't shown any activity since Saturday morning, about two hours before our date was supposed to be.

The funny thing is that he messaged me the previous night to make sure the date was still on. I'd replied enthusiastically.

I can only guess that he had some major mental breakdown and couldn't handle meeting the guy he's been gushing at for the last week. In which case I've dodged a bullet.

Sunday: Late at night I had another date with UAM... if you can call two hours of hot, hard and extremely noisy sex a "date".

Monday: I had a date with a 29 year old catering worker.

It was an odd experience. When I got to the smart inner city bar I texted him to let him know I'd arrived, and ordered myself a vodka martini. A couple of minutes later he texted me back, saying that he was still at home, having been cleaning and rearranging furniture all afternoon.

Apparently this date was so unimportant that he'd missed the start because he'd become caught up in housework and lost track of time.

I texted back to tell him that I'd be there for another half an hour finishing my drink, so whether he wanted to come down, reschedule or cancel was up to him.

Nearly half an hour later, just as I was finishing my martini, he texted to say that he'd finished the job, had a shower, and was heading out the door. So having missed the start of the date, he'd actually stayed and finished what he was doing before getting ready and coming down.

Whatever. In many ways he was a bit of a feral - beer drinker, low grade job, badly in need of some remedial dentistry. But every time I thought I had him pegged he's use an obscure word, or mention an interest, or refer to a course of study, that marked him as being clever or well-cultivated.

We hugged each other goodbye, with promises to get together again, but I strongly suspect that I'll never see or hear from him again.

Tuesday: I had a drink with a 40 year old Italian pianist.

We met at one of my favourite small bars, full of hipsters in flannelette shirts and unruly beards. We had a little trouble with the bouncers, who were keen to uphold a bizarre law that patrons were not allowed in after 7.30pm with open shoes, and my date was wearing sandals. The fact that there were patrons inside in thongs, who'd arrived before 7.30pm, wasn't an issue in their minds. Fortunately the bartenders stepped in for me and persuaded the bouncers to bend the (incredibly stupid) rules, and soon my date and I were chatting and sipping swanky cocktails.

He was a nice guy, very easy to talk to, and we got on well. We've already made plans to go out again.

Wednesday: I had dinner with the guy with whom I had a stripper-mandated pash on Valentine's Day.

We went to a cool new Japanese fusion restaurant for dinner. Then he drove me up to a secluded park with views out over the city skyscrapers, and when we got out of the car, he produced a picnic blanket, a bottle of champagne, and a basket of strawberries and chocolates. We lay on the blanket, talking and kissing and drinking champagne.

It's the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. Which says more about my mediocre love life than the grandeur of the gesture.

Thursday: I met up with a 37 year old insurance underwriter.

The date did not start auspiciously. I'd asked to meet him at a franchised coffee house in a nearby suburb. Just as I got there, dead on time, he texted to say that he was inside. But when I got inside, he was nowhere to be seen.

I instantly guessed what had happened. Despite the fact that I'd given him the exact address, and despite the fact that this cafe was closer to his house, he'd gone to another branch of the same franchise in the next suburb over.

To add insult to injury, he insisted that I come to him, since he'd already bought me a coffee.

So I had to walk back to my car, drive over to the next suburb, find a parking space (which wasn't easy... one of the reasons why I'd chosen the OTHER cafe over this one), then walk to the cafe and find him.

He seemed nice enough. Relatively easy to talk to, and only a little weird.

Friday: I saw this guy again, whom I have continued to see even though he remains a model of sang froid.

Much as it helps the ego to date a different man every night for a week, I don't think I'll be attempting it again. It was exhausting.

And of course I'd much rather just date one man every night for a week. But that doesn't seem to be on the cards right now.