The telephone build-up had been most promising. A, a 37-year old Tel Avivit whose telephone number had been given to me by my kiosk friend Sam, was clearly vivacious, intelligent and worldly.
And the initial chat, after taking our seats at the bar, was even more encouraging. A clearly knew as much about punk and indie music as I did, and considerably more about film. I was having a good time on a blind date, at last!
A remarked how surprised she was that I am single.
“Yes,” I thought to myself in a Seinfeldesque aside, “it is rather surprising, isn’t it?”
A had just got back from her first visit to London, and was having difficulty comprehending how I could have left it for the “Third World”.
After twenty minutes or so, and flowing with the positive vibes, A’s refreshing directness and, of course, her compliment, I decided to throw in a flirty little tease.
“Who knows . . . perhaps if things work out between us, we can move to London.”
A spent a few seconds digesting the proposition.
“That depends if you fuck good.”
I managed to remain on my stool, though – in order to regain my composure (lost not only as a result of A’s grammatical error) – I needed to buy some valuable seconds of my own.
“That Depends If You Fuck Good . . . Who was that by? Shakespeare?”
The banter continued. But my interest did not.
True, my physical attraction to A had anyway been borderline – almost my default category these days – but her shock tactics ensured that I remained on the English side of the fence.
“She’s probably just fed up with dates and all the game-playing that never goes anywhere anyway,” my friend Limor attempted to explain on Saturday. “And now she just figures that she might as well just speak her mind.”
And I wouldn’t argue with Limor’s assessment. Thirties and forties dating is like a game of chess. And A’s tactics had been to immediately sacrifice her queen, when patiently awaiting some subtle pawn play, followed perhaps by a delicate engaging of the bishop, might have been more likely to obtain a mate . . . and maybe even her knight.
Let’s face it, almost every man wants his woman to be the proverbial “whore in the bedroom”. But T.A. Woman has extended that – counterproductively in my view – to not being a lady outside of it.
And, if that is sexist . . . well then, call me Sid.