I didn't realise I was dating one of the world's worst men – then he ghosted me

‘I’m going on a fishing expedition!’

I announced this merrily as I re-downloaded Tinder, wading back into a dating pool that was more cesspit than a sea with anything decent in it. 

At this point, I’d been living in Vancouver, Canada for three years, flying solo after my ex had skedaddled. My anxiety was sky-high and my self-esteem was at rock bottom after my husband of one year (and partner of 12 before that) moved out.

It felt like the perfect time to try to reel in a winning catch. 

Divorced at 32, I was ‘getting out there’ again.

My first Tinder date was a French guy who wore jaunty hats and was terrible at French kissing. It took me four dates of platonic swing dancing lessons to find that out and I had to say au revoir after he turned up (drunk) at my flat, shoved his tongue down my throat, and then requested ‘skin to skin contact’. Bleurgh.

Moderately more successful was the handsome Albertan, although he ended up screaming in agony after I handed him a minty condom and we found out he was allergic to both latex and menthol – turns out that a burning sensation during sex is a real mood killer. We still managed to date on and off for a few months, eventually salvaging a friendship from the whole ordeal. 

I then dated a nice guy, who was sweet, attentive, and had way more streaming channels than I did. 

Unfortunately, we had zero chemistry, especially after he requested a golden shower, showed me his array of nipple clamps (for him), then honked my boob and lisped ‘miiiiiilk mommy’ at me in a wistful whine.

Perhaps it would be better to find a friend of a friend, I thought. Even this backfired when I was set up on a blind date and he spent the whole night grilling me with mildly terrifying questions like, ‘What’s your favourite disease? Mine’s ebola!’

I didn’t stick around long enough to find out how he had picked his top deadly virus.

Back on the dating apps I met Colin, a self-obsessed nerd who was so full of crap I renamed him Colon. 

Then came an argumentative scrawny man from Saskatoon who tried to start a fight during the date by stealing a cowboy hat from a much stronger-looking bloke after he lost a beer-drinking contest. He told me he hated Brits and was shagging his friend anyway. Charming.

I thought my Britishness was a selling point on my Tinder bio. Despite my West Country/Hobbit from the ‘shire voice, I always responded to ‘do you have a sexy accent?’ enquiries with a resounding yes.

So, when a Tinder match insisted we have a phone chat the day before our date, I seized the opportunity.  

Big mistake – here’s how it went.

‘I’ve got a micropenis,’ he suddenly blurted out, stopping me mid-sentence. ‘It’s like it’s retracted!’

Him [high pitched squeal and then a voice like Mrs Doubtfire]: ‘Helloooooooo’

Me: ‘Er, hello? Are you ok?’

Him [in a falsetto]: ‘Yes… I’m just cupping my balls.’

I should’ve hung up, but I ploughed ahead even as the red flags started flapping. Balls uncupped, he was ready to start talking at me.

He’d just moved back to Vancouver from Montreal after having his heart ‘ripped from his chest’ a mere fortnight ago. 

He told me he was very short and that (unlike his photo) he was bald – but he wanted to clarify it was by choice and he absolutely could grow hair. He was living in his parents’ basement. 

His dad was an undertaker and this guy had acquired an untitled job in the funeral home, where he spent time with ‘beautiful, cold’ dead bodies. He hoped I wouldn’t mind him smelling like formaldehyde.

I was wavering. Him being a short, bald, heartbroken, basement-dwelling man was not an issue, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t qualified to be doing any sort of amateur embalming. 

I tried to switch the conversation back to my normal, non-alarming life, with some chat about my family in the UK. 

‘I’ve got a micropenis,’ he suddenly blurted out, stopping me mid-sentence. ‘It’s like it’s retracted!’

Not knowing how to respond, I Googled ‘micropenis’ and squinted at the photos while he described it in vivid detail. 

‘That’s OK, size isn’t everything,’ I said, wondering about the logistics of the earlier ball cupping he had mentioned, ‘but it’s getting late, I’ll see you tomorrow!’ 

He ticked zero of my boxes, but surely he just had a quirky sense of humour and I should give him a chance, I thought to myself.

On Saturday I messaged him about when/where we were meeting that night.

Nothing – there was no response. Maybe he had been caught up in some kind of unexpected funeral crisis, I tried to tell myself as I grew more despondent about the doomed date, testing my WiFi connection and constantly checking my phone.

Sunday rolled around and I sent him a text asking why he had ghosted me.

Eventually, my phone pinged.

‘Look, I’m not into this. Tbh, talking about kids all the time is a real turn-off.’

Wait, what? HE wasn’t into ME? I had literally mentioned my niece and nephews once during the entire conversation, and certainly hadn’t been after him for his seed.

‘Thanks for letting me know’ I texted back, hoping my passive aggressive fury made its way to him via the phone.

After years of relentlessly putting myself out there, wading through absolute turds, I started to bawl, releasing years of frustration and fear of not being ‘good enough’. I was chasing any kind of validation, trying to fill some kind of husband-shaped hole instead of taking any time to think about what I actually wanted or needed.

Soon my sobs hiccuped into laughter as I thought about the absurdity of being phone screened, like an unsuccessful job candidate, by someone whose main personality traits seemed to be borderline necrophilia and a tiny appendage. 

How come this dude had standards, self-esteem and valued his time when I clearly didn’t value mine?

It was the harsh wake up call I needed to realise that actually, I was a winning catch, and tolerating less than I was worth was a waste of my energy.

Especially when I could be out enjoying my life with friends and my family, who I loved to talk about way too much.

So, How Did It Go?

So, How Did It Go? is a weekly Metro.co.uk series that will make you cringe with second-hand embarrassment or ooze with jealousy as people share their worst and best date stories.

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