I love boys. I love their energy, their excitability. I love their toys. I love their boy bits. I love playing with both. Toned, defined, muscly bits of boy will forever be a source of aesthetic (and manual) appreciation. I even, upon occasion, love the mind of a boy. But all things Boy fail miserably when up against a Man. Homoerotic fantasies notwithstanding, in this instance a man is simply that breathtaking creature that makes a lesser man feel so much more the boy when in Man’s presence.

The other day I received the following text: “What are you up to tonight?” As I had come to the conclusion that some boys just aren’t good for us, or more truthfully, “Woohoo, contact means he’s most definitely into me, can no longer deny his feelings, and can’t wait to see me again,” I decided it was best to make the boy await my reply. Isn’t that what we were always told? – Making them wait makes them want us more. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Although, I’ve always been quite partial to the more realistic “Absence makes the heart go wander.”

Colour me a striking shade of cynic.

And so I hopped on the District Line, fully prepared to (eventually) respond with the news that I had already left work and was well on my way to a fantastic party in Blackfriars. It’s always a wonderful thing when the excuse; that our lives are far too full and fabulous to make time for the boys we secretly want notsosecretly wanting us back, is true. The fabulousness of the party was guaranteed. It was in honour of a sparkling gay birthday boy, which all but promises tequila hangovers, tantrums and tiaras. I feel it necessary to let you in on a little secret. All the men in my life are gay. My closet is full to overflowing with drama queens, leather queens, gossip queens and ickle pocket princesses. (Skinny little bitter queens in the making.) This is hardly hyperbole - Every man in my London life is gay. Which might better help you understand my fixation on the Military Boy who isn’t for me.

Military Boy, (affiliating this one with no particular branch as a girl can’t possibly give away all her secrets,) replied with the following: “I was texting you to meet me after work. I’m in London, and on the train behind you… Get off.” Not the most gentle of persuasions, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work. Hammersmith Station found me watching one train go by, then another, then another. Great, now the guy I’m supposed to not be able to care less about had become the source of the rise and fall of my anticipation and excitement.

Soon the “right” train pulled in with Military Boy’s face pushed up against the window. Don’t let his gleeful, excitable puppy-like, jumping all over me fool you, this boy was far from a spring chicken… and didn’t like to be reminded of that fact.

The conversation flowed. I was looking just the right side of sexy and he was sporting a suit, something these eyes had yet to behold. Suffice it to say we both passed that “Whatever you do, look stunning when you randomly bump into your crush” test. Although something tells me he felt he was looking a little TOO good. That was, until Gorgeous Man stepped into our car. This man was the physical embodiment of YUM. (And I just so happen to have a very deep and profound appreciation for all that which is yummy looking.) Military Boy and I were both awestruck at Gorgeous Man’s presence. I was still mouth agape when Military Boy leaned in and whispered, “He’s one of mine.” (In the Military. Not gay. Keep up.) He then realized just how taken I was with this stunning interloper. I could barely utter the word “Wow” when Military Boy gave me a tap and a “What are you like?!” Was this, jealousy I was witnessing? Could Military Boy possible be… and he was. Of course, this tall, sculpted, suited and booted, MUCH younger vision of loveliness was Military Boy… done better. Alas, the man who could have quite possibly fathered my future beautiful babies left us at Westminster.

I was left with a gibbering Military Boy, feebly attempting to joke off Gorgeous Guy’s perfection, while I sat there on the District Line watching as a Military Boy’s playful charm quickly faded when brought up to light against a real man.

It was my stop.

I guess it was the loss of confidence that lead to my loss of interest that night. Don’t get me wrong, Boys, military or otherwise, are indeed fun to play with. But I’ll take a strong, steady, stunning Man any day.

So, tickets to the Tempest weren't exactly in hand, as I found out on Thursday afternoon when he tried to secure them to no avail. I honestly had very little interest in a night of Shakespeare so was happy to simply do dinner, if nothing else. But no, it was in his head: We were to sup, take in a show... and have cheese.

The cheese is important here, people. Remember the fromage!

Firstly, whilst I had expected to be late, which he would have been completely okay with, I arrived on time. Much to boy's chagrin as five fifteen would be closer to five thirty for him. I sipped on an aperitif until a quarter to six, when the hostess enquired as to the arrival of my partner, for the table was booked by others for half seven. Right, so he was late. No biggie. Well, it would have been less of a biggie had he left the cheese at home.

Here's the thing. Apparently Oxford houses a fabulous fromagerie, and he was hell-bent on bringing me back an assortment of stinky cheese. (Ah yes -regular, mildly-nosed cheese would never do.) Armed with Reblochon, Epoisses, and a fine brie, he arrived at the restaurant. (Cheese knife nestled in left jacket pocket.) Yes, stinky cheeses accompanied him throughout his afternoon in Oxford, whereupon he and the cheeses engaged in conversation with a Poet Laureate; they provided heady introspection on his train ride into London; and those stinky cheeses were allowed to enjoy the marvel that is the London transport system as well.

The boy went for the kiss. He was met with European cheeks. (Snootyless airkisses - Not my bare bottom.) The cheese sat to my right. Futzing through meal selection preceded a brilliantly fun dinner. We laughed, we chatted. We got on great... as friends. Upon realizing that we were already late for the theatre, and seeing that he was headed for a tube station, I suggested a cab. £9 later and we were at the Barbican ready to take on The Bull... which we were late for. I HAVE NEVER BEEN LATE TO THE THEATRE. I don't like it. I have little to say about the expletive-ridden play based on the mediaeval Irish Epic "The Cattle Raid of Cooley" except to note that the naked actor portraying the family dog is likely not what my date had in mind when there were warnings of nudity.

Let me preface this next bit by saying that the boy had me wedged under his arm the entire walk leading to the cab. I do not like this. If I wanted to be attached to someone's armpit, I would have negotiated a Siamese birth with God years ago. Those of you who love me know how very keen I am on this hand holding thing. You're even more aware of my sarcasm when it comes to such matters. There have been TWO men, in the last decade, who have managed to magically hold my hand as we walked, without my cringing. The first was simply a pretty, bouncy thing who succeeded in making me feel special, yet comfortable, with the affection. The second is something I still try hard not to make too much sense out of. So don't suffocate me as we walk down the street. When you reach for my hand and I pull away, take the hint. When I have to actually tell you "no", it makes everyone feel bad.

I say all this because it continued at the theatre. Ah yes, the attempts at back rubs, the massagings, the arms around the shoulder, the hands through the hair. I LOVE having a man play with my hair... but NOT when I'm in public, trying to enjoy a play. You've seen this hair... Playing with it is not silent business! I can't stand the sounds of hands rustling about my head when I'm trying to listen. And now you know.

Oh, and lest you fear a displaced cheese... it came with us to the theatre. Stinky cheese joined us for dinner. Stinky cheese joined us at the Barbican. I started wondering whether I was smelling cheese. Were others smelling our cheese? This was not good. His plan... moonlit cheese nibbling on the Southbank, which would be utterly romantic IN JUNE!!!! Alas, the cold winter months found the cheese was brought in hopes of perhaps, probably, hoping beyond hope, I brought him back to mine.

No, no, no, no, NO! You leave the cheese and crackers at home. If the lady, by twist of fate or dizzy squiffiness ends up back at yours, then VOILA! You are a star, and have presented a world of french nibbling options. You don't carry stinky cheeses with you throughout your date in hopes of snacking at hers. You just don't. Poor thing was simply trying to be romantic. But dinner, play, and CHEESE... slight overkill, when coupled with the touchy, squeezy, holdy nonsense and no desire on my part for a single kiss.

It was half nine and I had no desire to head to the Covent Garden Hotel for cocktails. I wanted to go home. Nine thirty on a Thursday night, and I wanted to go home? It was clear that honesty was the only way out of this. And so I told him, reiterating once again that I'm afraid there was no romance in our future. I won't go into the "What did I do wrong?" portion of the evening.

Suffice it to say, he walked me to the station, excused himself with a saddened face, and I watched as a broken boy disappeared into the night... with a bag of stinky cheese.

If you smell something funny driving under that underpass in the next few days, I'm taking bets on how far he flung the cheese.

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Ed. Note: I did actually feel the tiniest bit bad for having written about this particular date for this did prove to be the beginnings of an interesting friendship. Romantic foibles aside, we had a fabulous time chatting and laughing, and his is not a brain to be taken lightly. Alas, zero chemistry. The smart ones always have issues.