Fetish boy

This is going back a few years—clearly, I needed to work on my vetting skills. We had been speaking for a couple of weeks and had even had a couple of phone calls, and he seemed nice enough. So, we decided to meet for a drink at a charming country pub. I parked up, and there he was. Let's just say, for all you Love Island fans, he was not my type on paper.

First off, he had slits in his eyebrows. I'm not sure if this was a nod to some long-lost fashion trend or just an unfortunate grooming accident. Then there were the trousers. Oh, the trousers. They were so tight you could see everything, and I mean everything. I’m all for a pair of skinny jeans, but come on, boys, is this really the look you think will sweep us off our feet? It was like a bizarre anatomy lesson I never asked for. But being a typical brit, I willingly walked into the pub.

After ordering at the bar, we sat down in the garden and had polite chit-chat about our day for about 10 minutes. Then he casually mentioned he had two kids. I love kids, but I feel they are something you should always be transparent about. Does the person want more kids? Do they get along with their ex, or are you going to be faced with an angry, offensive chihuahua for the rest of your life? I put these thoughts aside and asked some questions about his children, which he answered, and that was the end of that topic.

Now, I'm a Chatty Cathy, but for some reason, the pub then turned into a scene from a Wild West film. There were tumbleweeds blowing across the table as we made awkward eye contact, engaged in a duel to see who could come up with a topic of conversation first. It was as if our conversational skills had simultaneously evaporated. I tried to think of something—anything—to say, but all I could focus on was the oppressive silence and the faint whistling of a non-existent western breeze.

It was at this point that my date casually leaned over the table and asked me if I had any fantasies. "Fantasies?" I asked as children ran wholesomely around the garden. "Yes, sexual fantasies?" Really, it was at this point I should've made a run for it. After I answered no, he continued. "What about any fetishes?" Aha, my brain thought, this is where I can make a joke to defuse the awkwardness. "Is this the part where you tell me you have a foot fetish or something?" I laughed. He said he actually loved feet and started to look under the table. I sat there, trying to keep a straight face while mentally mapping out the quickest escape route. "Do you have nice feet?" he asked. "No," I replied. He told me to take my shoe off. I declined. He asked again. I declined. He then looked me dead in the eyes and said, "How about you take your shoe off and rub my d*** under the table with your toes?"

I got up and left.

I often think about my poor glass of wine, left unfinished on the table. It deserved better.