TOXIC BACHELOR

WANT TO KNOW WHAT MEN REALLY THINK ABOUT LOVE, DATING AND SEX? STEP FORWARD STUART HOOD...

Ding ding. Seconds out, round one. What's your name? Where do you come from? What do you do? Any hobbies? Ding ding. All shuffle forward. Seconds out, round two. What's your name? Where do you come from? What do you… Kill. Me. Now.

I went speed dating for the third time last week. And, in case you haven't guessed, for the third time I came away depressed.

Because, for the third time, the gathered conveyor belt of ladies came across as bland, beige and dull.

They played 'safe'. No opinions were offered, no character shown, no attempts at individuality made. All questions were standard. Dull hardly covers it.

It was just 20 females blending into one wholly forgettable evening. And I know why.

Women just don't get speed dating. You don't get it's a bit of fun – a way of opening communication with fellow singletons. You don't get it's not desperate. And you don't get it's non-committal.

"How can I decide after three minutes?" squealed my friend Becks. She can't. But, then again, she doesn't have to. No one does.

Ticking someone you like is not a certificate of future copulation or relationship commitment.

It merely says: "Well done, you have passed the initial interview process." A process your inhibitions are ensuring you fail repeatedly. Want to reach stage two? Do this:

Talk. And I mean really talk. Open up. Tell me something I may actually want to know. Have convictions. Have opinions.

Surprise. You have 19 rivals – unless you are strikingly beautiful or tattooed from head to foot, you need to make an impression. Ask a question, slate my dress sense, do something I wouldn't expect.

Ignore others. Focus on selling yourself – not intimating how tarty woman No.12 is.

Leave me hanging. Half-finish a story, pose a brainteaser – give me something I can spark up chat at the bar with afterwards.

Got that? Now go speed dating, relax and let yourselves go. Make an impression. End your monotony, and with it, my misery. Please.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

My partner has a new female friend and it's really unnerving me. He met her at work and they go for drinks – he says it's just like him having a male friend, but I really hate it. What do you think?

Your bloke has found that most mythological of creatures – the female, boozing workmate. A bit of arm candy to look at when the clock strikes half-five and his office hit the pub. Of course you're jealous, but there's no harm in him looking. And, if he's being honest with you, that's all he's doing.

Still dubious? Find an excuse to meet them both for an after-work drink. You'll find he's her wingman, she'll pull a random and you'll go home happy.

TOXIC BACHELOR

WANT TO KNOW WHAT MEN REALLY THINK ABOUT LOVE, DATING AND SEX? STEP FORWARD STUART HOOD...

I've always considered a stroll along the river and a pub lunch a fairly self-explanatory date.

We meet. Walk. Eat. And then wander back to the start point, via a short stop on a bench, where we chat, flirt and, if my luck's in, kiss.

Obvious, eh? Apparently not.

"What are you wearing?" I queried as Vic wobbled towards me on platforms that could support a North Sea oil rig.

"Ooh, they're my new boots," she cooed. "Like them?"

They were nice, as it happened, sexy even, but that wasn't the point. The point was we were about to embark on a five-mile trip along an uneven path and she'd come dressed for a night out with the girls. The point was she'd missed the point. Completely.

I shook my head, bit my tongue and started walking. Then stopped because Vic had twisted her ankle. Then started. Then stopped. Then started. Then… you get the picture. Three hours later we'd gone less than two miles, had four arguments, suffered five twisted ankles (her four, me one) and one grazed knee (her).

You won't be surprised to discover Vic and I stumbled our separate ways soon after. A parting that made her the fourth – that's fourth – woman I've dumped because of her sartorial sins. Sounds harsh. Actually isn't.

Zoe moaned about being cold, yet refused to wear coats. Louise's cleavage showcase left me fending off aggressive suitor after aggressive suitor and left my grandfather in bed following a Christmas Day 'funny turn'. Nat's malfunctioning wardrobe culminated with her arriving at a Peterborough football match wearing a dress and heels. What? What? What!?

Each one looked like they'd read the wrong invite, each one attracted startled stares, each one gave the same excuse. "I just wanted to impress you," they said. Thanks, but if you really want to impress me, think.

Think, and then dress appropriately. Not sexily. Appropriately. Because as arousing as flesh-flashing is in the right club on the right night, in the wrong place at the wrong time, it's not sexy. It's just plain silly.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

I've been on a couple of dates with a great guy. We have lots in common, but he's a Christian. Religion plays a huge part in his life, and I'm an atheist. Do you think this will be a problem?

The PC answer is it shouldn't be an issue. My answer is, it will be huge, and your relationship will live and die on how much he's willing to compromise his faith.

Sacrilegious? Possibly, but let's face it, if his ground rules are no sex before marriage, compulsory attendance at church every Sunday and bible class every Tuesday, you'll try for a couple of weeks, then quickly realise you don't really have enough in common for this to be worth you running around chastely getting nowhere.

Get out, before you get in.

TOXIC BACHELOR

WANT TO KNOW WHAT MEN REALLY THINK ABOUT LOVE, DATING AND SEX? STEP FORWARD STUART HOOD...

So, there we were. Jess naked. Me naked. Jess on the right-hand side of the bed, texting her boyfriend.

Me on the left-hand side of the bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering how I'd got into this mess. Again.

My musing didn't last long. It didn't take Poirot to discover I'd been played by one of the ever-growing brigade of girls who flirt with you, snog you, take you to bed – and then tell you they've got a boyfriend.

To set the scene, Jess and I had met at a party. A few drinks later, we were in her bed. She was insatiable. I was excited. Then, boom. It happened. She used the 'b' word.

"We can't sleep together," she mumbled. "I can't cheat on my boyfriend."

I shot bolt upright and sidled towards the edge of the bed. "What?"

"Dean and me. We've been together 18 months. Come on, let's cuddle," she begged.

"Let's not, eh?" I countered. "Let's not 'cuddle'.

Instead, let's analyse what you've just said, and ask ourselves whether you'd consider it cheating if Dean took a random girl back to his room, indulged in a bit of foreplay and cuddled naked?"

She confessed she would. In fact, she added that she'd do something rather unpleasant to him involving a kitchen knife and his tackle.

After all, if Dean had ended up in bed without clothes and with another woman, he would have strayed. Case closed. Relationship and, it seems, child-bearing dreams, over. Take that, jerk.

Take that jerk, indeed. You go girl. Castrate the philanderer. But when you've finished, look in the mirror and ask yourself: "Why is it different when I do it?"

"It's just a bit of fun. I don't have sex," whined Jess. But to Jess and all the other girls who like to have their cake, eat it, then take another slice behind their partner's back, it's really not fun is it?

Cheating isn't about having sex, it's about abusing trust.

"There's no one lower than a cheat," a 'wronged' girlfriend once wailed. I disagree.

Cheats in denial are even worse.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

My ex-boyfriends are part of my social circle, but how realistic will it be to remain friends with an ex when I get a new boyfriend?

On the surface, it's completely realistic. Beneath the surface, it's totally unrealistic. Although he may well be over you, it doesn't mean your ex can cope with someone else having you. And then there are your new bloke's feelings to think of.

No man wants an ex sniffing around, cracking in-jokes about "the good ol' days" and playfully poking your "tickly bits". When you find the new boyfriend, do yourself a favour: keep the ex out of the picture before the inevitable punch-up on your first drunken night out together.

Have you got a dating dilemma? Email toxicbachelor@fabulousmag.co.uk

TOXIC BACHELOR

WANT TO KNOW WHAT MEN REALLY THINK ABOUT LOVE, DATING AND SEX? STEP FORWARD STUART HOOD...

Clark Kent uses a phone box. Jemma uses her work toilet. He slips into a blue suit, pulls on a pair of red Y-fronts and emerges as Superman.

She pushes up her cleavage, swaps flats for heels, lowers her IQ and emerges as Bimborella. He's faster than a speeding bullet.

She's dimmer than a This Morning quiz contestant. His mission is to save the planet. Hers is to find a Friday night bed buddy.

Both succeed. Only one emerges with any respect.

I'll rewind a little. Jemma is my best female friend. We speak most weeks and spar over email most days. By day, I absolutely adore her. She's pretty, smart, funny, everything I could ask for. By night, however, I despair and we fall out.

She undergoes the aforementioned character transformation. She plays dumb to secure men. She becomes someone I can't comprehend, let alone love.

"Why? Why do it?" I lament. "Your friends like you for who you are. You got your job because of who you are. In fact, you've got everywhere you've ever got because of who you are.

So why throw it all out of the window? Why sell yourself short?"

"It's what guys want," she scoffs. "It boosts their ego. If I told them the truth (she earns £25,000 a year and enjoys J.D. Salinger novels), I wouldn't get half as many."

True, but she might get a real one. A real man who – shock horror – likes her for who she is. A man who views her as something other than a one-night good-time girl. Believe me, such men are out there. Men, like me, seeking a female companion strong enough to be herself.

Searching for someone who offers substance not subservience; conversation not capitulation; backbone not bed board.

Don't get me wrong: I'm an equal opportunist – I'll sleep with you either way. But I'll only come back if you offer some sort of challenge. A bimbo is a bimbo. They merge into one. A woman is different. A woman is a challenge. And I like a challenge.

If you want sex, play the bimbo. If you want respect, treat yourself with some.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

I've recently lost a lot of weight, but my boyfriend keeps commenting that he misses my extra pounds. Do guys really prefer bigger women?

Short answer: some do, some don't. Long answer: this query throws up three scenarios. One, is that you've bagged yourself a Fern Britton-fancying ‘chubby chaser' in which case, beef up, or prepare for single life.

Then there's the unlikely possibility that you've dieted down to waif-like status. If so, see a doctor. And finally (and most likely) — you looking great has made him feel ugly and useless. The only way he's going to feel better is by either getting down the gym, or dragging you back into the mire.

And since he can't be bothered with the former, he's formulating a plan to ensure the latter.

TOXIC BACHELOR

WANT TO KNOW WHAT MEN REALLY THINK ABOUT LOVE, DATING AND SEX? STEP FORWARD STUART HOOD...

Kate was drunk. So drunk she'd lost the ability to walk or keep food down. Hence I found myself propping her up at a taxi rank while trying to secure a cab.

"Where to mate?" asked the driver. I realised I didn't know. It was our first date, so we hadn't swapped postcodes yet. I went to find out. As I wiped Kate's hair from her face, life slowly stirred. She focused, smiled, lunged and gave me what can only be described as a tumultuous tonguing.

As romantic smooches go, she ranked just above the female tramp I snogged (she tasted of fag butts) after losing a drinking game on a stag weekend in Cardiff. "Kate, what the… ?" I screamed, prising her off. She didn't answer. She couldn't. She was being sick on my jeans.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Sure enough, the next day a remorse-filled text arrived. "I'm so sorry," it began. "I was really nervous. If it's any consolation, I feel like death."

It wasn't any consolation. It was, however, confirmation. Verification that the excuse I expected had spouted forth. The good old ‘nerves' were again being used as justification for a woman getting so plastered, she needed to be carried home by a man she'd only just met. Truly pathetic.

Not that I'm criticising Kate for getting nervous. Of course she was nervous. She was putting herself out there to be judged by a member of the opposite sex. That's nerve-racking. And thus it excuses tension. It excuses clumsy conversation.

Heck, it even excuses "a couple more drinks than you'd usually have". What it doesn't excuse, however, is a cocktail to start, a bottle and a half of wine as a main, a gin and tonic for dessert, and regurgitation of all three in the toilet before coffee.

That's not nerves. It's a lack of self-control. You get nervous before job interviews and exams, but how many of them do you drink through? None, obviously, because you'd fail. You can fail dates too you know. Kate, for example, got two Hs – a Hangover and a Hell no.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

I really fancy a guy who gets on my bus every morning. I want to approach him but have no idea what to say. What would you suggest?

Slip the boot on the other foot and think how you'd react if a stranger – who'd possibly been staring at you and drooling for weeks – declared undying love. Psycho, right? Ideally say nothing at all – the chances of it working are infinitesimal.

That said, if you really have to break the ice, do it in a completely impersonal manner. Ask him something innocent like the time, drop your newspaper on the floor beside him, or spill your coffee on him. This will open up a line of communication which, if he fancies you, he will pursue.

Have you got a dating dilemma? Email toxicbachelor@fabulousmag.co.uk