Portia MacIntosh - Truth Or Date

So, back to Deano. It sounds strange, but I’m instantly more trusting of ‘known’ people because I feel like they have too much to lose to rape and murder birds they meet on Matcher. Another reason Deano seemed safe was because Millsy could vouch for him – well, the opposite of vouch for him, it turns out. When Millsy was a teenager he had a choice, he could pursue rugby or acting and he chose acting, much to his dad’s disappointment – and his own, to be honest, because he’s really struggled to find work, that’s why he’s so psyched about this Macbeth gig. In an attempt to sort of feel like he was acting and still be a part of the team his dad so wanted him to play for, Millsy took on the job of team mascot, which basically means he dresses in a big, stupid lion costume and roars on the side-lines during games. I often remind him that this particular job neither counts as acting nor being a sportsman, and I think he did feel a little daft to start with until he realised he’d get all the chicks that the real players didn’t want, so he’s quite happy with it now. Millsy has lots of silly little jobs, it’s surprising he’s found time to sleep with the entire female population of Leeds.

When I found out Deano played for the Lions the first thing I did was ask my lion what he was like.

‘He’s a monumental bellend,’ Millsy told me.

‘So are you,’ I reminded him playfully.

‘He just fucks his way through Matcher.’

‘Again – are you talking about you or him?’ I laughed.

‘I’m serious, Rubes, most of the team have Matcher and we just use it to plough through girls.’

‘You say “we” like you’re one of the team and not the glorified stuffed animal who twerks to “Sexy and I Know It” at halftime,’ I persisted with my teasing, unwilling to take his advice.

‘Fine, go out with him, but he isn’t your type. You heard it here first: Ruby wouldn’t.’

So here I am, with Deano the hooker, and I have to say he scrubs up well. He’s wearing black trousers with a black shirt that his muscles look fit to burst out of. He’s clean-shaven, something that seems to be a rarity amongst the menfolk of Leeds these days, and his short blond hair is perfectly messy.

A waiter shows us to a quiet corner of Vici, an Italian restaurant. Deano’s choice and one that scores him major brownie points (or tries, if we’re sticking with the rugby theme) because I love Italian food.

It’s such a romantic setting, with its rustic feel, twinkling fairy lights and soft music – the perfect environment for a date.

‘So have you had a good day?’ I ask, making small talk as we wait for our food. I don’t know what it is, but the conversation feels forced and difficult. Deano is quiet, but in a strange way. He’s clearly not shy, he just seems to have nothing to say.

‘Good, cheers,’ he replies in his thick Yorkshire accent. ‘I had physio this morning, chilled this afternoon.’

‘Cool,’ I reply, giving him a few seconds to ask how my day was, but he doesn’t. ‘Well, mine has sucked. I had a hangover this morning, I was late for work and then a customer was absolutely horrible to me.’

‘You should’ve told them to “piss off”,’ he laughs.

‘Well, I would’ve liked to, but you know what they say: the customer is always right. Expect when they’re wrong, like today,’ I laugh.

‘What do you mean?’ he asks.

‘What do I mean?’ I echo.

‘The customer is always right expect when they’re wrong,’ he repeats back to me.

I can’t help but cock my head and furrow my brow in confusion.

‘It’s a joke,’ I tell him. I mean, I know it’s not my best material, but even so.

‘I don’t get it,’ he tells me.

‘Never mind,’ I smile as the waiter sets a steak down in front of Deano and a pizza in front of me.

As the smell of the food fills my nostrils I feel my mood lift, it looks incredible too. I can’t wait to tuck in, except…

‘Come on, what do you mean?’ he persists, clearly annoyed he’s not getting it.

‘It’s just a saying, it doesn’t matter. You know what they say: explaining a joke is a like dissecting a frog; you learn a lot but the frog dies in the process.’

Deano thinks for a second.

‘What do you mean?’ he asks again.

Are you fucking kidding me?

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I laugh, taking the pizza slicer and resisting the urge to use it on myself instead of my food. I’ve just realised something: Deano is dumb. Maybe it’s come from years of getting his head stomped on out on the rugby field, I don’t know, but that’s why he’s so quiet, he has nothing to say, and I instantly don’t like anyone who doesn’t get my jokes because personally I think I’m hilarious.

We eat our food in near perfect silence, with the exception of “That’s Amore” playing in the background, the quiet buzz of everyone else’s conversations, and the sound of Deano chomping on his steak loudly. His steak is so rare I’m surprised I can’t here it mooing – not that it would have a chance to open its mouth at the rate he’s shovelling it down.

As the waiter heads over to clear our plates, he asks us if we’d like to see the dessert menu. To be honest, I’m bored out of my mind and I want this date to be over, but my pizza was so delicious and I know they have amazing desserts here, and something yummy and sweet would mean the night wasn’t a complete washout.

‘Yes please,’ I reply. He promptly brings me a menu, so I start scanning the list.

‘They do bomboloni,’ I say excitedly out loud.

‘What do you mean?’ Deano asks – his catchphrase it seems.

‘They’re Italian doughnuts,’ I reply.

‘If it fits your macros,’ he replies, and it’s my turn to be confused.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, followed by a little chuckle because I just inadvertently did a Deano.

‘Heavy on the carbs, high in fat – is it really worth it?’

‘Dude, they’re doughnuts,’ I remind him. Everyone knows doughnuts are bad for you but we still eat them because they’re doughnuts . And these are Italian, cream-filled doughnuts with chocolate sauce, so they’re super impossible to resist.

‘So, what can I get you?’ our very enthusiastic waiter asks.

‘Nothing for me, cheers,’ Deano replies.

‘Yeah, I think I’ll give it a miss too, thanks,’ I tell him, handing my menu back.

The enthusiastic waiter’s face falls, like a kid who just found out there’s no Santa Claus. I feel similar inside.

‘I’ll get you the bill,’ he tells us.

It’s not that I’m taking this muscly moron’s advice, but I don’t really want to spend any more time with him. He’s not a bad person, but he’s boring and his priorities are all wrong. Doughnuts above everything.

‘I’ll be back,’ he tells me, wandering off in the direction of the toilets.

The only thing stopping me leaving right now is my manners, so I sit and wait until he returns.

Moments later Deano is back as promised and I am happy because it means I can go home.

‘The men’s room was out of order, I had to use the disabled toilet,’ he tells me.

‘Good for you,’ I reply, confused as to why he thought I’d be interested, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he did have some kind of brain damage courtesy of his job.

‘Anyway, while I was in there, I was just thinking about how much I want to take you in there and fuck you right now.’

I stare at him blankly, blinking my eyes in disbelief once or twice. Not only is that a pretty gross request anyway, but it’s not like we’ve been getting on, we have zero chemistry and he said no to doughnuts – so why would I want to have sex with him?