Date of the week is an online Grazia franchise chronicling the anonymous adventures of those involved in the ever complicated and increasingly unbelievable world of modern dating. To submit your story, fill out the form below.
This week, Harriet, a 31-year-old, bisexual marketing manager, took her date on a trip he'll never forget…*
I spent my 20s in long-term relationships, mostly getting to the point where my partner wanted to move in together, before freaking out and legging it. I oscillated between craving adventure, sex and spontaneity, and the comfort and security of love. When I met Jack* on Tinder last year, I was in an adventurous phase.
After speaking, briefly, a couple of times, he asked me out for dinner the following Friday night and I immediately agreed. He was smoking hot and suggested a Malaysian place right in the middle of the short distance between our houses. I wasn’t looking for anything serious – I wanted a fun night and hopefully a one-night stand. I arrived at our date 15 minutes late wearing the clothes I’d been to work in and a bit of extra lipstick I applied on the bus. It didn’t matter: by 10.30pm I suggested we get the bill and go back to mine. “Mine’s closer,” he said.
The sex was great and we stayed up until 4am introducing each other to new music we each loved in turn. The next morning he brought me a plate with three sausages and a lump of brie on it (no, no, I loved it) and we had another round of even better sex before I left.
By late afternoon he was texting to see what my plans were. I told him I was going to meet some friends at our (mutual) local and that he was welcome to join later on. “But, I should tell you,” I said. “I’ve just dropped acid.”
My pal, Sarah, had brought some acid tabs round and we decided to brighten things up a bit. We’d only taken it once before at the end of a heavy night – I’m not a regular drug user, but I dabble and like to try new things – and wanted to see if it was a different experience sober. I just hadn’t factored in seeing Jack again.
When my phone buzzed asking if there was any spare for him, I knew we were in for quite the second date. We met in the pub, said goodbye to my friends and spent the rest of the night tripping and talking.
It could have easily gone awry: Jack later admitted that he’d seen it as a gamble – he’d reasoned to his friends that he would probably know me an awful lot better by the end of the night and would know for sure whether he wanted to pursue more. Or, more to the point, whether he liked me at all when my guards were down. Luckily, he did.
In fact, we talked so much (hilariously, later on, he couldn’t stop talking) and felt so close that we spent the next month seeing each other every day. Two weeks in we flew to Montenegro on a whim. Six months later, we’ve calmed down a lot – we have our own space again after an intense honeymoon phase – but we’re in love. This time I don’t feel like running away. Thanks to an acid trip, maybe, I’m happy.
*names have been changed.
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