Date Diaries: ‘I Ditched My Date To Have A One Night Stand With A Man I Met On The Tube’

'Did I mention I was on the way home from another date?'

Tube date

by Georgia Aspinall |
Updated on

Date Diaries is a series 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 at the bottom.

This week, Anna, 22, a heterosexual writer from the Isle of Wight met a better date on the tube journey home from her actual one...*

Every once in a while, when I’m bored, I’ll agree to go on a date. I’m not actually searching for anything but I like meeting new people, and if I’m being honest, I enjoy the thrill of flirting your way into bed with someone. Dating in London has made me resilient, I see it more as a game now than anything serious.

A few months ago, I matched with a guy who was incredibly forward on Hinge. With little fanfare or introduction, obviously aided by alcohol, he replied to my initial ‘hiiiya :)’ at about 2am on a Saturday night, asking if I wanted to go for a drink next week. I said yes - because he seemed cute from his photos, and I hadn’t slept with anyone in a month. That’s my snapping point.

When the day of the date rolled around, I was in a mood. Work was shit and my outfit even worse. I knew I wouldn’t have time to get changed before our drinks, and ultimately I really couldn’t be fucked with socialising with a stranger after work. I thought about cancelling but after he openly said he was excited about meeting me after ‘stalking my Instagram’, I felt it’d be too mean. In hindsight, I probably should’ve followed my initial instincts.

For once, I arrived on time. He was already sat down at the bar with two vodka lemonades. ‘He remembered my drink of choice?’, I thought, actually very impressed considering I barely remembered a thing about him.

It sounds so wanky, but I know pretty quickly on dates whether I fancy someone or not. Usually within the first few seconds. It’s not based on what someone looks like - but again, to sound really wanky, it’s more about what their general vibe/aura is.(I don’t know, either.)

Ben* was good-looking, and I knew we were going to get on. I just also knew that we were going to leave as friends.

The date went on, and as predicted, we got along like a house on fire. But that elusive spark just wasn’t there, even after four drinks. I kept on insisting to pay for our drinks, just to change the vibe slightly, but he wouldn’t let me. After drink five or six, my resolve was fading and before I even realised we were kissing. At this point, I definitely should have left. But, obviously, I didn’t.

He asked if I wanted ‘to go back to his’. I said ‘yes’. I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to have sex, just not necessarily with him.

We both live on the same tube line, awkward. Luckily, the sheer volume of the trains moving meant I had time to make an excuse about ‘changing my mind’. I told him I had to go home because I had an early start, classic, and when it came to his stop he promptly kissed me on the cheek, got up, and got off.

Once I was free and clear, the two guys now sitting started started chatting to me - weird for London, I know. I wouldn’t usually let random men speak to me on public transport, but I can’t resist fellow drunk friends.

I quickly found out that they hadn’t met before: one had been on a date, the other had been at after work drinks that got a bit rowdy. I automatically fancied the one who had been on a date - probably one for my therapist. From what I could decipher, he was tall, brunette, arty looking and at least ten years older than me. Just my type.

By coincidence, we all got up to leave at the same stop. We laughed about it in the lift to the exit, but then one of the guys - the one which I fancied - asked if we wanted to go back to his for cocktails. Even though I could hear the voice of every single person I know telling me “DO NOT GO BACK TO A STRANGE HOUSE WITH RANDOM MEN”, for the second time that night, I said “yes” against my better judgement.

Thank God, the guys were genuinely alright.

When we got back to The One Which I Fancied’s (massive) house, he made us some really strong gin-based cocktails and we started to chat about our lives. The One I Fancied was a film editor who had just recently moved to the area. The Other One was a banker - and his girlfriend kept calling him.

After said girlfriend called him for the fifth time, The Other One left. The One I Fancied then decided to take me on a tour of his flat. We ended up in his bedroom, sat at his laptop with him showing me some of the edits on a film he was working on (with an A-list actor - which he totally, definitely, would not have been allowed to do).

I then went on his laptop, and started playing some Tame Impala. This was my shagging signal: I can, and will only, listen to Tame Impala during sex (I can’t concentrate on anything else.) What happened next was inevitable - even if I initiated it, which is something I never usually have the confidence to do.

We had incredibly drunk sex, which was weird and messy - but not entirely terrible. He wanted me to stay, but I left my number in his phone (for a moment I almost accidentally typed in my mum's number, that's how pissed I was) put my knickers on, buttoned up my fur coat, stuffed everything into my bag and walked round the corner back to my flat, stopping at my corner shop for some crisps. (Important side note: I hadn't eaten all night.)

He text me the next day, spelling my name wrong. I didn’t reply. Not because he got my name wrong, but because I felt so weird about the fact i’d went on a date and ended up in another man’s bed. Plus you know, the whole me thinking it was okay to go to a stranger from the tubes house. Overall, I had some self-reflecting to do

The other guy, you know the one who actually asked me out, got in touch again the next day. He asked me on a second date, but given how ours ended I knew I had to let him down. I didn’t tell him what happened, of course, rather that I wasn’t looking for anything - which isn’t strictly a lie. Naturally, because bad girls do it well, he still ‘stalks my instagram’ on a regular basis (he’s not very good at hiding it). Maybe I should’ve told him the truth after all, he probably would’ve ran for the hills if he knew how our date actually ended.

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