Those three little letters...

I was on heat this weekend.

It's not big and it's not clever. Well, it's not clever at least.

The worst thing is that I knew it on Friday. It was going to be impossible to hold me back. I knew on Friday that I was going to go out (which is slightly unusual for me as I normally stay in and watch movies on a Friday night) and I knew as I left the house I was not coming back alone. I was either bringing someone back, or I was going back with someone.

Damned virgins. Everyone knows I am not supposed go with virgins. I am not a 'training model'. I am not emotionally capable of leading people through the transition from virgin to ... er... not virgin. Nor am I in any way appropriate for 'breaking them in'. Breaking them, maybe, but not breaking them in. But that was Friday night and Saturday morning.

We didn't exchange numbers. We didn't even exchange names, which is bad, but in a fun way. Annoyingly I had already run through the conversation in my head whilst washing: "So, what's your number... and what do you want to go in my phone as". This has backfired once when the response that came back was "Er... My name, surely?"

Anyway, when I got out of the bathroom he was already changed and ready to go, made polite excuses and went.

I knew I shouldn't go out on Saturday night. I like to have one night a weekend in to try to conserve money if nothing else. But again, I knew I could not be contained. I was a caged animal ready to explode. Not that that works as a metaphor or in any ways gives a pleasant mental image of me exploding all over someone like a lion. One of my friends sent me a text asking if I was out. Regardless of whether I had plans or not I knew I was out.

So yes, I pulled again. This time I did get a name and a number. Which was good because this was someone I had seen and admired from afar. Well, fancied at least. This can be dangerous - often it can only be a let-down. You get them back and you realise they look different under the flourescent lighting of a kitchen, or more lumpy without clothes on, or that they are more socially-inept than anyonee thought was possible.

But on this occasion it didn't work like that and we swapped numbers.

It can't work out. I know that aleady. And not just because of my usual impossibility with relationships. He is called Dan. Three letters. Three letters is hardly even a name. It's more of a noise. I don't think I have ever been out with anyone with three letters in their name. Gary, Neil, Karl, Carl, John, Paul, John-Paul, Paul (again and again), Adam, Matt, Alex, Kate, Anna. All four-letter names. There have been a couple with longer names too, but practically everyone I have dated has four letters. Maybe that is why they haven't worked out. Daniel. It will have to be Daniel.

But anyhow, I have tentatively arranged a date. Over a week's time though, a million and one changes happen in a week, let alone over a week. Ah well, at least it gives me time to change the sheets