No Butterflies For Clark Gable.

So I had a hot date tonight, with a hot lifeguard. Yet I find myself approaching midnight in my bed, eating pistachios and chain smoking, feeling equally weary and restless as ever.

It was nice. We went to a little Moroccan restaurant that I'd suggested when he called me a few days ago. I met him at the gym last week, when I went for a swim. He showed me to the yoga class room, and we had a lovely chat and a bit of a flirt, and swapped numbers. He's really really cute - blonde, blue eyes, slender but toned, clean-cut. Not my type, but in terms of hot male of the species, he's ticking all the boxes so far.. When I first saw him it was like watching an American teen movie and seeing 'the cute guy' come on screen, you know, where you just know you're supposed to find him cute. Especially in his little red shorts and lifeguard whistle! But when he had his normal clothes on (Ramones t-shirt, old school Levi's, a funky little brown hat - ticking more boxes) he seemed much more my type. I then discovered he's a singer, and a songwriter, and he smokes (tick, tick, tick..) so was more than happy to arrange a date - which was surprisingly easy. I'd actually been out with the girls in Camden the night before, and had been discussing how nobody asks people out on dates any more, so I was pleasantly surprised at how easily and comfortably we arranged to meet up.

Anyway, on to the actual date. I'd been massively nonplussed about the whole thing these last few days, which worried me to be honest. I've always been really easily flustered and excited and girly and giggly about boy-related situations, big or small, and always found it quite fun getting all a-flutter about boys (I blame the adolescent influence of Charolastra No.1 for that one) but this was the first time since I could remember where a boy situation had cropped up and I hadn't been remotely reactive. Even getting ready for the date, no butterflies, no self-doubt, no fussing over hair/outfit, no excited texts to the girls - nothing. Walking to the restaurant with a sexy strut, listening to 'Sexy Boy' by Air to try and pump myself up - nothin'. Sitting at the table, waiting for him to arrive - nada. Usually I'm putting on lip gloss obsessively, nervously checking my phone, holding down the butterflies, smiling to myself, or the waiter, or anyone in sight - but tonight.. nothin.

Anyway so he arrives, cute as I remember, in dark jeans and classic black shirt rolled up at the sleeves (my favourite sartorial combination on a man) and is even more attractive up close, under candlelight and romantic faux-Moroccan backdrop. It's all really comfortable immediately. We order a bottle of wine and some things I don't understand from the menu, and we get to chatting about Ancient Greece, and the demise of chivalry, and Die Hard, and the first records we ever bought - the conversation is sparkling, and flowing, and not at all forced, and we could not be more interesting, or interested.

The night continues like this, and at one point I realise he's leaning back watching me talk and looking at me sexily, and I'm smiling at him knowingly, toying with my wine glass while his foot touches mine under the table. It's all very sexy, and there's a definite spark in the air.. But still no butterflies.

We then talk about music, which never ceases to excite and arouse me (which is why I had decided to stop talking about music with cute boys, it gets me into trouble and makes me a little overexcited) - and he has great music taste, and really interesting opinions on why certain music works with a political agenda, and we discuss political relevance in music throughout the ages. He's smart, and opinionated, and open-minded, and loves music as much as I do, and is getting more attractive by the minute. Still no butterflies.

We get through the first bottle of wine, and the second course, and he asks about my life. I tell him about work, and my friends, and funny anecdotes about my childhood. He tells me about his family, and his work outside the gym, and the dog he had growing up. It's the perfect first date so far, and I can't help but notice how swimmingly it's all going, with a surprising disappointed feeling in my stomach (in lieu of the still notably absent butterflies). I quash a thought that creeps up on me while he's talking - Am I only attracted to guys that make me nervous? Do I secretly thrive on conflict?

The restaurant is beautiful, white painted brick walls with deep red and yellow handmade tapestries draped on the walls, low-lit lamps hung from low ceilings, and I feel like I'm in an exotic distant land with Lawrence of Arabia.

I get up to go to the ladies', and I catch a glimpse of us in a mirror. We make a beautiful, sophisticated pair, him in his black shirt and Clark Gable hair, me in a classic brown silk dress and immaculate Sofia Loren makeup, at our quiet intimate table complete with exotic setting. As I walk to the toilet, I pass the open front door. A cold sharp breeze wafts over me and I get a sudden urge to run out. I quell the urge, and as I walk back to the table I feel stifled and a little claustrophobic.

Now, I cannot stress this enough - this boy is perfect. Gorgeous, interesting, smart, funny, quietly confident but not remotely arrogant, easy to chat to, interested in me.. but as we continue to sit at the table, sipping our wine having fascinating, culturally stimulating conversation, I find myself suppressing an urge to just tear my dress off, pull on some ripped black jeans and eyeliner and run to the nearest dirty rock bar, grab the nearest dirty rock boy, snog his face off, then do a line of tequila slammers and dance the night away to some dirty hardcore basslines.

We finish the meal and, like the perfect gentleman, he offers to pay. But he accepts me wanting to split the bill and makes a brilliantly tongue-in-cheek joke about 'chivalry being killed off by women', and he offers to walk me home, like the perfect gentleman. So we walk back to mine, arm in arm (both of our free hands holding a cigarette) and we chat and smoke in the warm evening air. He walks me to my door, and deals with me not leaning in for the kiss so smoothly - he kisses me on the cheek, like the perfect gentleman, and as he walks away, our hands brush against each other and he strokes my hand ever so softly. It's very sexy, and our eyes linger on each other as he walks away.

As I walk through my front door I can't help but notice..
Still no butterflies.