epsiode 22

Who's afraid of the PDA?

OK, so I have had a second date with Gay/Straight man, who if he ever reads this column will be thrilled at his nickname, and would probably promptly become a thing of the past. But I have to say, that I am still slightly mesmerised by his hair which seems to stand up on its own. Perhaps I shall call him Hairgel from now on. Far nicer, right? So, anyway, we had a second date, it was fun and that's really all I need to say. I'm not holding out on you; it really doesn't warrant more than that.
Remember when I had the normal date with the dolphin trainer and was told that would be my first and last. Well my friends were quite wrong; although the first date with Hairgel wasn't that normal because I thought he was gay, our second date was. I quite like him, he's laid back, he's sweet but I'm not thinking beyond the next date, and if it happens I will, of course, keep you informed.
I was in our local pub with my girlfriend and we were sat at a table, drinking wine and having a good catch up. We were in the midst of a good gossip and pretty much oblivious to what else was going on around us. The pub was quite busy, so when a couple asked if they could sit at our table it would have been rude to refuse. We shuffled up and carried on talking as if they weren't there. Well, for all of about a minute we did anyway.
I couldn't help but notice the noise at first. Then I couldn't help but look. The couple sitting next to us had engaged in the nosiest, sloppiest version of tonsil tennis ever witnessed by mankind, (or me, anyway). I looked at my friend; the horror on her face echoed mine. I looked at the glass of wine in front of me and felt queasy. It takes a lot to put me off my wine, trust me, but they had achieved it in less than five minutes.
We tried to carry on talking and what was weird was that we found ourselves speaking unnaturally loudly as if that would drown out the floorshow. In fairness it did cover up those slurping noises that make you feel more than slightly nauseas, but at the same time succeeded in making us sound more than a little bit simple.
These guys were really going for it. Hands were everywhere. His tongue was flying around like a frog chasing flies. We tried hard to look at each other but you know that peripheral vision thing? Well, we seemed unable to shake it. In the end, unable to bear it anymore we got up and left.
We found refuge in another pub where we sat at a table for two, no danger of any of those snoggers joining us there. Before you think I'm being mean, it really is unpleasant to watch, and it's impossible not to when they are almost sitting on top of you.
'It's so weird, why on earth don't they get a room?' I said.
'I know, those noises, I mean who on earth in this day and age engages in PDA's?'
'It's so disgusting and unfair on other people. I mean we left almost a glass of wine because of them.'
'Should be banned. Let's make PDA's illegal.'
Then we looked at each other.
'Of course I did kind of snog Hairgel in public,' I had to admit. 'I mean no one was sat next to us, but still…'
And there lies the problem. I hate PDA's. I am afraid of them. Yet I am guilty of them, and more than once. Which made me feel slightly terrible and more than a little bit confused. I hated the idea that I made other, innocent members of the public feel the way that couple made us feel.
You see, you go on a date and at the end (or if you're keen) in the middle of that date a kiss might happen. It's the part of the date, I name 'the lunge,' which always has to happen in public. Because most people don't go on a first date with a stranger anywhere that isn't public, or a second for that matter. For one thing, there's the question of safety which I have to say I can't stress enough.
If you don't want to go home with the person or take them home (and again unless you know them well, that's a real risk), where the hell do you go for a nice old-fashioned kiss?
We've ruled out a bar/pub. I have to say when I kissed Hairgel, I was a bit embarrassed, and as soon as I came up for air I felt uncomfortable. I felt as if everyone was looking at me and not in a good way. Then of course he walked me to a taxi and we kissed in the street. Classy.
At my age, I find it slightly worrying that I am having a debate with myself about where to snog. Oh well. I suppose you could always hail a taxi, and get them to drive you round the block. I mean it's not totally private but I'm guessing the taxi driver is slightly immune to these things. Either that or he'll be glued to the rear-view mirror. Yuk.
So, you see my dilemma. I don't want to kiss in public, I don't want to take a man I barely know home, I don't want to drive round in circles in a taxi and I don't want to snog on the street. At this rate kissing is going to face extinction which is a shame because, of course, it's really quite nice, (although I wouldn't have wanted to be the girl on the receiving end of frog boy).
When I wrote my column about feeling like a teenager, we were in someone's house at a party. Which is mildly acceptable. But apart from that, I just can't think where. With recent events highlighting how dangerous dating can be, I simply have to put being safe above a good old-fashioned snog. I won't get into anyone's car, until I know them well, I won't let a stranger into my home, and I really don't want to be the person in the pub making innocent people gag. So what is the answer?
I really don't know. I am afraid of the PDA, rightly or wrongly, and although intoxication makes me feel slightly less afraid, I am still searching for a viable alternative. In short, I'm open to suggestions, but please, no one defend the PDA because I am just not having it.

Next Week: Boys' Eye View