Page 2 of Too Hard to Resist

‘Some women might be happy with a man that thinks it’s acceptable to tell them to get a breast enlargement, but not me, sunshine. I’m done with this date.’ I reached into my purse, pulled out a ten-pound note to cover the cost of my wine, dropped it on the table, then stood up. ‘Me and myboobiesare going home,alone. Have a nice life.’

I tossed my curly pink ombre hair over my shoulder and strutted out of the bar with my head held high.

Once I’d walked around the corner, I leant against the wall, my heart pounding against my chest, then blew out a heavy breath.

I’d never walked out of a date before. Normally I suffered through the awkwardness until the man decided it was time to call it a night. But I’d done the right thing.

As a memory of how the boys at school used to call me ‘pancake’ and ‘tiny tits’ popped into my head, my stomach clenched. It was like being teased in the playground all over again. I couldn’t keep putting myself through this.

I was tired.

Tired of the swiping.

Tired of men judging my body and treating me like shit.

Tired of men thinking I was so desperate for their usually underwhelming dick that they could do or say whatever they wanted.

I slid out of my heels, pulled my trainers out of my bag then sank my feet inside.That felt so much better.

When I thought about the fact that I’d squeezed myself into a sparkly knee-length dress, push-up bra and a pair of horrendously painful stilettos for this date, when I could’ve been chilling at home in a comfy onesie, anger bubbled in my chest. But that was life.

Every day, millions of women like me probably went on one disappointing date after another in the hope that maybethistime they’d findthe one.

We believed that as long as we kissed enough frogs, we’d find our prince.

Perseverance was the name of the game, right?

I’d tried everything: apps, speed-dating events, being set up by well-meaning family members. I’d even paid a thousand-pound deposit to sign up for the Love Hotel: a fancy resort that promised to find my Mr Right.

My best friend Stella went there and ended up being matched with her ex. Sounds wild, but it was true. Now they were crazy in love.

Even her Love Empress, Jasmine (a silly job title they gave to the people at the hotel who helped bring couples together) found her dream man there.

And they weren’t the only ones. I’d lost count of the number of success stories I’d read about people who went to the hotel single and came back besotted.

That was what I wanted, but with every day that passed, it was looking like I had more chance of winning the lottery.

When I saw Jasmine at Stella’s fortieth birthday party, she thought I might have a chance of getting a place at the hotel. But that was months ago and I still hadn’t heard anything from the matchmaking team.

Maybe it was for the best.

Being single wasn’t so bad. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, I didn’t have to keep putting the toilet seat down or clean up piss stains because a grown man didn’t know how to aim his dick properly in the toilet bowl.

I didn’t have to hold in my farts or smell his.

And I didn’t have to be left hanging on a string for years whilst I waited for my crappy boyfriend to finally commit.

Or feel like I was never enough.

Yeah. I was totally fine just how I was. I’d rather fly solo than be shacked up with a twat like Ronald. I’d had a lucky escape.

After pulling out my phone, I deleted every single crappy app, then exhaled.

There.

I was officially done with dating.

Filled with renewed confidence, I strutted towards the Tube station like the busy, wet London pavement was my catwalk.

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