Page 18 of The App Trap
Anyway, none of that mattered now, as Harry, 31 was on the scene. Thursday came around quicker than a brown foxjumping over a lazy dog. I was now a member of no less than six dating apps, and although I was plate-spinning messages from all kinds of people, including Ben––not to mention filling up my diary and thus leaving no room for my terrestrial social life––my number one interest was still Harry, 31. He’d even overtaken my work crush Joel, would you believe?
I still couldn’t fathom why a man of such magnificence would want to go out with me. His rugged stubble blended into his tanned, chiselled looks so poetically and his green eyes in his profile pic seemed to be sizing me up, almost daring me to try my luck with him.
After a couple of days of back and forth, I went to meet Harry in a bar in the city, nearby to where he worked and directly after we both finished work. I was completely unrelaxed whilst leaning up at the bar. Harry hadn’t answered my text asking him what he wanted to drink. That meant that I would have to do some excruciating small talk at the bar when he arrived.
As it turned out, I had no time to think of said small talk, as Harry was already walking through the door of Corky’s Wine Bar. I could almost feel my tongue roll down my chin to form a makeshift red carpet for him to continue his illustrious entrance.
It was the first time I saw his dimples in their full glory, as he smiled to the doorman, brushing his wavy, hazelnut mane off his face to reveal the other dimple. He even seemed to walk in slow motion.
The barmaid couldn't take her eyes off of him either. I gave her a look as if to say,‘Yes, I am completely out of my depth’,and she seemed to nod in agreement at the telepathy between us.
Harry was clearly excited to be out and hadn’t stoppedsmiling since he’d arrived. “I know. I look like shit, don’t I?” were his first words.
“No! God, no. You look… good,” I stammered.
“I know… I was joking… gotcha!” said Harry, firing some playful finger guns.
I laughed awkwardly.
“That was jokey arrogance, by the way. I’ve actually got a really bad spot. Look,” he added, pointing to it and curved his top lip in disgust at himself, still managing to look sexy as fuck.
“Oh. Gotcha. And urgh, gross,” I said, somewhat relieved.
“I did get a new shirt, though.”
“It’s nice,” I said.
“Not this one. It hasn’t bloody arrived from Vinted yet. Anyway… cocktail?”
I smiled awkwardly again.
There was only one thing for it: Mojitos––the classic cocktail for the man who didn’t know that much about cocktails.
“Mojito?” I offered.
“I suppose so, seeing as it’s the only cocktail I know. I only dropped the old c-bomb to show off. I’d actually prefer a beer.”
Was this man perfect or what?
“Just gonna put it out there. Mojitos are actually two for one,” I said, half-jokingly.
He laughed, and so I went ahead and ordered two Mojitos anyway, albeit just because I was so nervous that I couldn't even structure the sentence to ask him what beer he wanted.
As the night went on, we both got a bit banjaxed on some very sub-standard Mojitos that seemed to flowready-made from a weathered white container, and gradually I relaxed into Harry’s dry, northern sense of humour. Everything funny that he delivered was done with a deadpan expression that made him look like he didn't even know he was being funny, which of course made him funnier.
At the end of the evening, we were both utterly plastered. Plastered enough for me to have the confidence to pull him in for… The Kiss. Our mouths fitted each other like shapes in the opening minute of a game ofTetris. He groaned lightly as we kissed, causing the force to awaken in my cock and making it hard to resist sliding my hand up his now untucked shirt.
Almost immediately after we disengaged from The Kiss, Harry insisted that we find a hotel to stay in for the night, what with him living all the way out in Essex, and him also having a shitload of disposable income. The promise of ‘no funny-business’ was sealed with a high ten. Well, almost. We were so smashed that we completely missed each other’s hands. Nobody mentioned it, though.
We found a swanky hotel nearby with the assistance of a reputable travel app, and Harry insisted on paying for it. I made a loose, fumbled promise about getting the next one sometime, but knew damn well that it wasn't going to be a hotel of this calibre.
On our way up to the room, Harry thought that a corridor would probably be an interesting place to playfully pin me to the wall and kiss me within an inch of my life, gradually working his hand south to unbutton my jeans, but I had other ideas. The sight of too many discarded room-service trolleys made me think that a SWAT team of hotel staff could turn up at any moment from all directions, which rendered me flaccid and made Harry pullaway and look at me with his puppy dog green eyes.
“It’s the shirt, isn't it? Bloody dancingking1989 and his shite delivery policies,” moaned Harry.
“No, no. It’s the cock, actually. It’s just out here, I get a bit… let’s just say me and The Captain here don’t do well in public. I had a bit of an ordeal once, choking on something in a Wetherspoons.”
Harry narrowed his eyes at me.
