The Guy Who Bolted Mid-Snog

My twenties — the decade of my life when I thought a good Friday night started with a spritz of dry shampoo and ended with chips in bed and someone else's shirt on my floor.

I was in my prime: full-time job, full-blown delusion that I was absolutely living my best life. Work drinks were practically a personality trait. I didn’t need an excuse to overdo it on a Friday — there was always someone from the office willing to say “just one more” and, naturally, that one turned into six, a tequila shot, and me flirting with the bartender over a packet of crisps.

So here we are. A fateful Friday. The whole team’s out — even the boss who once told me to “think about optics” after I snogged Dave from Accounts at the Christmas party. (Spoiler alert: I didn’t think about optics. Not then. Not ever.)

Then I saw him. The Guy. Tall. Hot. Cheeky grin with dimples that could cause minor traffic accidents. Trouble written all over him in permanent marker. The kind of guy who doesn’t ask your name — just grabs your waist on the dance floor and kisses you like you’ve got 48 hours to live.

Reader, I snogged him like my job depended on it. In full view of everyone. Including my boss. Again. Zero shame. Pure chaos. Peak me.

We exchanged numbers, obviously. Because nothing says “this could be something” like a man whose opening move is a tongue-down-your-throat-and-a-firm-grab-of-the-hips combo.

A few days later, I invite him over to mine. First date. Daylight. My flat. Classic mistake. I never did learn that inviting a man round as a first date screams “booty call” in neon, did I?

Anyway, I’m thinking maybe a nice chat, a bit of wine, see if he's more than just a professional snogger. He walks in, says about two words, and then BAM — he’s all over me like a rash I didn’t ask for. No lead-in. No, “shall we sit down?”. Not even a polite “hello”. Just pounce.

Now, I’m no stranger to a snog, but this was intense. I’m flustered. It’s midday, for crying out loud. I haven’t even offered him a cup of tea and he's got me pinned like it’s the final of a WWE match. I try to gently peel myself off him and make for the bathroom like I’m fleeing a crime scene. And he thinks it’s some cheeky game of hide and seek.

Next thing I know — I’m up against the bathroom wall, being kissed like I’m the last woman on earth and he’s got a quota to fill. I manage to stammer, “This is moving a bit fast,” hoping he might, I dunno, pause for breath?

And just like that — his phone rings. Which I didn’t even hear. Suddenly it’s a family emergency. His brother’s locked out and needs help. Convenient. Very “oops, got to dash” vibes. I’m standing there, hair like a hay bale, slightly out of breath, watching this man invent his exit like he’s got a standing audition for EastEnders.

Poof. Gone. Just like that. No texts. No follow-up. Nothing. A disappearing act so swift, even Houdini would be impressed.

Now, if I had a shred of self-preservation, that would've been the end of the story. But I’m not one to shy away from red flags. If anything, I collect them like fridge magnets. So the next Friday? I’m back at the same bar. Don’t ask why. Hope? Ego? Cheap cocktails?

And who do I spot across the room? Mr. Emergency Exit himself. Cozying up to another woman like he hasn’t just sprinted out of my flat five days ago with the world’s worst excuse.

I approached him. Why? I still don’t know. Some masochistic urge for closure, maybe.

He clocked me. Didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just raised a hand in my face and went, “I didn’t hear from you.”

And then walked off.

I stood there. Alone. Music blaring. Mascara slightly smudged. And I realised something: I wasn’t heartbroken. I wasn’t even that embarrassed. I was just... tired. Tired of these little love-bombing tornados who blow in, blow up, and blow out — leaving me with nothing but a mildly traumatic anecdote and a need for antibacterial wipes.

But hey — it made a cracking story.

Moral of the story? Never invite a man to your flat for a first date. And if a bloke looks like a walking red flag, he probably is.

Also, maybe stick to snogging in slightly more discreet locations. Like a broom cupboard. Or literally anywhere your boss isn't.

Until next time, my dears — keep your lipstick smudge-proof, your standards slightly higher, and your phone on Do Not Disturb. You never know when Houdini might strike again.

Fancy another tale of romance gone sideways? I’ve got stories that’ll make your toes curl and your exes seem like saints. Stay tuned.