My date was hot, charming and rich – but he still lived with his parents --[Reported by Umva mag]

I was dancing on the tables at my favourite bar when I saw him.

He was so handsome – tall, with dark cropped hair, and he revealed a flash of perfect teeth when he grinned at me. He looked like a cartoon Disney prince. 

Despite the smile, I assumed he was too good-looking to be interested in me, so I continued embarrassing myself at a height, teetering on the table top. 

I thought he’d see enough of my flailing limbs and lose interest, but when I went outside for a much needed cigarette, I was surprised that he followed me.

I learned his name was Ben, and leaning against a wall, I tried to keep my cool as he chatted with me. Or rather chatted to me, as he didn’t ask a single question.

But because he was A, tipsy (like I was), and B, hotter than any man I’d ever spoken to, I was happy to hear all about his clever-sounding finance job and nod my head during any natural gap in conversation. I even lit another cigarette.

But when I dragged him back inside, he quickly dropped my hand and abandoned me for two gorgeous girls. These girls were the opposite of me – leggy, with blonde hair extensions and wearing chic blazers over their glamorous dresses. I was wearing chunky boots, a cheap mini skirt and crop top combo, with my high ponytail looking less than perfect. 

And of course, they all went off to the bar. 

So, that was that. I did what any girl would do; continued dancing with my friends, acting like I couldn’t care less.

But I was merely saving face. It’s shallow, I know, but having his interest, when he was so good looking, only to have it dropped, felt like a confidence knock. 

And I was annoyed that I cared. 

I sobbed in the Uber home (which might have also been thanks to the fact I downed several shots after Ben ditched me). 

Luckily, it didn’t sting for long, and I completely forgot about him. I even went back to the same bar a few times in the weeks that followed, stealing cigarettes from other men in the smoking area.

That was until I received a message on a dating app two months later.

‘Sarah’s a nice name, but that’s not what you saved yourself in my phone as.’

I messaged back a question mark. Somehow, I didn’t recognise him. The penny didn’t drop until the next message he sent. 

‘You saved yourself as “girl who was dancing on the table”.’

Oh my god – it was Ben, the hot Disney prince. 

Soon enough, he asked me out, and I said yes, totally ignoring how he discarded me for the other girls the first time we met. 

We met a few days later for drinks at a cocktail bar. Thankfully it turns out that Ben wasn’t self-obsessed, he was just drunk the first time we met. This time he was extremely charming and asked loads of questions; he also refused to let me pay for my drinks. 

I thought it was going really well. 

That was until I realised, at midnight, that I’d lost my keys. The pouch attached to my bag – which I’d deliberately put the keys in so I wouldn’t lose them – had gone missing.

I remained calm as I told my date – not because I’m a cool, chill girl, but because I’m the type of person who has lost my keys several times over the years, so I know not to panic. That, and I presumed I might be able to go back to his, and sort my keys in the morning. 

But my plan was thwarted. When I suggested continuing the night at his place, he grimaced. It just wasn’t an option, he said, because he still lived with his parents. 

It’s shallow, I know, but having his interest, when he was so good looking, only to have it dropped, felt like a confidence knock

At this point, considering how late it was, and how many cocktails we’d both had, it was clear this date would be a waste of time if we didn’t sleep together. That, and I had nowhere to go. So we hatched an emergency plan. 

I live pretty near a hotel, so we went to see if it had any rooms. 

This might have been a stroke of genius, if it wasn’t so late. And if we weren’t extremely drunk, as we did shots after I lost my keys to help cheer me up. 

The woman on reception looked weary, and clearly aware of what we were there for, as she told Ben there weren’t any rooms. 

There were no choices left. I had to green light option two: calling an emergency locksmith.

We sat in the hotel lobby, while I drunkenly begged a locksmith to save me from my embarrassing peril. He couldn’t arrive for another hour, so because it was a freezing cold November evening, we asked to sit in the hotel lobby. 

When our locksmith saviour texted to say he arrived at around 3:30am, I legged it from the hotel to my flat, dragging Ben along – quite impressive for a drunk woman in six inch heels. 

And for the cool price of £400, within five minutes my flat had been broken into, and the money transferred to the locksmith’s bank account.

Needless to say, it was the most expensive first date of my life. 

And considering I can’t really remember the sex, and the fact Ben and I only went on one date following the disaster, I don’t really think it was worth it.

I should’ve completely ignored Ben that night, and continued dancing on the tables.

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