Past: Muso Man And His Incredible Homemade Sex Toy

He was a musician. Because of this, I presumed that he would be arty and accepting. I was right. He had also been to drama school, so I presumed he understood what that environment was like and would be able to seperate fiction from reality. That bit, I wasn't so right about...

I met Muso Man for the first time in a nice cosy bar in Hoxton. He reminded me a little of Milo from The Tweenies and he smelled like jumble sale, but I decided to let that go. We chatted for hours about the Arts and hit it off rather well. Like most people, when I told him I was an actress he asked me, 'What's the craziest thing you have ever done onstage?'
This is a baaaaaad question for me. Because I couldn't possibly tell somebody I've just met the real answer to that, as it's a little too strange. I have since learned this and now either tell them a tamer story, or just make one up. But this was before I realised just how much of a mistake telling the truth could be in this situation. I thought, 'He's a musician, he's been to drama school, he knows what it is like, he can take the truth. He'll probably find it as amusing as it was intended to be'. So I told him the truth. I'm not going to give you too much information, reader, as it's not necessary. But for the story's sake I shall divulge that it was an hysterically funny (non-pornographic) scene in an Opera involving a Nazi costume, a riding crop and a large gold strap-on dildo. (I hasten to add- 'hysterically funny' in terms of the writing; I by no means intend to flatter my own performance!)
As I told him this story I noticed that he was as amused by it as I had hoped. I joked that my boyfriend at the time was also in the play and was a little disturbed by my costume. But this guy seemed to realise that it was no reflection on myself, just a fun role I had been given the chance to play. I was a little relieved- after all, the 'telling the truth' ploy could have backfired -and grateful to have found somebody who was not in the same business as me, yet could understand how it worked. Much to my surprise, I began to find him physically attractive, and we did kiss at the end of the evening before going our seperate ways on the tube. A lovely night.

We went for a second date. It was largely uneventful, apart from the fact that we spent most of it kissing in a bar. We got to know each others' lives a little better, spoke about subjects that we hadn't covered, and laughed a lot. Again, we didn't do dinner but enjoyed a few drinks and then said goodbye at the tube. Great.

A couple of days later, I got the text message. 'Hey. It's Valentine's day on Friday and I was thinking that maybe we could go out that night?' Now, this was to be the third date. I liked him, but I'd only seen him twice. Going out on Valentine's Day together was a little too much for me. Besides, I'd made arrangements to go drunken bowling. It was sweet of him to mention it, so I replied to suggest going out on the following night instead. Not Valentine's Day, but as good as. He liked this idea.

Saturday came. We met in a pub. He rushed up to greet me, got me a drink and could barely contain himself when he whispered, 'I've got you a present!'

My heart sank. Shit. Were we doing presents?! I barely knew the bloke! I felt a bit awful but presumed it was just a little something; possibly a CD he'd told me about, maybe just a card. But I did have to say 'I'm sorry, I didn't get you anything!' I doubt he heard me. Judging by the look on his face he was so excited to give me whatever it was he'd got me, he was seconds away from weeing himself. He was building this up so much, I half expected somebody in a bodywarmer to lead a Shetland pony into the pub with a bow round its neck. I decided to pretend to be as excited as he was: 'Oooh! What did you get me!?' His face changed from 'Excitement' to 'Covert Operation': 'Not in here. I can't give it to you in here'. Aw. He was embarassed and wanted somewhere a little more private. Of course. I'd have to wait until we were out of the bar.

A few drinks and a few laughs later, we decided to get something to eat. We went across the road to a little Vietnamese restaurant. We suggested getting two dishes to share between us.
I ordered a beef dish that I was particularly attracted to as the description mentioned that it was named after a method of torture that involved stripping human flesh to the sound of a beating drum.
He ordered a salad.

We got on very well, and the food was great. However I was beginning to wonder, in the cold fluorescent light of the Vietnamese, whether I fancied this bloke after all. Each time I had seen him he had looked more and more like a Tweenie and smelled more and more like jumble sale. When he got up to go to the loo, I noticed that he was wearing incredibly flared brown corduroy slacks that were far too short so swung around the middle of his calves, revealing about three inches of grubby yellow sock. Too-short, jumble sale flared trousers. Not that sexy. But the evening couldn't end yet- I was still intrigued about my present...

I asked him if this was a more suitable place in which to give me my Mystery Prize. Apparently even though we were the only people in the restaurant, this wasn't the right enviroment for gift-giving either. I was getting a little suspicious now. Was there a present at all, or was he just going to unzip his flies at the end of the date? Although the action could possibly add an inch to his trousers, this did not sound appealing. I told him this. He seemed amused, and flashed me (wait for it) a little red gift bag hidden in his jacket pocket. Phew. There was a present.

At the end of the meal, we decided to go for a walk to Hoxton Square and have a few more drinks to round off the night. I had given up on the bloody present by this stage. He had milked the metaphorical cow to such an extent that she lay wizened in the mud with flies around her eyes. I was bored. We got to the middle of the square, where there were no other people around and the only lighting was from an exhausted single streetlamp, when he yelled 'PRESENT-TIME!' and thrust the gift bag into my hand. I gave him my best 'Joyful' facial expression and looked inside.

'Joyful' didn't last long. It progressed to 'Disbelief'.

'Disbelief' turned into 'Realisation'.

'Realisation' morphed into 'Horror'.

He had made a tiny gold strap-on dildo.

MADE it. Not bought it, not seen it in a shop and picked it up on a whim.
MADE it.
How? He had bought one of those tiny horrible little squidgy rubbery plastic willies that women chuck around at hen parties, painted it gold, bought a red CAT COLLAR (complete with bell. A BELL!), glued the gold willy to the cat collar, and presented it to a girl he'd only met twice before as a romantic present for Valentine's Day.

A dildo. Glued to a cat-collar. So, effectively: A strap-on. For a cat.

I was speechless. I think my face must have said it all. I felt a bit sick. I had no idea what to do next. I only knew that I didn't want to see or hold this... thing ever again. I didn't say anything, I just calmly put it back in his hand, and walked towards the bar. Then stopped. I had no idea what to do or say next.

He caught up with me. 'I thought you'd find it funny!'
'Funny?! It's. It's not funny! It's. Horrible!'
'But you said your ex-boyfriend wasn't comfortable with it, and I wanted you to know that I am!'
'WHAT?! You think that's what I'm INTO!? It was a PART! It was a PART in a PLAY. That's not ME!'
'Oh. I thought...'
'You thought that was ME?! Like it was a test!?'
'Yeah.'
'Wow. WOW'.
'My mum said you'd find it funny.'
His mother was a lesbian.

Now it was his turn not to know what to do or say next. My mind was racing with questions: What kind of a bloke gives that to his new date for Valentine's day? Did he really think I'd find it funny? Should I have found it funny? He was obviously not an axe murderer but at the same time he must have had a fucked-up sexual outlook. Making that thing would have taken time. Did he think it was a good idea all the while he was making it? Did he chuckle to himself thinking of my reaction as he applied gold paint to a tiny rubber willy?
The possibilities were endless and bizarre.

I think in the few minutes of silence that had passed, the realisation had sunk into his head that this had been a horrible, horrible mistake. He was visibly crushed. He decided to pretend it had never happened. 'Come on, forget about it, let's go get a drink'. But I didn't move. I didn't want a drink. I wanted to go home. He saw this and said quietly, 'I'll walk you to the tube'.

We walked in silence to the station. I was starting to see the funny side of it all, so every now and again would burst out laughing and look at him to share the joke. He just stared at the floor with a face like thunder. Oh dear. I tried to make conversation but he wasn't having any of it. I began to realise that there was no chance in Hell that the evening was going to end well. Happy bloody Valentine's. He had got it completely and utterly wrong and there was no going back from it. He had been mortified and humiliated and now he was angry.
What felt like 6 hours later, we arrived at the tube. He had already decided that I would never want to see him again, so he said 'Well, I guess that's it then', kissed me on the cheek and told me to take care. I was beginning to feel bad about reacting so strongly to his offering and didn't want to burn any bridges on a whim, so I told him I'd see him soon. Well, I thought I might feel different the next day...

The next day, lying on the living room carpet crying with laughter telling my mum all about it on the phone, I decided that my gut feeling had been right. I wasn't going to see him again. What had been done could not be undone.
And I vowed never again to tell the truth about the craziest thing I've ever done onstage.