Mr Aubergine

eggplant

Following on from the married man who wanted to have his wedding cake and eat it, I was recently faced with what could have been a tougher call for abstinence – a nudge out the blue from an old flame, who was at the front of the queue when they were giving out todgers. To label this guy ‘Mr Aubergine’ would be fair – his appendage was award winning in stature, a potential dangerous weapon and a definite rival for Ron Jeremy’s famous third leg.

My email alerts me to contact from this chap, whom I dated 11 years ago. I last saw him when he appeared unexpectedly in 2010. As it turns out, his recent nod to me was made in error – a quick U-turn in the face of an acknowledged potential ear-battering from his current partner. But whilst I awaited the reply to my question about whether the notification I received from him was intentional, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was still hot. In 2005, he was a dish – extremely funny and nice on the eye. If I’d had a bit more maturity and less of an ego then perhaps we’d have survived a few more years. That, and the interruption of a blonde from Leeds – with huge baps and the need to wear highlighter on her cheeks at all times (even Sunday afternoons).

A friend once said to me that she’d bumped into an ex boyfriend who had gone from being a stunningly beautiful and charming Ferrari driver, to a ‘fat, balding grumpy bastard, behind the wheel of a Citroën Picasso – which had the back seats removed so he could transport budget catalogues around’. Whilst I don’t care for car ownership or weight gain, it did make me think about how potentially different someone could be after 11 years. I don’t think the aubergine itself could have changed – not without extensive surgery.

I’m intrigued of course, and would have liked to have met up for even a friendly catch up – but in the circumstances, I had to sign out and halt contact. This was much tougher than with Mr married restaurant customer – where I had no previous experience to weight my vision of him as a master of sexual art, lyrical wit and care-in-the-community level patience and empathy. Or a penis like a megaphone. This well-hung ex is tattooed into my brain as all of those things – and so the ‘take care’ sign-off I put in my final email was a little harder to do.

I’ll never forget the public humiliation attempts during our relationship, they were so painfully embarrassing but at the same time very funny – buying a deafeningly loud Dukes of Hazard horn for his van and setting it off at every traffic light and pedestrian crossing – least forgettable being Glasgow city centre, where he drove at 5 mph with the windows down, whilst blasting out the Proclaimers and setting off his horn – totally deadpan – and with the sole attempt to cause ultimate embarrassment. And then the time he neglected all available parking spaces and mounted his van diagonally up a 1 in 2 grass bank that divided the local supermarket from the canal, setting off the horn as I tried to get out, so that everyone within a mile radius turned round. And not forgetting the time he turned up at a party dressed as Pamela Anderson in Baywatch – balls bulging out the crotch of a BHS red swimsuit. This guy was more than just a man with marrow between his thighs.

But the underlying decision to not liaise further is no different from with the restaurant guy – the unshiftable girl code. No matter who got there first, the history, whether another woman is bigger, taller, hairier, a boring-talker or a serial killer, it is my mission that I shall never dabble with the idea of coffee with her man, outside of normal alternative motives such as genuine business meetings. Although a business meeting with an ex is not ideal – I’m a firm believer in ‘never get laid where you get paid’.

So there’s the matter – closed. (Though if he’s ever single again, I may get to see if he has a big arse and a 1996 Nissan Micra).