Sexual chemistry and the compulsion to puke

Today smacking: That one guy I dated in the year 2000

Most of the time it’s really obvious when you don’t have chemistry with someone. This is why I became a little flabbergasted the other day when a colleague told me she was unsure whether to continue dating a guy because she wasn’t convinced the chemistry was there. My colleague is about to turn thirty this year, and while she’s not exactly so panicked about settling down that, like Charlotte from Sex and the City, she’s about to marry the next British-descended, emotionally castrated, mama’s-boy socialite who comes her way, she has expressed that she feels a certain sense of urgency; something akin to being strapped to some railroad tracks by a mustachioed maniacal bandit, I suspect. Nothing too pressing.

“So why are you even considering it?” I asked her.

My colleague made an apologetic smile that made me wonder if she keeps her balls most of the time firmly hidden at the bottom of her purse, along with her self-respect and her ‘No Means No’ badge. “Because he’s really, really funny and I quite like him as a friend,” she replied.

“But you said you don’t have the right chemistry there. Do you mean you’re not attracted to him?”

“Well, yeah. Like, I can’t see myself kissing him, let alone…” She couldn’t look at me by this stage, clearly very suddenly becoming aware that what she was saying amounted to lunacy. I suspect she might also have been avoiding my eyes because they were shooting white-hot lasers at her, but I can’t help that; it happens voluntarily when my Disappointment-In-You-o-Meter skyrockets.

“Then what are you doing?” I asked incredulously.

“I just didn’t want to be too picky, you know, because sometimes you can develop feelings for someone.”

“Feelings, maybe. Sexual chemistry? No. Listen, you’re not on Seinfeld here; you’re not rejecting him because his toes are the wrong shape or something stupid like that. Chemistry is the most important thing you could have at this stage! Who has time to dick around waiting to find out?”

Within days my colleague had decided not to follow up on that relationship, much to my approval, but it did indeed give me pause to wonder that if good-looking, sweet women like my colleague who own property and have good jobs find themselves wondering about settling for second-rate around the age of thirty, what the hell are their ugly step-sisters doing? Is every woman who has begun to worry about her romantic prospects so pragmatic about finding someone? 'Well, I don't want to kiss his slobbery mouth, but he does have an upwardly mobile career, and he really gets along with my dog...' Do we no longer lead with our hearts? I despair, I really do; no amount of balancing the ledger of pros and cons of a potential partner can overcome a lack of chemistry.

I am reminded of a fellow I was dating at sixteen. He was nineteen, and used to insist on paying for everything when he took me out, which was often, and this was so novel to me at that age that I dated him for longer than I really should have. We had lovely conversations and connected on a philosophical level, but when we kissed, and when we sat silently on park benches and fed swans together, there was something just slightly amiss.

Obviously, he felt it, too, but being the typically emotionally constipated 19-year-old male, he didn’t quite know how to express it. One day as we were sitting close together in a park, gazing at nothing in particular (and I was feeling a slight buzzing in my soul that I have since learned means things are not altogether peachy) he turned to me with an earnest expression upon his face, and, “So,” he asked casually, “are you feeling comfortable in the silences yet?”

You know how it’s really hip right now to say, when something unsettles you, that you think you just vomited in your mouth a little? Well, I’m pretty sure I actually did. And this was way before it was even remotely funny or cool. Even at sixteen I knew that if you have to ask, you won’t be walking down a flower-strewn aisle to the tune of Shania Twain’s You’re Still the One anytime soon.

So, as soon as I had reasonably convinced myself that I could keep my lunch down on the train journey home, I high-tailed it out of there. My erstwhile date, lucky boy, earned the moniker ‘Puke’ (a super-clever twist on his actual name, durr hurr hurr) and didn’t hear back from me. Because if the thought of going any further with your current date inspires the bile in your gut to develop the desire to defy gravity, then you’ve got chemistry problems that have nothing to do with stomach acids.