Alcohol has a lot to answer for, especially when it comes to the choices that I have made around dating. 

As we race toward the end of the year and I count the many questionable conversations that I’ve engaged in, a common culprit to fuel the fire can be found in liquid form – often gin, sometimes beer and when the weather is cool, a red wine. 

Or if he’s paying, a fancy cocktail. 

Actually, that’s a lie – anyone who knows me knows that I very foolishly go round for round and insist on splitting things down the middle most times. 

I know, I know, I should be letting them pay a little more. Heck I’ve realised that I even shouted two complete flogs dinner this year – in one of those instances it was because I realised that I didn’t think he could pay even for himself (he had recently spent a lot of money on dental appointments which he shared far too much detail about way too early on), and in the other instance it was kind of worth it because I got the story about going on a date with a nudist who refused to admit to being a nudist. But those are stories for another time.   

Today I’m here to fumble and muse about the topic of booze and banter combined with strangers, and unpack how I blame gin and tonics for the fact that I went on a second date with the bloke who came to be known as Hands Man. 

At the start of 2021 I decided to give the dating apps a proper go. I was a short-lived experience, but I was determined to only go on first dates at cafes – purposefully free of alcohol and clouded judgement. Well, it wasn’t long before I was in a relationship, but also back in pandemic lockdown mode. 

A few brief stints on apps between then and the start of this year were not so consciously booze free, and the results were varied. Upon kicking off 2024, when, as all good readers of my bullshit writing would know, I decided to throw myself at the mercy of the dating algorithms, I held no such noble aspirations. I didn’t even consider sober dating. I did, however, give general sobriety a go. 

January came and went in a blur of seven first dates – I hustled hard that month. But as February rolled around, so did the idea of ‘Feb Fast’ in my gorgeous group of friends. And you know what? I only went one first date that month. 

So, we reached the end of February and drinking on dates came back with a vengeance (okay that’s dramatic, but I must say, adding booze back into the equation made dating seem more appealing once again). 

At the beginning of March I went on a date with a guy who ended up going by the name ‘Hands Man’ amongst my group of friends. He wasn’t my normal type. Very British teeth – and look, he couldn’t help that, he was British, but knowing how much money my parents spent for me to have good teeth, I’m kind of less attracted to people with bad teeth. Petty, I know, but I can’t override my brain chemicals on that one. 
But the conversation flowed well (actually, what happened is that early on the date I found out that he had previously spent about ten years working for Mckinsey – the famously culty and wildly cooked consulting company). 

I was fascinated. 

We also seemed to like the same music, so we chatted away. Four drinks in, on a school night, and the haze had swept over me. I was fooled. Hands folded in front of me he grabbed them from across the table. At the time it felt… romantic? A smooth move to transition over to a kiss. Which we did. Questionably with a table between us but we made it work. He walked me to the corner, and we went our separate ways, but not before a good night kiss. 

I walked home with a dopey grin on my face – this guy seemed okay. There were also a lot of boxes being ticked – he owned his place, he had a (very) good job, was fun to talk to – colour me surprised. 

But here, dear readers, is where reality sets in. Or the beer goggles get violently ripped off. 

Date number two followed four days later. A public holiday Monday. He picked me up in his Volkswagen Golf. Respectable, safe, European. It’s hideously shameful what a functioning car being operated by a man who has a licence to drive one can do to me – I guess that’s how low the bar is. 

But the moment I sat down beside him, I started to see things with clear eyes and mind. He went in for a kiss straight away – sure, we had shared a moment on date one, but that was under the influence – I needed time to get comfy. And the kiss itself was executed with far too much comfort, confidence, and certainty from his side. A second date does not mean a full pash is a certainty up front. I was caught off guard. 
He drove us to a brewery and the conversation started to go to places I wasn’t comfortable with. He spent a lot of time talking about his deep love of his cat. A big ick for me. But let’s not be flippant, there were also some major red flags conversation wise. He would immediately switch to straight down the line questions: “What parts of your body are you self-conscious about?”, “When was the last time you had sex?” and “Can you see any themes with how your past relationships have ended?”. Valid questions, I suppose (well maybe not…) but without any segue or context they were jarring and concerning. The vibes were so deeply off for me. 
I was quickly regretting that he was in control of our transport home and aware of where I lived. 

But the worst part of all… every moment we were sitting, at the brewery, in Fitzroy eating ice creams and at one my favourite pubs later in the day, at every moment he could, his hands were on my hands. All over them. Grabbing them, stroking them, and by the time we were in the beer garden at the Wesley Anne he could not stop kissing them. I think there might have even been a bit of licking. I’m not sure though because the trauma part of my brain absolutely jumped into action to block out the memories. As I willed time to pass, I hoped that none of the staff had seen this happening – I like the pub, I wanted to be able to show my face there again without being known as the girl who had her hands repeatedly assaulted by a man who talked about his cat more than all the other topics that we covered combined.  

But I was confused. I shouldn’t just stop seeing him because of his constant need to be touching my hands with his lips – especially when he ticked so many other boxes… should I? 

Of course, I came to my senses and realised that the screaming alarm bells in my brain were correct and that just because a man had his shit together – a house, a good job and a drivers licence (all things which I have myself…hmm), that is not a good enough reason to just ‘see if maybe he’ll grow on me’. No, absolutely not. 

He seemed surprised – responding to the text I sent saying it had been ‘nice getting to know him but that I didn’t see it going any further’ with a message that read “That’s surprising. But ok. <crying emoji>”. 
I mean, I had let him continually fondle my hands for three or so hours and answered all his direct questions without calling him out on the weirdness of it all. I could kind of see how he might have been confused. That was on me.

I initially blamed my skewed judgement on the fact that we had gone headfirst into the drinks on date number one and that alcohol had been to blame. But I can’t place all the responsibility for questionable choices in its hands. I had been blinded by box ticking and my sick curiosity about the inner workings of consultancy companies. What can I say, I’m weird like that.

As I look back over the list of thirty-two names in my notebook, all members of the “2024 first date with Alicia club”, most encounters involved a drink or two at least on my behalf. In fact, only four of the first dates on this year’s list were conducted fully sober. And on at least one of those occasions, I made a bad call and went on a second date with someone who was… bizarre. Perhaps I had still been drunk from the night before – that might be the only explanation for that judgement call. Or more realistically, I was distracted by a feeling of hope and optimism, happy to look past some quirks that, in that instance at least, were less quirks and more like incredible personality flaws. Once again, a story for another time. 

If you’re looking for a bit of deep insight into the part that booze plays in our culture, I’m afraid I may have misled you in an attempt to create some kind of importance around what was essentially a story about a guy who just couldn’t stop touching and kissing my hands. 

You’re welcome.