After a mind-bending week spent chasing up sources for a feature on HIV, I didn’t think I was much in the mood for anything romance-related.  That all changed when I logged onto Guardian Soulmates on Tuesday evening and spotted a message from Steve, a 39 year-old hot-dad type whose photo oozed hirsuteness.  Following crap dates with several boyish, fey-gay types, I was in the mood for something different, and agreed to meet him for a drink.

Hopping off the Central Line at Snaresbrook [yes, I had decided to meet a complete stranger off the internet – I’m still alive] Steve swaggered forward, smirking cockily.  He was even more handsome in real life – dark, broad and in possession of a self-assured charm that left me incapable of anything other than a gormless grin.

We went to a wine bar filled with other 30-somethings and tried to chat.  Disappointingly, a great deal of time was spent talking about Steve’s health, particularly his fury at his GP’s refusal to give him a hay fever jab: 

“The tablets never work."  He whined.  "I think they’re just being bloody tight – my friend who lives in Lewisham got it from her Doctor, no questions asked.”  It didn’t put me off him though: all it took was a glance from his dark eyes, or the sight of his lazy grin to silence any rumbles of discontent. 

By the time we’d had two drinks I’d managed to miss the last train home, necessitating a stop-over at Steve’s place.  It was nice, in a clinically clean way.  We watched a DVD before bed.  Steve had a surprisingly irritating laugh, which tended to flow forth at the least funny bits of the film.  That, coupled with the hypochondria should have put me off him, but he was too good a spooner, and looked fantastic in a white t-shirt.    

Inevitably, we ended up in bed.  Shallow as it sounds, I was too in awe of Steve's physical attritubes to notice any personality deficits.  Things started off relatively chastely, although passion seemed inevitable.  Sadly, it wasn’t to be.    

“Christ,” Steve said, springing away from me suddenly.  “What have you got in your hair?” 

“Just gel.” I answered, watching as he darted out of bed and ran into the bathroom. 

“I told you how sensitive my skin was,” he snapped back, his voice all the harsher for having echoed off the bathroom tiles.  “Work's going to be fun tomorrow with this rash.”  If I had hoped age would bring wisdom and a general disregard for all things petty, I'd been proven totally wrong. 

It was too dark for Steve to see me rolling my eyes as he examined himself in the mirror on the door, but I could clearly see the angry look on his face as he stalked across the room, climbed into bed and pulled the sheets roughly over himself, turning his back on me with an inaudible mutter.