At the age of 25, fresh out of an 18-month single spell, I threw myself into the world of dating apps. My previous long-term relationship, which began at the infamous Clapham nightclub Infernos when I was 21, had run its course. I quickly discovered a niche advantage: a preference for shorter men, which seemed less common among other women. This meant I didn't need to be a supermodel; I just needed to be present in their inboxes.
The Build-Up to a Bizarre Night
While the apps weren't exactly teeming with the promised firemen or police officers (perhaps the marketing team was thinking of the Village People?), I soon matched with a man named Dylan*. Our chat became a competition of wit, with long, hilarious messages flying back and forth. When he finally suggested a real meeting for drinks and people-watching at a central London bar at 3pm on a Saturday, I agreed.
He arrived late and slightly flustered, but his 5'7", blonde, blue-eyed and almost angelic appearance earned him instant forgiveness. We sat at an outside table and ordered the trendy drink of the moment: mojitos. Conversation flowed, despite Dylan telling me an urban legend about a dead dog on the Tube that I'd read online years prior. I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt.
One mojito turned into two, which then spiralled into ten. By the time the bar was closing, we were very drunk and unsure of our next move. In a moment of drunken 'hedonism', someone—I truly can't recall who—suggested going to a strip club 'for a joke'. Suddenly, we were heading to a London erotic dancing venue notorious for being a tourist trap. Our date had now stretched to an improbable 10 hours.
An Awkward Rescue in a Strip Club
Inside, the atmosphere was immediately uncomfortable. The dancers appeared as bemused by our presence as we were. We audibly gulped at the prices—around £7 for a beer, which felt like a fortune at the time. Dylan insisted on paying the mounting bill, performing that classic male ritual of 'No, I've got this'.
We had no interest in private shows, but within minutes a topless dancer clambered onto our table, kicking over our overpriced drinks. Dylan, more embarrassed than I was, averted his gaze. While he was preoccupied fending off offers for the champagne room, I struck up a conversation with a dancer called Sapphire.
She was studying biomedical sciences at university. For what felt like half the night, we huddled over a napkin, brainstorming her career options at our tiny table, shouting over the blaring 90s R&B. It was the most genuine connection of the entire evening.
We stumbled out around 4am, with Dylan muttering, 'Most expensive date I've ever been on.' We went back to his sprawling four-storey shared house in South London but, overcome by drunkenness and the night's surreal overexposure, did not have sex. The spark fizzled, we both started seeing other people, and I assumed that was that.
The Unexpected Encore
Then, about a year later on a bank holiday weekend, a black cab pulled up outside my flat at 1am as I stood with friends. Dylan stepped out. He'd been in the area, remembered I lived nearby from a cancelled plan months earlier, and decided to try his luck—with no prior message or warning.
He hugged me as if no time had passed, joined an impromptu drinking session with my mates, and we ended up having sex in my bathroom while my annoyed, work-bound housemate banged on the door. He left in the morning, and I never saw him again.
I do, however, still have that napkin with the biomedical science CV notes, stored in a shoebox of odd memories under my bed. Just in case Sapphire ever needs a reminder of her career options, or of the night a stripper saved my worst ever date.
This story was originally published in May 2025.
