Love at First Flight: The fake-dating romantic comedy to fly away with

CHAPTER 1

For example, I like to look at men. Not all men, obviously. But some men are so easy on the eye, that one just can't help but look at them. Like that man on the giant billboard on the highway in that jeans commercial. There have been a few occasions where I've been looking at him so intently, running my eyes over the perfect symmetrical 'V' shape that runs across his abdomen and disappears into his jeans, that I've almost missed the offramp. I emailed the Advertising Complaints Commission about this, suggesting that perhaps they should find a more suitable, less distracting place for the billboard. They never got back to me though, which I thought was terribly unprofessional.

I also like the way men feel. I like the way their skin is so different to ours. I like the way that running your hands over a man's skin is almost like running a hand over a foreign, exotic creature. A man's skin is twenty five percent thicker than a woman's because of the increased testosterone in their bodies, that's why it feels so different to ours.

Although, it should be noted, that I'm not the biggest fan of excessive body hair, especially when it culminates on the chest and back. I'd landed up in bed with a man some years back who's chest had been covered in so much course hair—almost boarlike—that when he'd been on top of me, I'd broken out in a severe rash from the constant rubbing back and forth and had to go to my GP the next day for a rash cream.

I usually like the way men smell too, except for that blind date I'd gone on with the man who'd smelt like a pack of freshly opened Vienna sausages. And then of course there is the whole sex part. Sex has always been somewhat of a mystery to me. The act is essentially the same in the way it is physically conducted, and yet it can vary so much from person to person. It's hard to pinpoint exactly what makes for good sex, and what makes for bad sex. And of course it is impossible to gauge what kind of sex it will be prior to having it. I've often wondered why dating apps don't have some kind of a rating system for that. It would save so much trouble. Landing up in bed with someone who you're just not sexually compatible with can be a very unpleasant experience. For example, had I known that one of my online dates had been into dirty talk during sex, I would never had slept with him. I'm not a fan of conversation in general, I find it awkward and hard to keep up with. And when you add sex to the mix and the man you're with is constantly describing in real-time, in graphic detail, what he's doing to you and what he intends to do with you next, it's very off-putting. I shouted in his ear that he should "shut the hell up" but this only seemed to encourage him as he told me what a 'naughty, naughty bitch' I was.

But when sex is done right, when all those intangible elements come together, I enjoy it immensely because it gets me out of my head. For a few blissful seconds the rampaging thoughts stop and the millions of conversations I have going on inside my head all at once, all the time, fade into the distance. And for just one moment, one amazing, glorious, awe inspiring blissful moment, silence.

Unfortunately, sex doesn't come around as often as I would like it to, despite the fact that I'm fairly attractive and pride myself on being sufficiently good at the act of sex too. The sex isn't the hard part, it's the converting of a meeting between two people into sex, which is the part I fail at almost every single time. I've never been good at dating. Sipping awkwardly on wine while making polite small talk in which you make very shallow attempts to grab at mutual straws just to be able to tick the box of "getting to know each other." This part always seemed like the most ineffective use of time ever. Superfluous, unnecessary window dressing that come before the undressing.

A photo flew onto my phone screen and I clicked on it. It took me back to the whatap group. I enlarged the photo and stared at it. Class of 2013. I ran my eyes over the faces, trying to locate myself. It wasn't that hard. I stuck out then too, even though we were all wearing the same school uniform. Flaming red hair always scrapped back into a high, tight bun on the top of my head. Everyone else seemed to have wispy bits of hair that hung around their faces. In fact I'd seen them purposefully pull those strands of hair out of their ponytails in the morning. I'd never understood this, surly you would want your hair out of your face for school. I'd also worn 'sever' glasses back then, as my mother had called them. Every holiday she'd tried to take me to an optometrist to buy a more feminine pair, but I liked the ones I had. They were very hard wearing, and I often dropped them. I scanned the photo for my only friend Jennifer. She also stood out with her dyed jet black hair and short pixie cut, pale face because she refused to sit in the sun. Speaking of Jennifer....