One of the inherent difficulties with dating blog readers (and I should note here that I have not done much of it) is that by the time you’ve asked GOTN on a date, there is very very little I can do to make you not want to fuck GOTN. I can turn up, as I always do, looking like a bag of shit. I can get messy drunk and say things that are awkward or uncool. I can sweat like a horse at the Grand National because we’re no longer in the depths of winter but I enjoy a lovely jumper nonetheless. And yet still… you’ve read my blog. You liked my blog. You enjoyed the filth I post so much that you invited me out on a date. So I have a dilemma, which is that I can never really tell if you genuinely like me, or like GOTN.

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This week’s guest blogger is Poppy, who runs the podcast Confessions of a Closet Romantic, available here on Apple Podcasts and wherever you get your aural pleasure too. Poppy is demisexual, which is not something I or other guest bloggers have explored much on this site before, so I’m extremely grateful to her for offering to share her experience. Huge thanks to Poppy for this fun, lighthearted tour of what demisexuality means to her.

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If you are seeing someone on a casual basis, or you’ve agreed that you’re going to date/shag them but haven’t quite done the logistics for meeting up, how often do you message them? Are you checking in regularly to see how they’re doing, or do you consider them ‘in the bank’ and therefore probably not in need of regular contact until it comes time to meet up? What is the difference between being casual about checking in and accidentally ghosting someone?

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One of the things I’m finding hilarious about dating again, eleven years after the last time I was single, is that no matter how compatible or otherwise my date and I might be, there is one fact on which we always agree: OK Cupid is shit now. This isn’t a problem with an obvious, easy solution, I just think that when you realise something truly good is gone, it’s important to allow yourself time and space to mourn. OK Cupid sucks horrible arse these days, and I know I’m late to this revelation but I’m super fucking sad about it, and I wanted to have a little rant.

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Sometimes the stars align into a constellation that literally spells out “I HAVE THE BEST JOB IN THE WORLD, GODDAMMIT”, and so it was on the 20th January this year, when I got a little message from a shipping company telling me my package from Intimate Chocolate had arrived. My package of a gigantic, delicious, beautiful hazlenut-and-chocolate dick. I am supposed to ‘review’ this for the website, but you lot know me by now and so what I’m actually going to do is wax lyrical about how fucking awesome this whole situation is, then tell you how I got overexcited and suggested to a mate who was visiting that we should competitively deep-throat it.

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