There already was an eleventh tip Duchess. It's just that VeryModern reminded me that it was its own story.

Actually, most of them ARE their own stories. Ask me nicely and I just might tell them.

Yes, I too have a grocery man.

A back door grocery man, to be precise.

Let me set the scene...

Now, I'm the kind of girl who gets asked on dates by total strangers on the street. It is a complete mystery to me as to why this happens. It's not like I'm Elle Macpherson's twin sister or anything like that. I'm not wearing Impulse. Perhaps it's a conspiracy. Maybe I'm the lead in my own version of the Tree-man show and each instance has been a blatant ratings attempt. But this blog isn't about my personal delusions. It's about grocery man.

It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. Sunny and bright. I was wandering around my local supermarket buying my weekly groceries.

I hadn't made any particular attempts with my make up or hair. I was wearing a pair of ratty, faded cut-offs and a t-shirt.

Nothing glamorous.

I was wandering down an aisle when I spotted him.

He was drop-dead, curl-my-toes, don't-mind-me-I'm-drooling gorgeous. Long hair, swarthy features, sparkling blue eyes and a killer smile. If this was a Jim Carrey movie, my eyes would have been on stalks.

He was standing by the registers. He looked my way. Being an idiot, I dropped my gaze and became fascinated by the salsa display beside my shopping cart.

I spotted him again down another aisle, but I don't think he saw me. I made a decision. "If I see him again, I'm going to catch his eye and smile." After all, what harm can that do?

Sure enough, as I pushed my cart up to the registers, he was there, a couple of registers over. The check out girl had nearly finished ringing up his purchases. He looked up. I caught his eye. I offered him the most dazzling smile in my repertoire. He smiled back. I melted. He picked up his groceries and walked out of the store.

Had that been the end of the story, it would have been enough for me. That smile had made my day. Grinning like a fool, I grabbed my own purchases and walked out of the supermarket.

He was waiting outside. He walked up to me. He asked me what the time was.

Now, I don't know about anyone else, but I know precisely when someone is asking me the time and when they are just trying to get my attention somehow. Nearly every one of those street encounters I mentioned earlier have begun with the words, "Could you please tell me what time it is?"

He didn't give a fat rat's arse about the time.

Something inside me was singing and dancing and yelling "WOO HOO!" an awful lot.

He asked if he could walk me to my car. I said that wasn't necessary. I wasn't going to tell him I was about to walk home with my groceries, I do have some survival instincts. He asked if he could walk with me. I said he could. He asked if he could carry my groceries. I insisted that I could manage just fine.

We began to chat. We exchanged first names and made small talk. He said something that revealed him as a non-local. Turned out he was from Sydney. We chatted happily and by the time we were walking past the video store, he was asking for my phone number.

Previous experience had taught me well. I don't give my number out. I mumbled something about being hard to catch, he should give me his. He refused. Point blank.

Small alarms started buzzing in the back of my head.

He persisted, so I wrote a fake number on a scrap of paper for him. He followed this by making a couple of remarks that just made those alarms ring a little louder.

He kept referring to my bum and how wonderful he thought it was. Now, this baby's got back. Most of the comments I hear about my butt are not complimentary. Ordinarily, I would have thought that this was wonderful, but my gut instincts were kicking in big time. There was something creepy about Mr Tall, Dark and HaveSome. And I was getting near my apartment. I needed to offload this guy.

We got to the next street corner. I said something about being near a friend's place and that I was taking these groceries there to have lunch with them. He grabbed my arm, looked me square in the eye and asked, "Can we go back to your place so I can have anal sex with you?"

O_O O_O O_O >_< O_o

Call me an old fashioned girl if you will, but don't I even get a coffee first? Or plain ol' vanilla sex? Or even a surname? Nope, he wanted to go straight for the golden ring.

Pun intended.

I made it abundantly clear that not only was he not going to have anal sex with me, but that if I ever saw him again he and future generations of his family would regret it. Horribly.

So, dating tip number eleven? Surname, coffee and missionary before coming in through the back door, thank you very much.