About Me

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London, United Kingdom
Holly Searle is a writer and an artist who was made in Soho and thereafter born in the heart of London. She has been blessed with two quite remarkable children and grandchildren whom she adores. She enjoys the company of her friends and the circus that is life, has a degree in Film and Television, and has exhibited her artwork in several exhibition.

Thursday, 3 April 2014

Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? By Holly Searle

A few years ago in my on-going pursuit to find a suitable chap, I joined an online dating website. In this day and age, this is a perfectly acceptable pass time, for those of you just like me, who are seeking a mate.

Normal enough you'd think? Yes for hundreds of us that use this method to find that all important A.N.Other, you would jolly well think so.

In this instant, I was contacted by a man younger than myself, who during a read through of his online profile declared that he shared two attributes with his grandfather. One he claimed was his nose, the other, he rather mysteriously alluded too.

I banked this shared information naïvely thinking that he was quite possibly alluding to his male appendage, but quickly jumped into that river in Egypt, deciding to err on the side of that old chestnut, and give him the benefit of the doubt.

After swapping a few emails, we exchange mobile numbers.Then one evening whilst I was rushing around in a mild fury of domestic fluster, trying to get my youngest bathed and ready for bed, my mobile rings, and it is him.

Talk about bad timing. Still I juggled it as best I could given the situation.

So this is it. This is the pre-deal, deal breaker. And what does this fella do? Well, move closer and I shall tell you. Within the first few minutes of that initial call, he starts talking about his Mister Johnson.

Now, I like to think that I am both an inquisitive and open minded type of gal. So I very quickly compute this, and the topic of conversation, and decide that I am quite intrigued as to where this is all going, whilst making sure my child is within an acceptable depth of non life threatening water.

I decide to strap myself in not unlike Quint did on the Orca, and see what surfaces next.

And whilst I am there with rod (mobile) in hand, I take the upper hand and try to divert this designated line of conversation to a more acceptable common ground.

But Willy Plonker will not let me. He tells me that his manhood is the bane of his life. That he cannot buy clothes that fit. That his footie chums have nicknamed him The Horse, and that when he sleeps he has to literally strap the offending object to his thigh with a piece of cloth so it doesn't flop about and get caught whilst he is asleep.

By now I am feeling quite sorry for him. But I am also desperately trying not to ask him the one question that I really insist that I must.

So I do. I ask him how long it is. He tells me that it is eleven inches at rest.

So now I am thinking, wow really? And I thought I had issues, but this poor soul REALLY has some serious stuff to deal with.

That is like his own personal light sabre. A source I am sure, that has been of constant delight.

The force is surely with this one.

And so it continues in this vain, until I realise that if I do not remove my child from the bath he will be pruned for life.

I end the call.

A few days later, he calls again. And within a few minutes, he returns to this very same subject. I yawn, as by now he has mentioned it so much, that he may as well be discussing what type of tiles he is considering as options for his bathroom redecoration project.

I try to introduce new themes, but it is no good, as he will not stop mentioning his friend.

He tells me that he finds it hard to meet a girl, as all they want to do when they eventually meet him, is to look at it. I think, well can you blame them, as it is all you ever talk about.

John Thomas this, John Thomas that.


In the end he calls me so much that I turn my phone off. I am growing a little jaded by all of his obsessive subjective phallic hogwash.

A few days later I am sitting at my desk at work. It is a late Friday afternoon. Most of my co-workers are women.

I have amused them with my tales of the man with the Hampton obsession thus far. So when to the right of my pc screen he pops-up on messenger, I mentally sigh, but leap at the opportunity to invite my co-workers to witness this man's agenda first hand. So I type something safe, but he instantly replies by typing something about his favourite subject.

As a small group of women in my office, whom are all blessed with a good sense of humour have gathered round, they all bare witness to this exchange as well.

I am now so bored with his blatant harping on about his joy stick, that I decide I want proof, so I ask him if he has a photograph.

And as Cilla Black starts to sing Surprise Surprise, the not unexpected hits you between the eyes in my head, an image starts to download in front of us all.

There are audible gasps as the complete image reveals a young man standing in front of a full length mirror. He is holding a phone to capture the self portrait. He is naked apart from the jersey boxers that he is wearing. They aren't fitted, as they are somewhat distorted by what appears to be a small ferret that looks as though it has been imprisoned in his crotch area.

It tells us all nothing, apart from the fact that there is something there, but what that something is, we cannot see.

So I type back.

I thank him for his photo, but I wonder, does he have something more natural that he would like to share?

He does and sends them over at breakneck speed.

The women behind me giggle and cover their mouths to suppress their squeals for what may come next.

And there they are.

What appears are two what I shall refer to cut-outs. One features an image of a wink that looks as though it belongs to someone. Whilst the other features just a phallus of indeterminable origin.

Oh my God, one of the women says. After that you would never be able to have children.

We are all crying with laughter, and it makes for a nice end to the week.

In my head, I close the book on this one.

I go home. He calls. He tells me that he really would like to meet up. I can't get him off the phone despite telling him after another round of exaggerated member infused chat, that he should maybe consider a career in the porn industry.

To get him off my back, I say yes (fingers crossed as I am lying) why not. So we arrange a time and date.

I don't go despite my mother telling me that I should.

Why would I? I ask her. He is either a freak or a nutter, and I don't really want to find out which.

I tell her she can go if she wants too.

And I never hear from Richard Lanky again.

Which when you think about it, is either a name that either confirms one of those notions, or is a pretty unfortunate one if the other were true.

And I think, like me, you probably know the answer to that one.

This is an extract from Holly Searle's book - Find Me - Ten Years in the life of an Internet Dater

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