I t’s hard to resist the thrill of being lovebombed. I’ve been warned countless times that it’s a potential red flag when someone is so immediately forthcoming with their affection, but I’m too much of a romantic to be so cynical. Or maybe I’m just too traumatised from my childhood to retreat from the sheer euphoria of someone telling me how wonderful I am over and over. In any case, after what happened last weekend, I am now forever suspicious of the love-bomber.
I’m currently in London shooting my first feature, and it’s been joyous and overwhelming at the same time. The pressure is hard to describe, and it’s an acutely lonely experience. Rising at 5am each day, getting home at 10pm, thinking about all the mistakes you made during the shoot in bed each night, planning for the week ahead, the endless to-do list, the feeling that you are constantly failing…
So, when a gorgeous Parisian poet messaged me on Grindr to tell me that he was “amazed by face” — no gay man has ever been so complimentary — my vulnerable, tired soul was immediately seduced. The Parisian in question is probably the hottest man I have ever seen in my life, and at first I did think I was being pranked. But he did message me, and we did meet up, and it was one of the most romantic dates I have ever had. For 95 per cent of it I was waiting for Ashton Kutcher to appear from nowhere to tell me that, yes, indeed, I had been punk’d. But the remaining 5 per cent was spent gazing into the Parisian’s eyes, kissing like highschoolers and bonding over cinema, art and queerness. It was perfect.