I have a confession. I hate dating. In fact, I suck at it. For those who know me as Dr Dickos, I must admit that I’m a bit of a fraud. I’m great at dispensing relationship advice to others, but when I’m part of the equation, forget it.

I’ve never been very lucky with relationships. I’ve only had two relationships of any consequence; perhaps that’s my fault. Perhaps that’s what happens when one attends a same-sex university.  Regardless, I’m single, and bored. For shits and giggles, I decided to put a profile on match.com. What a farce it’s been! 

I’ve met a few of these boys, and it has been one hell of a disaster. After careful consideration, I’ve decided not to use real names or identifying details of these punks. Instead, I’ll use characters from one of my favourite John Hughes movies, Sixteen Candles.

'Farmer Ted' and I spent a few weeks chatting on the phone, instant messaging, and texting before meeting up. He seemed like such a fun guy. Then I met him. The photo he’d posted with his profile was about seven years old, and scarcely resembled the actual boy. I was a little confused at first, but once we got to talking, things seemed more comfortable. As we got to know the real people, I realised he was only on match to get some pussy. That’s all. I really did feel like he wanted to grab my panties, take them to work and show them to the boys for a buck a pop. 

He suddenly turned into a psychotic jackass. He went from wanting to have a relationship, to calling me a hater for not wanting to jump into bed with him. I was getting booty call text messages at 3.30 in the morning, and old Ted never saw anything wrong with that. 

I thought I’d try again. Met up with a former Marine, and current cop. He was awful. Prick.

Third time’s a charm, right? Or so I thought when I met up with 'Long Duk Dong'. (Give me a break, the guy’s not American…) The Donger is quite suave, well-travelled, well-educated, and incredibly good-looking. I thought I hit the jackpot. We had a great couple of dates, and he made me promise to go out with him again. He charmed the pants off me, and disappeared for two weeks. He sent me a text, to which I didn’t respond, so he sent me a shitty one asking why I ignored him. 

By this point, I’m thinking all guys are pigs. Filthy swine who are ruled by their cocks. Wait, that’s most boys. Sorry. Any way, just as I’d given up on meeting a decent boy, along comes (big sigh, girls) 'Jake Ryan'.

Old Jake is fundamentally perfect for me. He’s in two bands, an actor, and is degreed in English. He’s indie chic, and I dig that in men. We entertained ourselves at work with ridiculous emails, and a gigglefest on the telephone. Before we met, I found myself smitten. The big day arrived and we had a killer first date – probably the best I’ve ever had. He goes home, and the emails stop. A few days later, he called to tell me that he’s retarded with girls and that his ex has been sniffing around again. I couldn’t help it – his honesty made me dig him more and more. I felt like Molly Ringwald and that everyone really had forgotten my sweet sixteen when he confessed his malady. Damn you, Jake! 

As I’m nearing my next birthday, which is a big one, I keep thinking of a prophecy made by one of my dearest friends back when we were 16. She told me that our group of friends would be married with kids, and I’d be single…and have affairs with all their husbands. 

I’m not on the market for a husband. I’m sick of the Bridget Jones dinner parties where I’m the lone singleton. I want a boy I can have fun with. Is that too much to ask?