Dateline: "The way he says, 'What you want?' makes my nether regions quiver, even though it's grammatically incorrect..."

We're collecting stories about your most entertaining dates. Send your time-stamped dating stories to ; don't forget to include gender and age for you and your date.

7:30 p.m. - After six months of note-passing, he-said/she-said reports, and general back-and-forth, it is finally our first date. I'm walking into town, listening to DMX to try and hype myself up.

7:48 - I'm at the cash machine, holding a tenner so I can pay for my own drinks. It's very cold and my top is see-through. I want to go home, sit in my parents' brown armchair, and watch The Good Life.

7:53 - I've paced two circuits of our very small town, and twice passed the pub where we're meant to meet.

8:01 - I stand outside the pub for the third time and swear quietly under my breath.

8:03 - I walk in thirty-three minutes late. He has the dregs of a San Miguel left, and doesn't get up to kiss me. "I thought you'd never come," he says, and my cold, dead heart melts a little bit.

8:17 - I'm really fulfilling my journalistic role by asking him a stupid amount of questions. I find out that he's Brazilian-Italian; "That's too much Latin," I say, which he laughs at. He's trying not to stare at my chest.

8:25 - His drink has been empty for a while, but he says if he gets up, I'll vanish.

8:27 - There's a pub quiz going on, which eases the tension somewhat. Most of the answers are titles of Phil Collins songs.

8:45 - He's looking at me very intently, and I feel a bit spooked, like a racehorse about to bolt. It's a weeknight, and there are about six other people in here.

9:09 - He refuses to let me buy my second drink, coming back with something approaching a trough of wine.

9:35 - A passing acquaintance ambles over to our table with the words, "So who's the new fella?" His voice echoes around the room.

9:36 - Said acquaintance drunkenly attempts to sit in my lap, as there's "room enough for both of us."

9:55 - He finally shuffles off. The Italian leans back in his chair with his arms crossed, but he is half-smiling.

10:30 - I turn down a fourth drink; he calls me "too sophisticated."

10:59 - The way he says, "What you want?" instead of "What do you want?" makes my nether regions quiver, even though it's grammatically incorrect.

11:37 - I'm quite tipsy, but I think he just told me he shot someone in Brazil. Did he just say that?

11:45 - The bartenders wearily shoo us out. It's a two-minute walk from the pub to his door — strategic date location, I think.

12:07 a.m. - I'm upstairs and we're kissing. He is very complimentary but a little incredulous; "I never thought this would happen," he keeps saying.

12:24 - I try to ask him about the whole shooting-someone-in-Brazil thing, but I think I'm ruining the mood.

3:02 - His phone is blowing up, but he's dead to the world. All the texts are from someone called Sarah. I don't feel any guilt as I read each one.

3:04 - She seems to like him a lot, and this makes me feel empathetic, but excited. I know my moral compass is a little off at this point. 

3:55 - He walks me home. The streetlamps are throwing out rainbow halos. The other girl has spurred on my competitive streak, and I arrange another date.

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