Cosmopolitan UK – September 2019

90 ·^ COSMOPOLITAN

Weeks went by: not a single date.
So I tried a new strategy. No old
photos, but no photos of my
prosthesis either. This time, I felt
happier; protected while remaining
genuine. I didn’t want to
shout about being an
amputee in my Tinder
bio – after all, it didn’t
define me. My new seed
of confidence seemed to
pay off in my messages.
My “banter” got better. The
matches became meetings.
I’d carefully select outfits
for the dates, blow-dry my
hair with volume spray and spend
ages attempting to achieve the
perfect smoky eye. But, unlike the
old me, I’d also select a leg. I have
the choice of two: one lightweight
carbon fibre with a mini-blade foot,
and a more realistic one, which
has a bespoke silicon-skin cover
over it matching my exact skin
tone. Wearing it gives me a strange
sense of freedom, the decision
of whether or not to discuss the
accident left to me rather than to
the person I’m meeting.
Admittedly, it’s a shame that my
first date after the accident had
a foot fetish. His name was Sam,*
a lighting engineer who shared
my love of the theatre. He had a
nervous twitch, a flick of his left
eye that made it seem like he was
winking. Halfway through our
second drink, I felt brave enough
to drop the leg bombshell. Sam
was enthusiastic. To o enthusiastic.
“No way!” he exclaimed, twitching
or winking violently – I wasn’t quite
sure which. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell
you this. But the thing is, I really like
feet. Like, really like them...”
His eyes were wide as his gaze
travelled hungrily beneath the table,
seeking out my realistic prosthetic
leg. He wanted to see what the foot
was like. I downed my drink and
left as soon as I could. I felt like
I’d been violated; ogled as though

he’d undressed me with his eyes.

He’d made me feel like a total freak.

I needed to get out.

FIRST-DATE NERVES

Within the next few months, I tried

out a series of different approaches.

There were the men I didn’t tell: Jay,*

the (typical) journalist, worked it out,

admitting he’d stalked me on Twitter;

William,* the data analyst, remained

oblivious but, saying that, any man

who thinks a Wetherspoons in a train

station is an acceptable first-date

venue does not deserve my time, let

alone my life story. Then there were

the men I did tell. Kevin,* the teacher,

asked far too many questions,

including “How much blood was

there when you fell?” (none) and

“Can I touch it?” (er, no – we’re at

a rooftop bar), while Liam* (the guy

with no teeth) told me he understood

what I was going through because,

and I quote, “My mum works for

a disability charity.” Sure.

If a date did progress to a second,

third or fourth, there was the niggling

fear of what came next. I was terrified

of sex. A fear that was amplified by

the endless questions that everyone,

from friends to strangers, seemed to

Some

prosthetics

are less

obvious

than others

“My first

date was

with a foot

fetishist”