The past few weeks have seen me patron a number of Melbourne establishments into the early hours. Naturally, when one enters a bar with a friend who has the face and legs of a supermodel (her waist starts around my eyebrows), they are going to be descended upon by men like a pack of seagulls fighting over a hot chip that’s been left on the ground.

Whilst some men were fun to chat with for the evening, some were plain repugnant. The Physical Education Teacher from Britain needed to brush up on his repertoire – “Is that your drink?” wasn’t exactly the path to my heart, especially when his lack lustre chat up lines were delivered with a mouthful of spit – he turned conversing into a new sport, where one had to duck and dive his every word.

But, he was tolerable compared to the two “men” who thought stealing my hairspray and lighting it up with their lighters was fun. “I’m sorry we stole your hairspray, let me buy you a drink.” “Okay, sure.” Ten minutes later …. “Can we have your hairspray again?” “Look, listen here. I accepted this drink on the premise that we had moved past the hairspray. Now you’re just pissing me off. The drink doesn’t mean that much to me you know.” I of course promptly walked away. I am then tapped on the shoulder by one of his equally charming friends who says, “Gaynor, you know that guy you were talking to is the owner of this place”. “Umm, that’s supposed to mean something to me because…?”

Quickly moving establishments (working on the theory of a different postcode providing a better standard of male clientele), I was soon to meet Adrian. Sweet, adorable and cute little Adrian. Sweet, adorable, cute and TWENTY year old little Adrian. Ding, ding, ding – stop the bus!!  I could almost be his mother (well, not quite, but I am sure sleeping with him would be illegal in many countries).

He followed me around all night like a puppy dog, and I danced with him for a little while because he had some good moves, and, well, his continual disbelief that I was 33 didn’t do him any harm either (nor my ego truth be told, even though it knew it was being duped by the flatter them so they will sleep you tactic).

I did draw the line when he led me away by my hand to ask, “So, are we going home together tonight?” “No, Adrian, we won’t. 1. You are jail bait. 2. You live with your parents and 3. I don’t think your equipment is up to the job.” I did admire his optimism though.

I saw the look of disappointment wash over his poor little face – he was thinking of all the things he could learn from me in his bedroom, whilst I was thinking of it being all over in two minutes when the excitement of him seeing my exposed bra strap became all too much for him (that was of course after he would of quickly ran into his room and hid all his pornography under his Spiderman doona). I’m sure he’ll be a lady killer one day – just give him a few years.

Across the other side of town, on a different night, my partner in crime was being wooed by a punter of her own. 33. Barman. Model. Writer. You can just imagine the smoothness in which he moved in to initiate conversation, before subtly plying her with free drinks. I’m sure I could fill in the next few paragraphs will all the charming and witty things he said to seduce her but let’s cut to the chase. They went home together. Oh, but, yes, there is one important part of their conversation I must point out – he was single, of course.

So, they head to her place, but when he gets into her bed, he places a very strange order – “Would it be okay if we just cuddle?!” WTF? It reminds me of the case of the “hand holder” I heard about the other week – a girl I know went on a few dates with a guy who proceeded to tell her he has a girlfriend, so they can go out together and hold hands – but definitely no sex. She promptly replied, “If you’re not going to the destination, get off the bus, you’re holding up the queue”.

So, here’s this guy laying next to a woman who looks like a Victoria’s Secret supermodel, and he only wants to cuddle. Right. Okay. Let me get my head around this. You are of the understanding that this is a one night stand, and that you weren’t invited up here to read me your poetry. Hang on a minute. You do know what a one night stand is don’t you?

After fumbling around more awkwardly than a teenager having sex for the first time who is also trying to not wake his parents, he decides that he may just take the bus ride to the final stop. One problem. One big problem – or should I say one little problem, one very little problem.

During the obligatory post mortem on the phone next day, we ascertain that he must either be gay, lying about his age (google searches quickly disproved both those theories) or just hideously inexperienced. Understandably, my friend (let’s call her Victoria for the purposes of this article) is suffering from a serious case of buyer’s remorse. She went in for a night of wild reckless abandoned sex, and all she got was a face full of pash rash (now boys, that’s just plain bad manners).

To add insult to injury – she had to drive him home in the morning, and instead of scuttling out of the car like a rabbit with this tail between his legs – he sat in the car to chat for 20 minutes. Chat? I would have booted him out in my Dolce and Gabbana heels quicker than you can say “can I get your phone number?”

It was upon her arrival home, that the real horror set in. Pash rash, pimples, no make up and no tan. Now, she was really hell bent on redemption – and it was nothing that a pair of Bettina Liano jeans and a pair of 5 inch heels couldn’t fix.

Walking back into the bar a few nights later in said outfit, she came face to face with the perpetrator of her facial disfigurement, and also with the face of his what do you know – girlfriend. It was time for an assassination – this one needed to be taken down for the sisterhood (and don’t we love her for that) – to protect other unsuspecting girls like the one waiting for him out on the couch, who is of the belief that her financially struggling yet deep and meaningful artist of a boyfriend is a keeper.

Fueled by his casual admission that he sometimes has 3 to 4 girls on the go, it was time to bring out the big guns. “You know that pash rash you gave me and the staph infection you thought you had on your lip, well it’s actually a fungal infection.” Terrified of anything ruining his model good looks, he desperately inquires as to what he should buy from the pharmacist (being that Victoria used to be a nurse). She promptly instructed him to buy Daktarin (tinea cream for your feet) and to apply it religiously on his face, at least 10 times a day. Model Boy won’t be strutting down the catwalk anytime soon.

What I think we have here ladies, is a new breed of man. Cut from the same cloth as “Dirty Lying Bastard” – this is the cheater who believes that only going to 2nd or 3rd base isn’t cheating, thus they can cheat without guilt. This way they can have their cake and eat it too, and what harm does it do anyone they ask? Why ever didn’t they think of that before I wonder?

Ladies, beware of the “Hand Holder” – coming soon to a bar near you.