‘He sent me a venom-spewing cactus’: The tactics men use to impress women
The tactic used by “alpha males” to attract potential mates at a bar has been revealed, thanks to new research by Harvard University. The findings suggest that men try to impress women – and outdo their rivals – by buying a round of drinks before anyone else.
The behaviour mirrors that of male wild animals, who also try to outperform each other when there is competition for a woman’s attention, making getting to the front of the queue at Wetherspoons the human equivalent of a pair of bucks locking antlers on a windswept moor or the elaborate, plumage showcasing dances invented by birds of paradise.
Here, Telegraph writers reveal details of their first encounters with their romantic partners.
My husband’s first attempt to woo me (and there were many) was… pretty unique. Some men “say it’ with flowers, teddy bears or chocolates. He sent me a weird, shockingly ugly, venom-spewing cactus. I can still see the delivery guy’s face as he carried it – holding it at arm’s length – over to my desk in The Telegraph’s offices.
I sent Piers an email in which I pointed out that if he thought this sinister plant would win me over, he must be deranged. He read that email out on our wedding day, 14 years ago.
After 18 months of falling for her without having the sense to let her know (my chosen communication strategy then, as now, was “less is more”), I first deduced that my university girlfriend might potentially feel the same when she broke off from a night of pub golf to visit me in my flat.
“Shall we maybe watch a movie on the sofa…?” she said, coyly removing her neon green visor. “Certainly,” I replied, wracking my brain for the most impressive, romantic film possible. As we snuggled, I pressed play.
“What… is... this?” she asked, after around four minutes. “Shhh,” I replied, “it’s very powerful.” For reasons unknown, I had chosen Dear Zachary: A Letter to a Son About His Father, an emotionally harrowing documentary about a woman who kills her husband, their child and herself, that serves as a furious polemic about the coddling nature of the Canadian justice system.
“Well,” she said at the end, “on second thoughts I think I have to go home.” As I saw her out, I asked myself why I didn’t just put on When Harry Met Sally, or literally any other film in the history of cinema, instead. By the time we got married last year, it was still a mystery.
About two months after we first got together, a boyfriend whom I’d fallen hard for dumped me out of the blue. I howled for several days before pulling myself together and getting on with it.
A few months later he popped up with a casual invitation to join him and a group of friends in a pub. I think he realised he’d made a mistake, as then came an invitation to dinner, cooked by him.
He whipped up an elaborate, fragrant, delicious, garlic-laden risotto, one of my favourite foods. I was impressed. I inhaled it. We got back together.
Alas, he has never repeated the dish – or indeed, much of the cooking full stop. Although to be fair, in recent years he has been trying. He is now very handy with a meat thermometer, and makes an excellent roast.
Perhaps I should remind the man I ended up marrying about the risotto. I haven’t had one as good since.
Many years ago I travelled from London to the depths of Somerset for a party, and was having a rotten time. Everybody seemed to have paired up and disappeared into the garden.
At about midnight I was standing on the lawn when a vision loomed from the darkness in front of me. She had long blonde hair, and was wearing a fetching summer frock and a determined expression.
My opening line probably wasn’t the most diplomatic. “Hello,” I said. “We seem to be the last people who haven’t disappeared into the bushes. Would you care to join me?”
I can still feel the sting on my right cheek from the powerful wallop that was her only reply.
About 10 years later, we were married.
I first met my husband when I was nine and he was 13 because he went to school with my two older brothers. We were re-united at a party hosted by mutual friends in 2001 and the rest, as they say, is history. He phoned me the day after and we arranged our first date for the following Friday night.
Turning up at my parents’ house in a clapped-out red Ford Escort, he declared there had been a change of plan and rather than taking me out to dinner, he was going to take me “round to his mum’s because she really wanted to cook for us”. Many new girlfriends may perhaps have raised an eyebrow at this suggestion but his mother, who has since passed away, welcomed me with such warmth (and a delicious home-cooked meal) at a time when my own mother was seriously ill.
I was so grateful for her gentle maternal counsel. To this day, I have such fond memories of that night. I felt so comfortable in the company of my then-boyfriend and his family that I knew I was going to end up marrying him.
Possibly due to my impatient nature, I was always the one to make the first move. In my early 20s, I had quite a passionate crush on a photographer who seemed fairly oblivious to subtle hints. It was close to Valentine’s Day so I decided a bit of dramatic action was called for. I went to the local butcher’s and purchased a pig’s heart, put it in a box (not Tupperware which would have slightly detracted from the gesture), with a card which said “I offer you my heart”, and had it delivered by a friend’s son on a bicycle on the morning of Valentine’s Day.
It worked. Though I found out later that he was initially horrified as he didn’t immediately see the card and thought he was about to be targeted by a hit man.
