The Case of the Disappearing Man

I am starting to suspect I have a latent super power. It is one I believe I share with Kylie Minogue, I don't care what she says about this new Spanish model boyfriend. I have the ability to make people - well, male people - completely disappear from my life. I am afraid that my full power has yet to be unleashed, as no-one has died yet, and so far, I have managed to sustain a surprising number of male friends. The monster is only awoken when I try to *date* the man in question (or, in one case, actually fall in love with them).

I am considering offering myself to the Japanese mafia. If there was some thug bothering them, all I'd have to do is start dating him and he would instantly vanish without the need for any dirty money to change hands, or anything requiring pesky forensic investigation. The Yakuza could then hand their hitherto dodgy casino profits to me, in exchange for me painlessly dispatching their enemies to a mysterious place where - according to experience - they cannot possibly email, phone or text message. Win-win. Except.... that I would be in Tokyo, in close proximity to a former disapearee. Which means the universe could implode or something if we happened to cross paths. But I suppose we could cross that bridge when we came to it, no?

I have considered the possibility that there is some subconscious thing, some Kryptonite I am not aware of, which initiates the Disappearing Effect. I have also considered the possibility that it is something inherent in the type of guys I choose to date (I apologise for the Americanism but in matters of romantic vocabulary, I think they have the market cornered). I fail to see how this can be the case - in the recentish past, I have disposed of a terminally single British bank employee who admittedly it would never, ever have worked out with and I have no idea what I was thinking, a recently divorced Swedish paramedic who my close (male) friend said was worth moving back to Sweden for, and a British designer - also vouched for by a male friend, making the advice of said friends slightly suspect .

None of these made it past the third date, although the Swedish encounter did include an invite for me to stay at his Stockholm apartment for an entire weekend, which I politely declined - but not before I noted we shared the same taste in films (someone else DOES love Rosemary's Baby!), politics, travel destinations and local bars.

So what gives? All of these men had baggage, I guess - but who in their late 20s/early 30s doesn't? So back to the kyrptonite theory. There must be something about me, something I do or say or unconsciously reveal, that produces this result. But within three dates how do they know this? Are we that quick to judge each other? Oh for the days of long and uncomfortable British courtships, those Victorians were onto something.

I am starting to wonder if they get an inkling of the fate that awaits them, the fate of a twilight world where there is no email or means of contact, and where they must stay until they suddenly decide to get married to someone and, three years later, email from some faraway land to tell me this (true story!). Until further scientific discoveries prove otherwise, I will tell myself it is my power to banish them to this place that scares them away. Either that or my Japanese mafia connections, of course.