So what is it? Hmm?  What is it about me?  It's clearly something major, but something so fundamental, that I can't see it myself.

What is it about me, that every person, every single person, I've ever felt a genuine attraction to, has plonked me firmly in "not boyfriend material" box?  Always, I've been the friend, never the lover.  I freely admit I'm hardly an Adonis, but people do, occasionally, tell me they find me attractive.  Which is lovely, but they're never, ever, people that I find attractive. 
Am I, as I've sometimes feared, simply terminally dull?  Do I subconsciously twist the heads off chickens while I talk?  Do I have, unbeknownst to me, the shifty, drooling look of the vaudeville lech? What?

In eighteen months time, I shall be fifty.  Am I really to reach that landmark having never once shared a moment of intimacy with anybody I cared about?