The astounding weekend – Final part

I woke up a few minutes after 5am. It was still dark and Musician Gal was sound asleep. My mind immediately starting an endless sprint of images, memories and feelings from the previous day. My psyche was disturbed because I had high hopes of having a relationship with Musician Gal. I convinced myself that perhaps I was being too harsh and should give her another day. Perhaps it would be better later this day. There was much to look forward to. The farmer’s market, a lunch of exotic meats and a drive in the country could make it all so much better. She might relax and perhaps even apologize for her tactlessness. Telling myself this eased my troubled mind and I went back to sleep.

9am and I’m awake again, ready and cautiously optimistic that today would be better, remembering my inner dialogue from earlier in the morning. Musician Gal was doing her imitation of a corpse, lying almost in the exact position that I had last seen her in before I switched the light out. When I’m awake, I’m awake. I didn’t want to lie there, fidgeting or tossing and turning, only to irritate her and get the day off to a bad start. I got up as gingerly as I could and quietly made my way to the kitchen. I closed the two doors between the bedroom and kitchen so that any noise I made didn’t disturb her. The kettle boiled unusually loudly while I found the honey and soya milk for her tea. I made myself a regular cuppa of redbush tea and got a pack of milk chocolate hobnobs from the shelf reserved for my stash of them. I tidied the kitchen a bit from the previous night’s cooking and eating, trying to make it a bit more tidy as I didn’t want it looking like a dump when she entered it.

A mug of tea in each hand and a pack of hobnobs nestled under an arm, I carefully and quietly made my way back to the bedroom, using my feet to open doors. I was still naked and must have made for quite a sight. Putting her tea by her bedside without spilling, bumping or dropping anything was a small achievement. Safely positioning my tea and the biscuits by my bedside, I slid back in to the warm bed. It was a chilly morning and my morning glory had deflated by the time I got to the kitchen. Lying next to Musician Gal I could feel my blood warming again and the thought of Sunday morning sex, one of my favourite thoughts, appeared simultaneously in my two heads.

She started to stir from her slumber, finally moving and rolling slowly on to her back. As she turned I got a good view, despite the low lighting, of her left breast, just the shape and outline of it. I wanted to suck on it, take as much of it as I could in to my mouth and then twirl my tongue around the nipple. Women seem to love that move and it seems to turn them on. She still had her nightmask on and I thought that keeping it on during sex would heighten her other sensations. I was horny and hoped that she was too, having played all coy for a day and a half, building the sexual tension. The disappointments of the previous day were now forgotten and I wanted to have my way with her, see what she liked, how she reacted to my cock, see what she liked to do and have done to her. It was time.

I started caressing the side of her body, being careful not to immediately touch her breasts or anywhere sensitive like under her armpits, just keeping to the neutral bits. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. I keep moving my hands over her body, slowly with just the lightest touch, over her belly, along her sides, up the ribcage towards her arms but never getting there, reversing direction instead. This was only happening for a matter of about half a minute, all the while neither of us spoke. I was about to cup one of her breasts, nipple erect, visible through her nightie when she suddenly promptly rolled over on to her belly, denying me the opportunity. Was she playing hard to get or just disinterested?

Wanting to find out, I slipped my hand under her chest and cupped her left breast. It felt a good size and of a good density. Almost instantly her left elbow came down hard on my forearm. She wasn’t interested.

I rolled away, not sure what to think. I knew that she wasn’t a morning person, so I wasn’t too upset. I was just trying my luck. Two thoughts came to mind. If she wanted to make love with me, then now was the time. But she didn’t, so she didn’t. If she’s not a morning person, then perhaps we have a massive difference between us already. I love mornings. I like the promise of a new day, the calm before the storm and all those other clichés which I believe in. Maybe we’re just not compatible.

Eventually she sat up in bed, lifting her eye mask and gave me a wry smile. I offered her some biscuits and she took one, perhaps just to be polite. I switched my ipod on and soothing, calm music started playing at just the right volume. I lay on my side, still sporting an erection, facing her, while she lay one her back, wearing her black pyjamas outfit, propped up against the headboard. The duvet came up to my waist and covered her knees. We made mindless small talk – the chemistry just wasn’t there any more. Neither of us made mention of my advance on her.

In my experience, if a woman fancied me, she couldn’t help herself but to lay hands on me in some way. It occurred to me that since she had arrived, Musician Gal had not once touched me out of her own free will. I was always the one to take her hand or arm. I always was the one to put an arm around her shoulder the few times when it seemed appropriate to do so. I was the one to initiate kissing or hugging the few times we had done so. Not once had she made any physical act out of free will that indicated that she any kind of desire for me.

We got up and she showered again. I knew that we would be walking again and I was likely to be all sweaty within minutes of walking. She made disapproving noises about my not showering. I was getting to the point where I couldn’t care less what she had to say.

We went for a walk around my town’s farmer’s market and ended up buying a few pieces of ostrich, zebra and kangaroo from my favourite butcher at the market. I was going to prepare this meat for her, come hell or high water! I was still intent on seeing through the day, ever optimistic that whatever was bothering her would either go away or we would talk about it.

Musician Gal seemed mildly pleased by the farmer’s market. We went back to my place, but neither of us were hungry. I suggested that we go for a drive in the countryside, something that she had spoken about several times. It was all part and parcel of her dream of being married and living in the countryside. She didn’t know this part of the world too well, so I expected that she was looking forward to this drive.

We hopped in my red sports car and whizzed through the town’s streets to where the countryside began, where open road was met by clear open spaces, punctuated by proud trees, the occasional grand home or charming cottage. Where life moved at a slower pace and the rest of the world was a bad rumour. This is what I had been looking forward to showing her, expecting her to show a positive change in demeanour.

What did she do? She took out a nail file and started carefully seeing to her nails! I drove past and through the best countryside this part of my county had to offer, while all the time she sat leaning forward, her legs apart, making sure her filing detritus fell into my car, never raising her gaze.

I was now starting to fume a little. We didn’t speak. She looked up as we were entering a historic town near mine. I suggested that we park and go for a walk. She agreed and it wasn’t long before we were walking along old cobbled streets, marvelling at old wonky buildings. Strangely, all the while we were holding hands, but only until she started to complain that I was too hot. We walked through a scenic park with a large pond filled with an assortment of birdlife, managing to make polite small talk. Inside, I was still fuming a little bit. This was starting to feel like a waste of time and money.

We walked back to my car and the sun was on our backs. For some reason only now I asked her if she had ever smoked. She said that she had tried to when she was younger, but didn’t enjoy it. Then she said something which surprised me. She said that she did enjoy an occasional cigar a few times a year. I found the thought and image of her smoking a cigar disgusting. My interest in her was starting to dig its way to Hell.

Musician Gal then said that she was thirsty, so we found a corner shop for her to buy a bottle of water. She opened the water, drank some, looked at me and then drank some more. She didn’t offer me any. I was visibly perspiring. Her thoughtlessness now became selfishness. My level of fuming had now risen to border on anger.

I kept my cool. A very clear picture of what she was really like was starting to emerge. I didn’t like what I was seeing. Not one little bit. Her public persona was all well and fine, but in private I was getting to see what she was really all about: selfish.

Driving back to my place I made up my mind that she wasn’t for me. I was struggling to see anything about her that I liked. Her behaviour the past two days had been unacceptable and at times downright offensive. I no longer had any desire to have sex with her, I found her that repulsive. After today I never wanted to see her again.

I was contemplating asking her to leave when we got back to my place. Before I could say this, Musician Gal said that she was ready to sample my culinary skills. I was now hungry too and was going to make myself food anyway after I had seen her off. I decided to be a gentleman and make her lunch before giving her her marching orders. I got to work making a barbecue while she set about preparing herself a green salad. Eating assorted countryside has never appealed to me and I have no desire in learning how to prepare rabbit food, so I left her to that.

I put some music on my stereo, but after only a few tunes she asked if we could listen to some of her music. The dye was cast and I wasn’t going to make a scene, so I agreed to her request. She connected her phone to a speaker and what she considered music started playing. I didn’t know what it was, but I didn’t like it. I really can’t find the words to describe the shit that came out of my once pure, unadulterated speakers. Would there be an end to the misery of this day – this woeful weekend?

I couldn’t wait for the fire to settle down to glowing charcoal. I wanted this creature out of my home and out of my life as quickly as possible. She had positioned herself on the sofa and was reading a newspaper. She looked quite comfortable and even somewhat serene as she sat there, oblivious to the turmoil that was stretching my insides, unaware of the harsh words being shouted in the cold, dark, quiet corners of my soul. “Get out! Out!” is what I wanted to scream at her, so hard that my throat would hurt.

I think it is testimony to just how English I had become that I managed to restrain myself and not show on the outside what I was feeling inside. Was this a good thing? I’m not convinced. Does a world of peptic ulcers and hernias await?

I cooked the meat to perfection on the barbecue, doing her pieces medium-rare, just how she claimed to prefer it and everything else was ready on the dining room table. We sat down and she seemed interested in which meat was which and I told her what I knew about each type of meat. It didn’t take too long for Musician Gal to complain that her meat was too rare for her liking. So I put her pieces back on the fire, continued eating my meats while she munched away at her rabbit food, heavily vinaigretted pieces of which were falling on to my white tablecloth. A real rabbit would have been a tidier eater.

After a few minutes I went and retrieved her meat, now more medium than mine. She took a dislike to the zebra and ostrich, gave these to me, but she enjoyed the kangaroo. This suited me just fine. Conversation was awkward and hard to come by. The air was filled by the hideous shrieking that her phone was pumping out through my poor, innocent, labouring speaker. I was now gritting my teeth so much that it actually came in useful in chewing my meat.

I decided to go on the offensive and asked her what she thought of my place. I suspected that my place was a disappointment to her. Her demeanour had changed for the negative within minutes of setting foot in my apartment. I needed to know if that was the cause of her change in attitude. She thought about it for a moment and said “Your home doesn’t match your profile.” I took that to mean that she was disappointed by what she saw. Was this the cause of the demise of our nascent relationship? I think so.

It was now late afternoon and Musician Gal said that she needed to be home soon. I was so relieved to hear those words. I wasn’t looking forward to asking her to leave. I’m not very good with those kinds of situations because I hardly ever find myself in them. She collected her belongings and I made sure that she didn’t leave anything behind. I didn’t want her having an excuse to come back.

I carried her heavy backpack as I walked her to the station. Once there, she bought a ticket at a vending machine and the turnstiles were open, so I went on to the platform with her. The next train was due in only two minutes, something I felt thankful for. Since leaving my apartment I had come up with the words that I wanted to use to say a final goodbye to her.

“Tell me, do you think we’re right for each other?” I asked.

“I’m still making up my mind” she replied.

“Well, I have very serious doubts that we are” I said with a stern face, looking deep in to her eyes.

“Why?” she asked.

I quickly elaborated the reasons why, her tactlessness on Saturday about discrimination, being the primary point. I said that her inability to apologize for her offending me was surprising and disappointing. She tried to debate this issue, but I wasn’t interested – the damage was done. I didn’t go in to all the other things that, albeit small, collectively amounted to a very unpleasant picture for me.

Her train arrived, we stopped talking, she got on board, without any kind of kiss or hug or touch of any kind. I stood on the platform, made eye contact with Musician Gal one last time, waved politely and turned to walk away, not being bothered with waiting for the train to leave. I literally turned my back on her, a sense of relief pervading my being.

When I got home there was a text message from her waiting on my phone.

Thanks for a lovely weekend, was really good to spend time with you. Perhaps I don’t like to get too close because I got hurt, that isn’t your problem, it’s mine. And apologies, I didn’t mean to offend x

Ten minutes later another message arrived:

Oh and thanks for being a total gentleman, you are a rare breed. X

I have not heard from her since. I did think about writing her an email explaining my view on matters, but thought better of it. It might have provided her with a sense of closure, but would most likely have resulted in a bitter email debate. I have no desire to contact her ever again. It seemed to me that she projected a brilliant disguise for her true self, but could only maintain the pretence for so long until her true colours seeped out.

Lessons learnt: 1) Get a woman to my place (or hers) as soon as possible to see them in a more natural environment, away from the public dating persona that we all have. 2) Not everybody is looking for love.

Bruce Springsteen – Brilliant Disguise

The astounding weekend.

It’s a gloomy Autumnal Monday morning and I’m listening to the drizzle tapping at my window. Stevie Wonder’s “Lately” is keeping me company. I’m in a melancholic mood, sitting reflecting on the weekend just past. Here’s what happened…

Musician Gal called me from work late on Friday afternoon, seemingly just wanting to chat, to tell me how tired she was, still a bit jet-lagged from her trip to New York. She just wanted to veg on her sofa and drift off to a comforting sleep. In a moment of reckless inspiration I suggested that she come to me that night, instead of waiting another day. The idea resonated with her and she agreed to come over. Just after 8pm I’m standing on a platform of my local train station, watching weary wage-slaves spill out of a train. I spot her instantly, her beautiful blonde hair quickly and easily catching my eye. We kiss “hello” and I take her dirty weekend bag. I had forgotten how pretty she was. I looked forward to getting used to that. I was happy to see her, touched by the effort that she had made.

We walked to my nearby apartment, holding hands like long-established couples do, just before complacency, familiarity or one too many argument has taken its toll. She was scared like a little child by the spiders and insects in my stairwell and I had to coax her up, mocking her desire to live in the countryside whilst having a paralysing fear of spiders. Upon entering my apartment I could see a slight look of disappointment on her face. She was obviously expecting something far better, a response I’m not too unfamiliar with.

I quickly made her a dinner of grilled fish and salad and we ate together. I could see that she was tired and her normally high-energy demeanour was subdued. We slumped on my sofa and watched a dvd of “Secret Diary of a Call Girl.” We were both unimpressed by this viewing fare and I thought it the opportune time to introduce her to Californication. I was expecting her to be captivated by it, almost addicted and wanting to watch it all through the night. I was wrong. She was put off by the frequent use of the “f” word. Oh dear, she had failed one of my acid tests. Was she more prudish than what I could accept? I noticed that she didn’t say thank you for dinner, but put it down to tiredness.

I had no intention of making love to her that night. I wanted to show her that I have self-control. The next morning or the following night would be a different story though. Earlier in the week we had discussed my giving her a back massage. I was keen to show her my skills and to get a glimpse of her body. I carried her halfway to my bedroom with her protesting in my arms until a closed door blocked my way. I was surprised by how much she weighed, especially considering her diminutive size.

Musician Gal lay on her tummy, her naked back ready for the warm oil in my hands. I enjoyed the feeling of her skin under my touch. She had a good milky white skin, free of blemishes and stretch marks. She was carrying quite a few more pounds than what I was expecting, but I could live with at. After all, in my opinion I was too. Her breasts, just from the bit peeking out at me from the sides, did not seem as large as what I was hoping. Her back muscles were quite knotted and she was enjoying the soothing rubbing of my hands. I could have been a rake and tried to seduce her, very tempting considering the circumstances, but I had no intention of doing so. I wanted to build the anticipation, the sexual tension, so that when I made my move she was primed to let it happen and we could both enjoy ourselves. I was curious as to how well we matched when it came to the sexual side of a relationship, but I had to be patient because I wanted it to be special for both of us.

It was time to sleep and she had brought a very elegant, tasteful two-piece black silk pyjamas and a matching eye mask. I wore a pair of underpants and like that we spent the night. I tried to kiss her “goodnight” on the mouth, but all I got was pursed lips. I was not impressed by that, a little surprised and hurt in fact. Nevertheless, she lay in my arms for a while and our bodies fitted each other well. I do enjoy a petite frame wrapped against me, within my arms, feeling her body heaving gently with each breath. Why do I enjoy the sensation of spooning so much? I shan’t dwell on that question for fear of ruining one of life’s great pleasures.

The next morning I slowly awoke, finding the warmth of another body next to me a satisfying novelty. I lay there for a while, enjoying the almost forgotten sensation of a woman next to me. As I thought of the exciting possibilities of the day ahead, I became more awake. Musician Gal had warned me of her not being a morning person. I am one and thought that this might just have to be an area in which we differed, so I made no attempt to wake her. The previous weekend’s trip to New York and a hectic week at work had taken a lot out of her and she obviously needed rest. I was quite happy to have a leisurely weekend with her, doing whatever she wanted and pampering her when I felt I could.

She stirred from her slumber, but kept her eye-mask on while we made hushed small talk. She was wanting to doze, which was fine with me, so I got up to make her some tea. Having a woman lying in my bed while I prepare a drink for her in the kitchen does something for me. I think it is about me being ‘Man – The Provider’.

The previous day I went to my local Sainsbury’s armed with a very lengthy shopping list. I had promised to make her a Thai massaman beef curry for the Saturday night. It involves many ingredients and I had gone shopping before noon while the shelves were likely to be well stocked with what I needed before the maddened weekend shoppers arrived. I was glad to have done so because I had everything I needed, instead of going on the Saturday morning. I made her a strong mug of regular tea with soya milk I had especially bought for her, just how she had described on our previous date.

We lay in bed making small talk until hunger arrived. I returned to the kitchen and began producing a great British fry-up. Musician Gal jumped in the shower while I saw to breakfast. This ordinary domestic experience felt better than what I could remember. We only really know what we had only when it went missing, but we also only know what we were missing until it came along.

Musician Gal showered very quickly and came to the lounge and plonked herself down on the sofa. She asked if she could watch her favourite Saturday morning cookery show and I obliged. I carried on making breakfast while she sat transfixed by what she was seeing. She was a self-proclaimed “foodie” so what she was watching was pornography for her. It was the quietest and motionless I had ever seen her.

We ate breakfast at my dining room table. She was quite a messy eater. Pieces of food were falling off her plate every few seconds. I thought it cute, but remembered a joke by Lee Evans which made me wonder how long it would be before cuteness turned to disapproval then annoyance. Over breakfast she made mention of the fact that she didn’t like the underpants I wore in bed the previous night. They weren’t of the style that she liked. She wanted me to wear Calvin Klein boxers. I could only just blink back in response, my mind boggling with a variety of emotions, incredulity mostly. Was she testing me? Winding me up? I wasn’t sure, so I said nothing. I noticed that she didn’t say thank you for breakfast.

We then went for a walk around my town, with me constantly being careful of her knee’s requirements which involved using as flat a walking surface as possible. I created a route around the town with that in mind. Just getting down my stairwell was a bit of a uncomfortable mission for her. To her credit, I never once heard her mutter a complaint about her knee nor show any signs of pain save for a few facial expressions now and again. We walked along the high street, her right arm coupled into my left arm, using me as support. I didn’t mind and thought it quite sweet.

Conversation between us felt stilted and, at times, like hard work. She hardly initiated anything; I was making all the running. The interaction was becoming very one-sided. I put it down to her jet-lag and it still being too early for her. The perfunctory kiss goodnight still rankled with me, but I don’t dwell on small matters as a rule, it’s just that it felt like things had changed between us and I didn’t know why.

I had a route in mind that had a quaint pub at the halfway mark. Clouds were gathering and her slight limp had become more pronounced, a pitstop was required. We stopped in at the pub, with me getting us ciders from the bar while she found the perfect spot in a bay window with what sun there was on our backs. We sat quietly together, reading a newspaper she had found and sipped our ciders. She didn’t say thank you for the drinks. It was after noon, but we were still full from breakfast which wasn’t too long ago so she declined my offer to order some food.

Musician Gal came across an article about “friends with benefits” and we discussed this topic in depth. She told me that she had once had a “friend with benefits” and this lasted for a year. She was quite open about the fact that it was purely a sexual thing. I wasn’t disgusted by this at all, whilst a year ago I would have been. The past year had been a very steep learning curve for me and this was something that I had added to my repertoire of sexual knowledge.

I was pleased to hear that she was quite a sexual being, but slightly disappointed in her lack of morality. I’m such a hypocrite. I’ve done exactly the same thing, but expect “my woman” not to have. I think being with somebody purer than me has a strange attraction for me. Could it be that I derive a naughty, almost sadistic pleasure from corrupting them, perverting them, defiling them? Yes.

It was time to move on before we became too comfortable and it started raining. I led us along country paths back to the high street. In the town hall there was a vintage clothing fair on and Musician Gal was excited by this, so we went in. To my mind it was a musty collection of dead people’s clothing, but to her this was heaven. She studiously inspected rails of old clothing, having an obviously keen eye for this kind of thing. A pair of black shoes caught her attention, she tried them on and liked them. I bought them for her. She didn’t say thank you.

We went to the local Sainsbury’s to buy a few things that she thought we lacked for the curry and that she wanted for herself that I didn’t have in my kitchen, such as honey. Having paid for the groceries, I noticed that once again she didn’t say thank you. Not only was this getting annoying, but it was becoming a red flag in my mind. Was she selfish and all about the money?

Back at my flat she asked if she could have a bath. Her flat only had a shower and she loved bathing. I was happy to oblige and ran a bath for her. Once ready she occupied the bathroom, firmly closing the door. I pottered about, keeping myself busy, all the while trying to figure out what the hell was going on. This experience so far was not fun at all. Instead it felt like hard work. I wasn’t having a good time and I suspected that neither was she. The light, energetic chemistry between us was gone and had been replaced by a sombre, heavy atmosphere that felt like toleration.

Once she had had enough of bathing, which was longer than an hour, we both said that we were feeling hungry again. We got working on preparing the massaman curry. In my mind’s eye I had envisaged doing it all by myself, as I wanted to. Musician Gal wanted to be involved so I let her join in. I saw it as an opportunity to see how well we work together. To my surprise we worked well in the kitchen, nary a moment of friction, misunderstanding or mishap. I was surprised because so far the weekend had not gone anything like I had hoped (it was quite negative) and was suspecting that we would clash when it came to doing something together.

The curry was left to simmer, so we sat on my sofa having a poured a glass of wine for each of us. I thought it an opportune time to indulge in some petting. I was hoping that doing so would reignite the spark that had seemed to have faded for reasons unbeknownst to me. I got up and put my glass of red wine out of harm’s way and wanted to do so with her’s too, but she objected and I left it on the side table next to the sofa. I sat down, close to Musician Gal and leaned in to kiss her. Her reaction was lukewarm and we kissed slowly and gently for a few minutes. I started caressing her body with my left hand and escalated this to a little tickling. She was very ticklish and starting to resist quite strongly. Too strongly – an errant foot knocked her glass of red wine flying. There was red wine all over the wall, sofa, table, rug and carpet.

My heart sank as I had foreseen this happening because I knew what I wanted to do and had learned that she had a clumsy streak. I kept my cool, no point crying over spilt wine, even if it is red wine over cream wallpaper, a grey fabric sofa, a white wooden table, cream carpeting and my favourite white rug. We quickly agreed a plan of action between us, with Musician Gal wiping up with a cloth and me finding white wine and carpet cleaner. Within a couple of minutes we had done what could be done. I was fuming inside as I had tried to take preventative measures but had failed. My heart was cheered by seeing how well we worked together. It’s under a little adversity that you get to see what someone is made of and I liked what I saw in her. I was a little disappointed in my own reaction though.

We sat down to have dinner, the massaman curry was ready and it was perfect. Musician Gal agreed and we both were enjoying the meal. The conversation rolled, albeit a little bit stiff. There had been an uneasiness between us since she had arrived. I initially attributed it to her being in unfamiliar terrain. As it continued I kept making excuses for her. Perhaps she was pre-menstrual. It had to be that she didn’t like my bachelor pad. Whatever it was, she just wasn’t comfortable, but not that I was being lecherous or sexually demanding, far from it. I had been a perfect gentleman and hadn’t even tried to feel her up. Not that I didn’t want to, I just wanted her to relax and enjoy herself, which she wasn’t.

The conversation turned somehow to the topic of discrimination. I told her of my experiences of being discriminated against in British society by a small number of individuals. I told her how while walking around the National Gallery a black security guard muttered under his breath “Fucking whites!” as I walked past him. I recounted how a white train station ticket seller was refusing to sell tickets to people with non-English accents, myself included. Musician Gal’s gruff response was “Well, if you feel you have been discriminated against in this country, then you just don’t have the balls to succeed in it.”

This to me was so rude, unacceptably rude. Someone else might think nothing of that remark, but I found it deeply offensive. My first two years of life in the UK were very difficult for me. I didn’t give up and kept going when almost everyone else would have surrendered. I am proud of what I have achieved in my adoptive country, the bigots don’t bother me. It was her unintentionally belittling my life that irked.

However, what bothered me most about her words was the tactlessness of it. My previous girlfriend had many times embarrassed me in public through her tactlessness. I had no desire to be with another woman like that. I could now clearly see that Musician Gal had a smart mouth on her and I didn’t like it.

I didn’t say a word for a noticeable few minutes after she had said what she did. There was no point in confronting her and telling her what I felt. She was who she was and angry words from me would not change that. A younger version of me would have let her have a broadside of hostile words, but nowadays I realize the futility of doing so under certain circumstances. I’ve developed a fiendish relish in letting people stay as they are: their own worst enemies.

My thoughts and feelings about her distilled down in a very few moments to a very negative perception of her. Careless, tactless, selfish and rude.

All the little negative things I had noticed over the previous 24 hours came together like iron filings against a magnet. Her being messy, her outspokenness, her ingratitude, her tactlessness all made for an unacceptable picture. I knew in that instant that she was not the one for me.

We sat silently at the dinner table, finishing off the meal. I was contemplating asking her to collect her things and I would escort her to the train station. Being aware that I too can act in haste, I decided against this. I resumed making small talk, but found making eye contact difficult. My plan for the evening always involved ending with a good movie. I thought this a good distraction from the situation, us sitting not having to speak.

Nicholas Cage’s “The Family Man” is one of my favourite movies and Musician Gal had not seen it. It’s sentimental and romantic and could lighten the mood between us. So there we sat, eyes fixed on a television, speechless, motionless as red wine dried into everything it could around us.

We hardly said a word to each other for the duration of the movie. When it ended she turned to me and said, “Have I said something to upset you?” Was she being facetious, trying to wind me up or was she genuinely so insensitive. It was hard to discern. I decided to tell her exactly what she had said that was so offensive and why it was so.

She tried to explain herself and wriggle out of the situation, but the damage was done and I wasn’t in the mood for a debate. It was going on for 10.30pm and I couldn’t bring myself to ask her to leave. It would simply have been wrong and ungentlemanly to have done so. Instead I suggested we call it a night and go to sleep. I had no desire to have sex with Musician Gal…perhaps ever.

We readied ourselves for bed without saying a word to each other. We briefly pecked each other on the lips and turned to go to sleep. A good night “kiss”, although lame, was progress compared to the previous night. I lay there, not touching her, blinking, thinking about everything that had happened in the previous 24 hours. It was pretty much the opposite of what I had been hoping for.

To be continued…

Interesting second date with Musician Gal

It was drizzling while I stood waiting outside the building where Musician Gal worked. It was 6pm and people were scurrying home, either carrying umbrellas or being fleet-footed, all with shoulders haunched, as if that would make any difference. I was excited about seeing Musician Gal again. Over the course of the day we had swapped text messages and had agreed to play the evening by ear, wandering where we felt like and doing what we felt like as the moment took us and the soggy weather allowed. I was looking forward to seeing how well we played together, having to suggest and then agree on something.

I’m also imbued with a sense of relief that Scots Lass, whom I’d met only hours earlier, was not The One. I had been curious about her, but now that she is as good as forgotten, I can focus on tonight’s date with Musician Gal. My thoughts are plagued though by Career Girl; what am I going to do about her? One woman at a time, I keep telling myself.

Musician Gal eventually came out of her building at 6.15, smartly dressed in a grey suit with colourful scarf. She was smiling and seemed pleased to see me. Once her frilly umbrella was opened, we huddled under it and she leaned on my arm. We walked towards the National Theatre on the Southbank, slowly carving our way through the rush-hour hordes – ‘the sheeple’ – as she called them. She had a bar in mind that she wanted to show me. It was part of the National Theatre building, but it was not obvious to find as only a nondescript office-door entrance led to it. Once inside it was a pleasant, modern venue, the atmosphere happily buzzing with theatre-goers having a meal and a drink before their show. We found a booth and waiter service promptly appeared. We ordered a cocktail for her and a cider for me. We sat side by side in the booth and settled in to making small talk. Our conversation was positive and upbeat. She was quite an excitable person and that was before our drinks arrived. I guess it was her ADHD on show.

A couple of elderly men came over to us and asked if they could share the booth with us as the place was full. I was enjoying having the booth to ourselves so that we could hear each other. I wanted to keep it that way and in an instant decided to dismiss their request politely but firmly. Before I could say a word Musician Gal took charge of the situation and shooed them away with little ceremony, which they did not appreciate, given their mutterings. Musician Gal was an alpha female, but this didn’t bother me. Being with women who are timid and weak gets to be a drag very quickly if I’m having to initiate, organise, say and do every little thing.

We were both getting hungry and the drinks had gone down easily. As we were leaving, it was obvious to me what the path to the exit was and I went that way. Musician Gal was convinced it was another way and she separated from me. I knew I was right and kept going the correct route and through a dividing glass panel I could see her reach a dead-end in the restaurant. I waited for her to catch up to me, musing over her being headstrong, wondering if this was a sign of trouble ahead. I knew that she had not seen enough of me to trust my judgement, so I thought nothing of it. Musician Gal caught up to me, making a pithy excuse about what had happened. I said nothing and we made our way out on to the Southbank with her leaning heavily on my arm, hobbling more than earlier.

Intent on finding somewhere good to eat, we investigated a few of the dining options available to us. The rush-hour crowds had disappeared and the rain had abated. It was getting dark and I was getting hungry. The obvious choice of restaurants to my mind was a prominent pizzeria. Someone (probably another date) had told me that they did good pizzas in there, so I was curious to find out. Musician Gal wasn’t satisfied with this and we milled about looking at other places, which annoyed my hunger pangs a bit. Eventually she agreed that the pizzeria was the best option so we ended up back there.

She went off to the ladies, I ordered us drinks and when she returned we chose and ordered our pizzas. After some small talk about food and wine (one of her favourite topics) we got down to some serious talking. She described to me how she wanted her future to be. In great detail she told me how she wanted to be married and living in a house in the countryside somewhere, anywhere, as long as it had a good sized garden, preferably with a stream as one of it’s boundaries. There would be a dog and a cat involved.

“I would like to spend my days baking, cooking, sewing, making hats and jewellery. In the evenings we would sit in a hammock and drink wine. I wouldn’t go off to work unless I wanted to,” she says to me.

This last stipulation made me wonder if she was looking for a man with money. Musician Gal was obviously in the mood for some brutal honesty and started telling me about her previous relationships. This involved no prompting on my part and I was pleased by this unsolicited display of honesty. I took it to mean that she was taking me seriously and was wanting to lay her cards on the table.

She recounted a plethora of relationships and flings, all of which seemed very short-lived, but I made no comment on this for fear of seeming judgemental, so I just listened. Her longest relationship had lasted 5 years, which seems to be the norm nowadays. My last relationship had lasted that long too.

Of all the details she provided, the following story typifies what she told me. She met a colonel in the army. They saw each other for 6 months, but did not have sex in that time. He was posted to Afghanistan for a brief period in that time, after which he took her away on holiday twice. Once was to Australia and Singapore, with the second being South Africa. They stayed in hotels together, slept in the same bed and did not once make love. She says that towards the end of their time together, he proposed to her, but she was not inclined to say yes. This wasn’t the only story she told me that involved “seeing” someone for many months, but never actually made love.

What the fuck? Who does that?! What was she playing at? I didn’t ask her to elaborate, largely because I was mildly stunned and confused by this behaviour trait. I couldn’t help but wonder if she would do that with me.

The conversation moved on to more mundane topics and we’re having fun again. Banter flows like a wild river and we make each other laugh. Before we knew it we were the last patrons in the restaurant and staff were loudly closing up. We left and entered a darkened London, the Thames air cool and few people about. I walked her to London Bridge Station and in it’s cavernous concourse we found a quiet corner where we kissed like teenagers. She made negative comments about my light stubble giving her a rash, but I laughed this off. We bade our farewells and went to our respective platforms.

On the train home I mulled over the events, confessions rather, of the evening. Her relationship style and history didn’t sit too well with me, but given my shenanigans of the past year, I couldn’t get judgemental. I appreciated her honesty. She seemed quite headstrong and I could see us having blazing fights. Nevertheless I still wanted to see more of her and get to know her. There was a serious prospect of a relationship with her and I was excited about that. Yes, I wanted to fuck her, dodgy knee and all. So doggy-style was out of the question. No big deal, lots of positions in my repertoire. There is no way that a normal man, let alone a man like me, would want to have a relationship with a woman that he did not find attractive. That lust factor just has to be there and with Musician Gal it’s there, along with that elusive electric chemistry.

When I got home she had sent me a text message which read:

Fabulous evening, handsome man. Hope you didn’t have too much of a trek home? I would love to be lying on your chest right now xxx

During the date we had made a plan to get together on the coming weekend. It was my town’s farmer’s market on the Sunday and I wanted to do my usual cooking-for-a-woman thing. Career Girl was away for work the coming weekend so I decided to speed things up and my text message read:

The market is only on on the Sunday. Naughty idea: I come and fetch you Saturday, saving your knee for a stroll. That night I make you a risotto. I introduce you to Californication, which you will want to watch all night. When tired you slump against me, my cue to carry you to bed. I wrap my arms around you to keep you safe and warm. We do not make love. In the morning we get to the market early and then I or we prepare what we bought. The weekend ends with me driving you home in my sports car…what you reckon? How does that sound?

Her response: “Super!!!! Xxx

I was totally sincere about not making love on our first night together. I can and have done that. I did, however, want to make love to her and was thinking it would be on the Sunday at some point. On the Thursday I sent her my “converter message”, the one that ramps up the sexual tension to breaking point for a woman, the one that ends “…I reckon you taste sweeter than you realize...”

I was blown away by her response which arrived 23 minutes later.

I’m looking forward to the hugs, lying in your strong embrace and feeling the power of your body which essentially does it for me; I love the power of man. Get it right and I’ll be putty in your hands. Ps warning: I am not a morning person. Meow! X

Snow Patrol – In My Arms

Date #34 – Scots Lass

I’m meeting Musician Gal tonight for our second date, but at lunchtime I’m meeting someone new. She’s Scottish but living and working in London. I think about it for a few minutes – shock and horror – I decide to dub her ‘Scots Lass’. I came across her on my Happy Humping Ground dating site but it turns out that when I first messaged her she wasn’t a subscriber so she couldn’t answer me. How Life fucks with me is that she answered shortly after I came across the newspaper dating site that is proving a conveyor belt of interested and interesting women.

Scots Lass has a profile that speaks of someone who lives to travel, so we immediately have something fundamental in common. She describes her longing for a true partner in a way that resonates with me. Her photos are tasteful professionally done images that make her look sophisticated and stylish. A few pics are of her skiing, showing off a slender, sporty figure. The only pimple in the works is that she’s two years older than me, but that’s no big deal to me.

I have something of a history with older women. It stretches back to primary school when girls one grade up would come over to talk to me, which was very embarrassing when I was playing marbles or soccer with the other boys. Having older girls standing on the sidelines watching me creeped me out. Then in high school older girls would tease me or pinch my bum. It was unwarranted, uncalled-for physical contact. I felt violated, but in the best possible way. One day at the end of high school I was walking along a quiet suburban side-street when a woman in her forties drove alongside me, trying to get me to get in the car with her. I declined. She didn’t even offer sweets. Then my first job involved having an attractive female boss who was eight years older than me. She loved nothing more than pinching my bum during weekly team stand-up meetings when we stood in a huddle and nobody could see. I needed the job so I kept quiet and made sure of where I literally stood in relation to her. Other older women on the floor over the coming years also let their fingers do the walking across my botty. Sexual harassment is not unique to men!

Driving home from the boobie-sucking date with Career Girl last night I realised that I need a system to maintain a semblance of control over my dating life. This is what I’ve come up with – I call it The Pipeline:

Pre-date -> Dating -> Pre-bang -> Banging

1) Pre-date: swapping emails, text messages and, if unavoidable, phonecall.
2) Dating: been on at least one date, but less than four.
3) Pre-bang: After a few dates, sexual tension is clear; messages, emails and conversations safe to include sexual innuendo; her curiosity is piqued and willingness is clear. Second date onwards.
4) Banging: Full sex. If it’s going to happen, it happens within 6 dates.

My conversion ratio from Pre-date to Banging is 1 in 4. I have no idea how that compares to other people. If you would like to offer your stat, please feel free to send it in to me. I think the internet offers a fantastic medium for a more accurate modern-day version of the Masters and Johnson report.

At the moment Scotts Lass is about to move from Pre-Date to Dating. Musician Gal is still on Dating, but that might change tonight. Last night Career Girl moved from Dating to Pre-Banging. I suspect that the next time I see her we’ll go all the way. My Exgf is at Banging; how long for is anybody’s guess but after Sunday’s encounter I think it safe to say that she’ll be back for more. Is it wrong that there are a couple of other women that I’m slowly swapping messages with who are at Pre-Date stage too?

I’m standing outside a pub in central London at lunchtime, surrounded by stressed, sleep-deprived office workers. Scots Lass has messaged me that she’s running a few minutes late, so I use the time to check in with Musician Gal. She sounds excited about our date for later tonight and I offer to meet her outside her offices to which she agrees. I arrange to spend the rest of the afternoon catching up with my best friend who works nearby but has the freedom to take long lunches.

My thoughts return to Scots Lass. She seems like a dark horse compared to the other two I’m seeing. This could get out of hand and I might find myself juggling three women. It’s been several weeks of swapping emails on an almost daily basis with her for us both to have a mutually convenient time to meet. It seems that she has a troublesome family and very active social life. All this effort and patience must surely be worth it?

Could she be The One?

As I stand thumbing my phone, reading emails from dating sites, I get that familiar feeling that someone is looking at me. I look up and make eye contact with a fat girl who is smiling at me as she’s walking up to me.

Oh fuck! Not again!

Jeezus, what is it with women and these stupid fucking games they play with their photos?!

It is Scots Lass that I make out from her features from under her alarmingly pudgy cheeks. In her photos she’s a size ten, but today she’s at least a size eighteen. How fucking old are those photos?!

I try to not let my disappointment show but it is tempting to be a total arsehole and walk away. I don’t think the punishment fits the crime and I have nothing better to do, so I decide to stay and make the best of it.

Unsurprisingly I instantly go Passive Disinterested on her. Unsurprisingly she fancies me. Well, at least I look like my bloody photos. Her body language is very positive towards me; I’m calm and relaxed, leaning back in my seat, while she’s tensed up and leaning forward towards me, trying to get closer. It doesn’t take long before she’s touching me involuntarily as we chat over lunch in the pub. I’m not saying much and she’s becoming increasingly chatty. At least one of us is enjoying this date.

After almost an hour she rests her hand on my thigh and I’m transported back to my school days, feeling molested by an older girl again. Back then it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but back then all the girls were skinny pubescents in training bras. Being felt up today by a woman who resembles a bullfrog is not the best feeling in the world.

Out of boredom I take her for a walk through my Magical Forest. Her answers are: 1) Runs away from the wolf. 2) Stares at the waterfall 3) Stares at the house. From that I conclude that she runs from her problems, is scared of love and is actually surprisingly scared of life. The latter is at odds with her portrayal of herself as an action-girl. I guess she must need a man to do that with because she tells me that she hasn’t been in a relationship for a while which is when she must have last been so trim and adventurous.

We’re a total mismatch, but I don’t think badly of her. I can see that she’s a good , decent person who just wants to be loved like anyone else, myself included. Looking past the deceit of her using old photos, even if she lost a quarter of her bodyweight, I still don’t think that I would find her physically attractive. I can hear howls of outrage, but I maintain that that is important in order to have chemistry. I don’t think anybody wants to spend their life surrounded by other people more attractive than their partner. At a minimum I think that a couple should be equally attractive. If there is a glaring mismatch in looks then it will lead to problems in the long-run.

Scots Lass has to go back to work, so for want of having anything better to do I walk her back to her offices. She gives me a big smile as we kiss each other goodbye on the cheek. Her eyes give me a probing look as she holds onto my sleeve. I think she’s wanting me to commit to seeing her again, but I bite my tongue and bid her farewell.

Disappointing people will never come naturally to me, but I’m learning that I need to be very strong because it is best for all concerned. The next day I send her my standard brush-off message to which she doesn’t reply. I hope that I had misread the date and that she wasn’t too let down by my message.

I feel relieved that she’s not a prospect too. Having Career Girl to think about in itself is enough of a challenge for me. Now I need to get ready for what I’m hoping will be a revealing date with Musician Gal in a matter of hours.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) If it’s a battle to get to a date, then the date is unlikely to be worth it. 2) Older women are prone to using old, misleading photos.

Choosing between two women & a present from Career Girl

I have to choose between two women…again. Last time it was between Tech Titan and Baltic Babe. Today each woman involved is remarkable and in different ways. I can see myself having a very enjoyable relationship with either but again in very different ways. Career Girl is calm and thoughtful, a deep passion, while Musician Gal is fiery and lively, wearing her heart on her sleeve. Which suits me better? I really don’t know.

It’s a dreary Monday morning in September. Sweet, blessed rain is drifting down, nourishing thirsty flora. My soul feels rejuvenated because I have found not one, but two people that I sense I can have many good years with. I feel excited and guilty at the same time. I’m also surprised and annoyed at the sudden and simultaneous wealth of prospects before me. It’s almost unfair that I have to choose.

What makes it worse is that tomorrow I am meeting a third woman that I have been wanting to meet. Am I being greedy? Am I deluding myself that any of these women are suitable? Am I seeing what is actually before me instead of possibly being carried away on a self-induced tidal wave of emotion? How does one know?

Yesterday was my birthday. I was 21 for a second time. I haven’t had much time to reflect on all that has happened between that first 21st and the latest one. I do know without a shadow of a doubt that it has been one helluva roller-coaster ride, this unpredictable life of mine. It looks set to continue in that fashion while I yearn for a stable, loving relationship that will last the rest of my life.

My birthday was marked by spending it with my ex-girlfriend. We have become the best of friends with benefits in my mind, but I know that she wants more – she wants we had before. It all comes out when she asks me questions about other women that I have dated in the past year. I give totally truthful answers, as is my way, but it always leads to her having a tear in each eye…once even with my cock in her mouth. She seems to get some kind of perverse kick out of asking me for intimate details of my sexual encounters with other women whilst we are enjoying each other. It’s like emotional self-flagellation for her, but she did always have a pleasure-pain thing going on. Nowadays it seems to include her emotions too.

Is my shenanigans with my Exgf muddying my mind? Should I cut her loose, for her sake and mine? I don’t want to hurt her, but until I find someone that I want to commit to, it’s hard to ignore the fantastic sex. The bizarre thing is that, since we have started seeing each other again, our sexual escapades are better than when we were living together. It’s not lovemaking, it’s pure, unadulterated lust that comes with a strange sense of freedom to it, unencumbered by emotion, devoid of meaning.

I know that the soundtrack in her mind is playing Elton John’s “Sorry seems to be the hardest word”, while in my mind I hear Stevie Wonder’s “For once in my life”. Not once has she apologised for the things that she did, so it makes it easier for me to do the things I’ve done with her. All good things come to an end and I know that the time to downgrade our relationship to non-fucking friends is approaching fast. I suspect that she senses it too.

I really don’t want to hurt anybody. I perhaps should be more selfish and just unthinkingly have the time of my life, with a seemingly endless supply of interested women at my disposal. My conscience will not permit that. Doing the right thing and doing it right is the legacy that I will carry forward with me. I have to tread carefully with all these women.

Career Girl and I have kept in touch via WhatsApp while she’s been away, swapping several messages each night and a few short ones in the morning. She seemed to want to get to know me via a phone, asking countless questions but I wasn’t too keen on this and only went along with it to a degree. I want to answer her probing questions in person as I feel that’s more fun. I tried to keep the topics light, asking about her day and more about her family, but she wanted to know more about my past relationships. Career Girl is obviously taking me seriously as a potential suitor. I think she might have found it easy to ask the things she did while feeling secure behind a device.

So much of communication is non-verbal, but I did enjoy swapping messages with her. She obviously did too because we would “chat” until well past midnight; one night it was 2.30 AM her time when we said good night. Only once did I try to turn the conversation sexual, an attempt on my part to test her mores and her response was frosty. I wasn’t disappointed but admired her strength of character. I got a warm fuzzy feeling over the top of my brain a few times while texting with her. We definitely have a chemistry of sorts.

When Career Girl got back, I phoned her and we had a pleasant chat. I felt good after speaking to her, but tinged with guilt because I know that here is someone else in the picture. However, for all I know, she has a small following of admirers too.

Musician Gal and I have been swapping WhatsApp messages while she’s been in New York. It’s been a very different exchange with her; upbeat, energetic, positive and more fun. Her words have given me the impression that I’m on her mind often each day. Every couple of hours she sends me a message or a photo. I’m not entirely sure if it’s just her ADHD on show. I need more dates with her to know her better.

It’s a rainy Monday night as I drive up to Career Girl’s apartment; we’re going out for dinner. I alert her to my presence, expecting her to invite me into her place but instead she comes out to meet me. She’s smartly dressed and smiles broadly at me as we kiss each other hello. I’m struck by her shimmering hair; silky fine and light in weight as I cup her face to kiss her mouth.

“Tonight’s on me, it’s a belated birthday present,” she says with her eyes wide.

“Okay, what’s the plan?”

“Can we go in your car because I don’t think you’ll fit in mine?”

“Sure, no problem,” I answer relieved at not having to look like a gorilla in a small car being driven by a smallish woman. I look around the car park and spot a tiny Fiat 500 in which my knees would have touched my chin.

We drive into the town centre and Career Girl won’t tell me where we’re going. She directs me to park in a central public car park and we start walking…and walking…in the rain. The wind is constantly catching my umbrella that I’m trying to hold over her while I get wet. I try and make light of the situation but inwardly I’m becoming annoyed at having parked so far away from wherever the hell we’re going. Eventually we arrive at a pub on the outskirts of the town. The pub’s car park is almost empty; I’m annoyed. I take this as an indication that she’s not the most practical person, which in itself is not a show-stopper because few people are more practical than me. If we are to have a relationship then that’s what I’ll contribute.

We sit down to a surprisingly good pub meal; Career Girl certainly has good taste in eateries. Conversation is initially light and centres on her trip with her family which she paid for. I can see that she’s a generous person and tonight some of that generosity is coming my way. I still struggle to let a woman buy me a meal and I think it’s largely because all my life I have seen myself as the provider in a relationship. It’s novel to let a woman treat me but I’m still not totally comfortable with it.

As I expected she turns the conversation serious and starts asking me about my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend. I can see that she wants to know why these relationships came to an end, so I tell her. Career Girl is particularly shocked at my Exgf’s spying on me.

Sitting talking with her is a pleasant experience. She’s calm, measured, intelligent and ladylike. I draw some kind of comfort from that and it also appeals to my naughty side as I do like to seduce a classy woman; it makes me feel powerful as a man.

Without my asking Career Girl reciprocates by telling me about her past relationships. They seem to be characterised by older men having a problem with her status in the workplace and her earning power. I’m not sure if these guys were immature or egotistical but it makes me wonder if it might turn out like that for me too. I’d like to think not but I’ve never even met a woman who earns as much as she does.

As she talks I sit wondering if she can handle me physically. Could sex with me kill her? I can get rough and she does have a brain aneurysm, so it’s not impossible. I have to know and when she’s finished talking about the guy who walked out on her when she was diagnosed, I seize the opportunity.

“Tell me something, do you think that sex could be fatal given your condition?”

“It’s as dangerous as anything else I do. I certainly hope not. I do enjoy sex, a lot in fact,” she says with a naughty smile and a twinkle in her eye.

Was she just hinting that she’d like to have sex with me soon? Tonight even? I wasn’t expecting that, but if she’s horny then I might have to. If I spurn her then she’ll get upset. I know, if she invites me into her place later then I’ll see how far she wants to take matters. Game on!

When we get back to her place she does indeed invite me in. Her home is spacious, modern, elegant and very expensively furnished. The centrepiece is the cream and white lounge with a very large sofa in the middle of the room. I can just imagine us fucking on it. Hmm, there is a bit of electricity between us.

“Can I make you a coffee? Milk and one sugar, right?” she says.

I’m impressed that she’s been paying that kind of attention. I go seat myself on the sofa, positioning myself for what might be coming in a little while. Should we make love tonight? I’m not sure, but if she wants then I’m up for it. If she just wants to fool around a little then have me leave, then that’s okay with me too. I’m in no hurry; I had good sex yesterday. That’s the benefit of having a fuckbuddy, I’m not spoiling matters with a prospect because I’m horny.

Career Girl returns with a coffee, looks at where I’m sitting and smiles to herself. It’s an enigmatic smile that makes me wonder if she remembering the men who used to sit here or it’s her seat or she’s thinking what I’m thinking. She sits down next to me and starts showing me pictures on her phone from her trip last week. I can’t see much but am getting excited by the feeling of her against me. As the minutes go by she lets herself slump against me and it feels good. She’s like a cat curled up against me, seeking warmth and succour. Career Girl is slender and toned, the top of her head barely touches my chin. I can easily pick her up and manhandle her. I think she’ll like that, but I must remember to be gentle with her because of her condition. Will I remember to do that in the midst of passion? I have my doubts; occasionally I’ll forget.

We start kissing, slowly, tenderly and it feels good. She closes her eyes and revels in it. I’m still not sure why women love kissing so much. It probably goes back to caveman times but I don’t know what’s behind it. All I know is that women expect it and if done properly makes them juicy. It’s not my favourite thing but I do it as much as a woman needs to get her turned on.

It isn’t long before I’ve taken her top and bra off. I don’t look at her breasts but steadfastly maintain eye-contact with her. Career Girl lies with her back on my lap and I start kissing her body. She has perfect, unblemished white skin that I lightly run my fingertips over. She closes her eyes and drops her head down. That can’t be good for her brain I think to myself as I start kissing her body. Her one arm slumps down toward the ground resulting in her a-cup breasts pointing more upward.

Her nipples are hard and erect, the areola small and tight as I lick around them. She lets off sounds of approval as I gently suck a very pink nipple into my mouth. I suck the the rest of the breast into my mouth and run my tongue around the nipple. It’s very easy to suck the other breast into my mouth as I pleasure her. I’m learning that smaller-breasted women feel more with their breasts. It’s as if there is a limited amount of sensors allocated to each woman and as her breasts grow her ability to derive pleasure diminishes. My Exgf has g-cup breasts and she can’t feel much, but that might also be from all the mouths that have sucked on them and all the cocks that have fucked them.

In the moment it occurs to me that last night I was watching a woman fucking herself with a champagne bottle and tonight I’m sucking on another woman’s breasts. Is this really my life?

“Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight,” Career Girl says, abruptly raising herself off me and reaching for her blouse.

I say nothing, somewhat relieved that we’re only going this far tonight. She checks my face for signs of disappointment, but I’m not feeling anything like that so she’s puzzled by my poker-face. Secretly I’m impressed by her self-control.

“I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Oh, by the way, I have a company away weekend this weekend, so I’ll only be able to see you next week again,” she says.

Now that I’m disappointed to hear and I think my face shows it. I want to see her again and soon, but I say nothing because there’s no use in complaining, besides that comes across as needy which is something that puts women off. I thank her for my birthday present that was the dinner in the pub. We hug and it feels good; she fits me perfectly. A final kiss good night leads to her giving me a wonderful smile.

I drive home feeling pleased and befuddled. I really like her but her brain condition is a factor in almost everything we do. Being with her feels so good, it’s a shame that she isn’t perfectly healthy. I need more time to think about this.

Tomorrow lunchtime I’m meeting someone entirely new and then in the evening it’s Musician Gal.

I don’t know which is the stronger emotion: guilt or excitement.

How am I going to choose?!

Ballyhoo – Man On The Moon

The birthday bottle sex incident – Final part

For a few seconds I play with her clit, before thinking it unfair that I’m still fully clothed. As I stand in front of the television getting undressed my Exgf stares at my body and pushes the bottle as deep as it can go into herself. The sight of me getting undressed coupled with what she’s feeling leads to her letting off sounds of anguished pleasure. She gives several short powerful thrusts and I think she makes herself cum.

Before she gets a chance to pull the bottle out, I climb onto the sofa, lower myself straddling her face and feed her my cock. She makes urgent appreciative sounds that I find puzzling as she swallows and eagerly sucks away on my cock. I can’t see what she’s doing with the bottle but the video reveals that she keeps the bottle in her, but doesn’t move it around. After half a minute she pulls her leg nearest the camera up with one hand and with the other hand starts slowly thrusting the bottle into her pussy, at the same time enthusiastically sucking on me. She knows the camera is recording her every move; there is no need to lift that leg other than to let the camera have a good view of her using the bottle in her pussy.

After almost a minute of her good cock-sucking skills that she has honed on countless other cocks, I pull out of her mouth. Taking up position to her side furtherest from the camera I resume playing with her clit. She hasn’t stopped with the lazy in and out motion of the bottle in her pussy. It seems she can’t get enough of it and it must be turning her on because she’s still wet. My Exgf slides her head down towards my cock and resumes sucking away on it.

Let’s see now; a finger playing with her clit, a glass dildo in her pussy and a big cock in her mouth. I’m pretty sure that she was a happy slut. She is making involuntary noises of approval that confirm this for me.

We continue like this for a few minutes, all the time I’m marvelling at the fact that I was recording this. Never before would we have done anything like this, let alone she would have let me film it. I like not giving a damn; it comes with unforeseen benefits. A woman has no power over me and makes them try harder to please me.

Fingering her clit starts to have its inevitable effect. My Exgf starts to breathe heavier, lets go of my cock, straightens herself up, grips the bottle with both hands and starts ramming it into herself as quickly and as hard as she can. She’s going crazy with it. Her breasts are bouncing all over the place. Wow! What a sight!

Can she make herself cum with just the bottle? I pull my finger away from her clit and grab one of her breasts. When she’s turned on she likes to have her tits played with. I’ll leave her clit alone and hope that she cums from fucking herself with the bottle. I grab her other tit, tweak the nipple and pull it into the air. She lets off a gasp of satisfaction. I wonder how many guys have done that to her nipples?

“Please don’t stop playing with my clit,” she wheezes.

Damn, it’s not going to happen. I wonder if I stick my finger up her arse if she’ll cum then? Better not, she might hit me with the bottle. She has a ferocious temper. Finger returns to clit duty.

I rub her clit for a while as she slams the bottle into her vagina, then suddenly she stops doing that and takes the bottle out, taking care to place it neatly on the carpet next to the sofa. I notice that the top half of the bottle looks very wet. My Exgf gives me a knowing look. I think it’s almost compulsory that after a set amount of time between a couple that they know what the other is thinking, is wanting.

My index and middle finger slip easily into her cavernous cunt. It’s warm, soft and phenomenally wet; I’ve never felt her so wet before. I keep my thumb on her clit as my two fingers find her swollen g-spot. She lets out a gasp of surprise and pleasure. After a couple of seconds she leans over and resumes sucking my dick, wriggling and writhing as I finger her, voicing satisfaction as I speed up.

After a minute of this she cums, screaming into my cock, the sound-waves reverberating through the flooded chambers of my penis. Her body slumps and she unlatches her mouth from my cock, breathing heavily. During our relationship never did I ever question whether any of her orgasms were faked, but now I see her differently, so I test her performance by playing with her clit for a second in which she instantly recoils. It’s sensitive, so she wasn’t faking it.

My hand is covered in her pussy juices and in the moment of realising this an idea comes to me. I raise my hand to her face, intent on putting my very sticky fingers in her mouth, but as my fingers touch her lips she pulls her head away in disgust. Oh sure, she’s swallowed cum out of dozens of cocks, but she won’t taste her own pussy juices.

I run my hand over her breasts and body, smearing her lubricant over her smooth skin. She smiles as I do so, her breathing is returning to normal. My hand nears her hips, she grasps my hand and guides it back down to pussy. I stroke the lips of her vagina and she opens her legs more, inviting my fingers to enter her. In doing so she gives the camera a good view of her pussy, but I think she’s forgotten about the camera filming us long ago. She’s in a rapture and nothing is on her mind other than physical pleasure.

I slide two fingers into her pussy again and it’s still wet. She loves being fingered; just can’t get enough of it. I tease her g-spot for a few seconds before just sliding my fingers in and out of her, then teasing the g-spot again. I keep repeating this and she seems to be getting even wetter. How long before she cums again?

As I finger her I think to myself about how many guys she has done this with; probably close to a hundred. Some people might think nothing of this but to me it bothers me. It rankles because it makes doing this with her of less value. There’s nothing special about getting to do this with her; she’s done this with pretty much any guy who tried. We all have our own moral compass, somewhat inherited from parents, somewhat congenital. To her sex is a recreational pastime to be enjoyed with anybody she deems adequate. I can not respect a woman who does not respect herself. Respect is integral to love, so no respect, then no love. Her moral outlook is so different from mine I doubt that she will ever understand this.

My thoughts are distracted by the sensation of a puddle of liquid that is collecting in my hand. I have heard of making a woman squirt but I have never set out to make it happen. Apparently every woman has her own way of squirting and it’s not like the volcano spectacle seen in porn movies. Some women are dribblers and others give off little sharp spits of ejaculate. Tech Titan was a dribbler and Krazy Girl once gave off four little squirts into my hand, which was so cute. Krazy Girl was alarmed by this and I had to explain what was happening; she is ten years younger than me and not as ‘well read’ as me.

“Oh my gawd!” my Exgf – now fuckbuddy in my mind – exclaims as she writhes on my sofa, not knowing what to do with her legs which seem to be in her way.

I keep working away in her pussy, almost able to get three fingers in her now, but resisting the urge so as to have more room to manoeuvre with my index and middle finger. My movements with my hand include pulling upwards slightly and I’m being quite rough about it, but her hips move in time with my motion. The pussy juices keep flowing and my thumb is slipping and sliding all over her clit, probably having a wonderful teasing effect on her. Like most women her clit gives her the best orgasm, but today something entirely different is happening.

She pulls her legs as straight up in the air as she can, resting an ankle on my shoulder, giving the camera a great view of her pussy with my fingers in it and her butt-hole. I straighten my ring-finger and position it on her butt-hole. Every other time I’ve gone near there, almost always accidentally, she has freaked out, but not today, not now. Is she now so turned on, so fucking horny that she’ll take a finger up her arse?

It’s a bit impractical to do that and I don’t want to risk spoiling what is happening. I’m still in a mild state of shock that this is happening and that she’s letting me film it. Her pussy starts making squelching noises, there is so much juice coming out of her. She’s slowly moving her head from side to side, making “aaw” sounds every couple of seconds. I keep going like this for another minute.

“I’m starting to get sore,” she says plaintively.

Pity, I was starting to wonder if she was going to cum again, but obviously not. I’m starting to learn that women can’t be continuously fingered for more than fifteen minutes. I pull my fingers out and my hand has a puddle in the palm; I’ve never seen so much female ejaculate before. A stream of her pussy juices floods out of her and trickles down her butt-cheeks, over her butt-hole and onto the footstool that I had luckily placed a thick throw on earlier in the morning. I don’t want the stuff all over my sofa or lounge so I go to the kitchen to wash it off. The video reveals that my Exgf just lay there while I was gone, breathing heavily with a serene look on her face, her body slumped. I return with a towel and put it between her legs in a vain attempt to mop up what I could. Just then the memory card in the camera fills up.

I lie and cuddle with her for a few minutes before I decide that it’s my turn. Without a word I take her hand and get her to start giving me a handjob to get me hard. Once there I simply roll on top of her, force her legs apart with my knees and slide my cock in her. I think a lot of women like it when a man does as he pleases; it’s mental turn-on for them.

I fuck her missionary style, recalling in my head everything I had just seen and done; it’s a massive turn-on for me. Her pussy is still somewhat moist and she feels good. My cock is at its massive best and the sounds she’s making tell me that she’s liking this. I can feel her tits smacking against my biceps as I fuck her. I don’t look her in the eye because that’s just too intimate for me. I don’t want any kind of emotional connection with her; I just want to fuck and then for her to leave.

It doesn’t take long for me to cum and I have the presence of mind not to cum in her but somehow manage at the last moment to pull out and raise my cock towards her face. A swift tug on my cock and my baby batter starts shooting out, some of it hitting her in the face around her open mouth but most of it landing on her tits. I squeeze the last few drops out of my cock and I make them land on a nipple. She’s smiling up at me; she must like it when guys do this to her. As usual she starts smearing my cum into her tits. I love watching a woman do that.

I prefer a big breasted woman because I like the sensation of her breasts against my biceps and then, if I’m lucky, watching them rub my man-milk into them. I also like feeling a woman slap my face with her boobs as she rides me cowgirl style. Sure that’s all possible with smaller breasts but it’s much more enjoyable for me if the woman has large breasts. I always enjoyed my Exgf’s boobies and since her only Krazy Girl has exceeded them in terms of enjoyment factor, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.

We lay watching the movie, not revelling in the afterglow like we used to. I’m reserving that for someone else. My thoughts turn to Career Girl and Musician Gal. With a naked woman whom I’ve just cum over lying next me I start making plans for other women in my mind. My Exgf is just a vessel for my cock, my cum and my need for a sense of revenge; my heart will never belong to her again.

Eventually she goes to shower and then makes her excuses to leave. It suits me just fine and after walking her to her car to see her off, I return to my apartment and my future. I grab my phone and see that three women have messaged me about getting together in the next two days. Romance must be coming my way.

This is what I want. What I’m becoming is something else.

Britney Spears – Womanizer

The birthday bottle sex incident

My Exgf seems to be in a highly sexualised state nowadays. I’ve never seen her like this before, not even in the early days of our relationship. Her being celibate for a year might have put her sex-drive in hibernation and now I’ve switched it on and nothing is going to stop this runaway locomotive except for when it runs out of steam on its own accord. I have to take advantage of this while it’s on offer.

It’s Sunday and it’s my birthday. Musician Gal is in New York until Tuesday and Career Girl is in Italy until tomorrow. I can see myself having a relationship with either of them. I know that I have to choose at some point, but at the moment I can’t say who it will be. A few more dates with each is required before I can decide. To take the sexual imperative out of that impending moment, I’m going to fuck the shit out of my ex-girlfriend.

It’s noon as my doorbell sounds the arrival of easy sex; just my kind of birthday present. I open the door and my Exgf is standing there, scantily clad in a see-through black chiffon blouse, matching black panties and bra underneath. The trashy high-heeled fuck-me shoes make her taller than normal, but it’s her beaming smile that catches my attention. It looks like she’s up for pleasing me.

During the week we had swapped text messages about what I wanted for my birthday. I had a naughty idea and I told her exactly what I wanted her to do for me. Google was kind enough to provide me with a link to a video of what I wanted to see her doing, which I emailed her. I was pushing the limits but knew I had got my way when her final text message read,”Ok. But I want Lanson.”

It has been a few days of silence since that exchange, but I knew that letting an idea simmer in her little brain would have a profound effect. The way she was dressed told me that she was ready to grant me my wish. My cock starts hardening at the thought of what she was going to do. We smile coyly as I gesture for her to come inside. She kisses me on the lips and she seems a little bit nervous. After our five years together I know when she’s nervous.

My plan calls for us to have lunch in a restaurant in my town, but it started raining as she arrived so I change the plan and throw pizzas in my oven. I couldn’t care less about food in this moment; all I want is my birthday present from her. I know that I have to wait a little bit longer and the anticipation leads to an electric atmosphere between us. Looking at her breasts I can see that her nipples are hard, but I don’t think it’s from the cold in my apartment. I put on a Canadian soft-core porn movie called ‘Young People Fucking’ to get her in the mood, just in case my assessment is wrong and need to get her in the mood or keep her in the mood should I say something to fuck it all up.

I pull the large bottle of Lanson champagne out of my fridge and give her a sly look. She smiles and unthinkingly licks her lips. The bubbles sizzle in the flutes as we toast my birthday. We sit making small-talk about the movie as I let the alcohol calm her down and loosen her inhibitions. It’s like having my very own call-girl arrive eager to do as I say. It’s not just the power thing that is turning me on, no, it’s more the prospect of seeing her willingly degrade herself…while I film it.

The pizzas go down easy, easier than her going down on some random stranger’s cock that she had just met. Her sitting in almost nothing, slowly getting tipsy was probably how it played out with almost all the dozens and dozens of cocks that have fucked her or the scores more that she sucked off. After a while the food has been digested and the bottle of champagne is empty, with her having drunk most of it. She always did like champers.

“Right. I think it’s time for my birthday present,” I say with a naughty smile. My smile is false; I’m trying to make this fun for her, but inside I’m icy cold. It’s time for you to show me just how much of a worthless slut you can be.

My Exgf stands up and starts taking off the little that she’s wearing. I go sit on a chair away from her and reach for my freshly-charged camera, switching it on and positioning it perfectly to take in what is about to happen. I’m sitting fully clothed about three yards from her; my heart is pumping.

She throws her clothing onto the sofa and steps out of her shoes. Picking up the champagne bottle she turns away from me, spreads her feet apart and then puts a knee on the large footstool in front of the sofa. Bottle in hand she leans forward slightly and gives me a half-smile over her shoulder as she slides the bottle between her legs. The mouth of the bottle is pointed to me as she rubs the body of the bottle against her clitoris. She makes no sound.

After a couple of seconds of this she slowly pushes the mouth of the bottle up into her pussy. She straightens her head upwards as it slides in before leaning forward even more, giving me a glimpse of her juicy breasts dangling free. A few long, deep thrusts up into herself and she looks back over her shoulder at me. Looking away she leans forward almost horizontally, putting a hand on the footstool. She’s giving me a clear view of the bottle sliding in and out of her pussy, which is an amazing sight. Seeing a woman pleasuring herself with an inanimate object does things for me.

I sit in silence, watching as she leans so far forward that her butt-cheeks spread to reveal her arsehole. Will she do anything with that hole? I’m not going to suggest anything; I want to see what she’s thought of. I’m just amazed to be seeing what I am. She speeds up sliding the champagne bottle in and out of her pussy; she must be very wet given how easily it’s moving. How long is this going to go on for? Is she about to stop?

She varies her technique by giving several short thrusts upward followed by one deep thrust that raises her hips. She did always like having my cock deep in her pussy; doggy style always pleased her.

“How does that feel?” I ask, blurting out my curiosity, instantly cursing myself for perhaps breaking the spell that she’s under.

“Cold,” is all she says.

She gives several more deep thrusts and then suddenly pulls the bottle out of herself and stands up. I guess that’s it then; that’s my birthday show over. It was nice while it lasted.

I’m wrong.

My Exgf turns around, sits down on the footstool, bottle in one hand and gives me a strange look. She spreads her legs, leans back on the footstool then puts her one leg on the arm of the sofa. Her other leg she dangles in the air as she slides the bottle into her pussy once more, giving it slow, short thrusts. I’m amazed that she’s continuing and I can’t help smile, to which she smiles in return. We don’t speak and the only sound is the dialogue from the movie in which couples have started fucking. Excellent timing; it must be helping keeping her turned on.

She grips the bottle with both hands which has the effect of squashing her breasts together. Her areola are large and her nipples are hard; she’s enjoying this. So am I, but for an entirely different reason. I’ve managed to get her to show her true sexual self to me, the side of her that she kept hidden for the duration of our tempestuous relationship. For the first time I feel that I have all the power between us and I’m abusing it, not feeling an iota of guilt about it. I’ve paid for this whore several times over; I deserve this.

After half a minute her dangling leg tires, so she lets go of the bottle with one hand and uses the free hand to hold the tired leg almost vertically in the air, all the while sliding the bottle in and out of her fanny. She smiles broadly as she does this and I smile too, but because I know that I’m going to be enjoying this video for years to come. In case you’re wondering, I’m watching the video now as I’m describing it to you. I’m organised like that.

A minute of her pleasuring herself passes then she sits upright, taking the bottle out of her cunt. Is the show over now? No. She repositions herself on the sofa, her lower body resting on the footstool. People are fucking on the television screen and she wants to watch this as she uses the bottle on herself.

It’s widely understood that women aren’t as visual as men. I think it’s true, but that doesn’t mean women are a-visual. On the contrary, I’m learning that women can be turned on by what they see, it just requires their brains to be in a certain state.

“This is for you. Happy birthday,” she says looking at me as she rhythmically slides the top half of the bottle in and out of her vagina.

“Thank you. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself as well,” I answer, subtly encouraging her to keep going. It works.

My Exgf grips the bottle with both hands and starts more vigorously moving it about in herself. Her eyes dart between the television and me. I think she’s getting very turned on. My words may have given her the permission that was lacking.

After another minute of pleasuring herself she says, “Can you come play with my clit please?”

I wasn’t expecting to be in the video, but neither was I expecting the show to last this long. It’s in my interest to give her what she wants because that’ll prolong the scene. I get up and walk over to her; she spreads her legs further apart, putting her feet on the edges of the footstool. The camera lens captures the phenomenal sight of her lying naked on my sofa, her breasts wobbling, her legs wide apart and ramming a bottle into her vagina.

To be continued…

Online dating, dates, internet dating, romance, love, sex, relationships

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