Mother I’d Like to Fuck = MILF. That’s not a term I’m fond of, but I do appreciate the concept. A stunning blonde on OKCupid is suddenly a high match and I’m intrigued by her profile. She says she’s 45 years old, but she looks 25. My experiences with women using old photos causes me to discount her attractiveness. She writes of her longing for a true love and her zest for life shines through in her profile. Her love of travel resonates with me and causes my dusty passport to wriggle. The only blemish on the landscape for me is that she has a child, but her photos show him to be a young man so that shouldn’t be an issue.
I fire off a cute approach email and she responds within hours. Her response is much longer than my message and I take that as a positive sign because I’ve learned that if a response is long in coming and especially is short, it means that she has loads of emails to deal with and I have much competition. If the response is wordy it means that she’s keen to meet me.
A quick Google image search leads me to her name which enables me to find her Facebook profile. Some people might find this precaution a little creepy or stalkerish, but in online dating it’s a necessity to prevent yourself from wasting your time, money and emotional capital. It turns out her photos are very recent and she is stunning, one of Nature’s freaks, a very youthful looking middle-aged woman. Blonde hair, blue eyes, milky-white skin, good figure, pretty face, albeit a little on the short side for me…now that’s a mother I’d like to fuck.
After just two emails each she suggests that we meet in central London after work on a week-night. I like her positivity.
Could she be The One?
I think and write the above words yet again and I’m starting to feel like an obedient dog tethered to a lamppost outside a grocery store who expectantly stands up every time someone comes out the exit, but having to sit down again, swallowing disappointment.
I have an additional reason for wanting to meet this woman: she’s Russian. I’ve decided to write a blog about my dating experiences. My target reader is me, when I was 21 years old. I wish someone had told me all the things I’ve had to learn in recent years. It would have been nice to have had a father or older brother clue me into the realities of women, dating, sex, love and relationships, but I didn’t. I’m hoping that my stories and ideas find a home in the hearts and minds of young men who are smart enough to learn from someone else’s mistakes. If in the process I entertain or inform other readers then that’s great too. Will they spread the word about my blog? Time will tell. If by some minor miracle it leads to a book deal, a television series and then a Hollywood movie, well, that would be great too. I’ll gladly accept the money, but they can keep the fame. I digress…
I’ve been writing about Baltic Babe for my blog and find myself wondering if she was that special. The Russian MILF is partly an attempt to find out is she was. Are there going to be common behaviour traits that make me go mushy inside while maintaining the most manly of exteriors? In deciding that I’m more likely to find true love with a woman from Eastern Europe I’m taking this date very seriously, not just because of the remnants of a hankering for Baltic Babe.
It’s a cold Thursday evening a matter of days after 2014 has begun and I’m early for my date with The Russian MILF. I find myself sitting in a Starbucks coffee shop in the fashionable King’s Road in central London. I take the opportunity to send text messages to Busty Blonde and Travel Gal; got to keep the pot boiling with them. While trying to keep warm I see that I’m surrounded by groups of stunning, young women who look like models. They’re all tall with long hair, expressive eyes, pronounced cheekbones and are skinnier than their lattes. A strange place for sexy, young things to congregate. Maybe this is the part of London where I find Her?
At the appointed time I make my way to the darkened entrance to the Saatchi gallery where The Russian MILF suggested that we meet. After a minute I get a text message from her that she’s running a few minutes late. I decide to stand and wait, although it’s close to zero centigrade. A quarter of an hour later a short, shadowy figure approaches me. I decide that it must be The Russian MILF so I step out into the light.
It is The Russian MILF and she is as stunning as her photos lead me to believe. How nice to have a date who actually looks like her pictures. I don’t know what she makes of me because the moment our eyes met she stopped dead in her tracks. If this was one of my early dates then her sudden reaction would have caused me to think that she didn’t like the look of me. I might have wondered if she was about to spin around on her knee-high boots and walk off. I would have thought that because I’d never thought much of my looks. I considered myself at best average looking.
OKCupid has a handy facility hidden away on the site where you can submit photos of yourself and, for a day, total random strangers from all over the planet rate your appearance. You can specify which gender rates you, so I obviously said women only. I found this a daunting thing to do, but I did so wanting to have a clearer understanding of how others perceive me. You can submit batches of photos and usually one of them will rate better than others, so the best pictures I’ve used on my dating profiles. What surprised me is that none of my pictures rated lower than a 7 out of 10 and the average photo was rated a respectable 8. This lead me to improve my own self-image that for all my life was one of being a freckly, gap-toothed teenager. I think we’re all guilty of believing the things we tell ourselves, no matter how self-limiting or counter-productive. We cherish these notions, not realising that they’re holding us back. Online dating has freed me from a false, out-dated self-image.
I’m better looking than I’ve given myself credit for, so The Russian MILF’s reaction I won’t assume is for negative reasons. I stoop down and kiss her hello on each cheek, but I can’t feel much with my lips because they’re so cold from standing outside as long as I have.
“So where would you like to have dinner?” I ask.
“Right there,” she says, pointing towards a fancy-looking Italian restaurant that is lodged against the side of the imposing gallery.
“It’s my favourite restaurant in London,” she adds as we walk towards it.
She is shorter than I expected and I find myself wondering if we make for an odd couple given the discrepancy in height. Sex with a smaller woman has always been good fun. Sex?! Yes, I’d love to take her to bed. Physical attraction to her was almost instantaneous.
We find a quiet table in the restaurant which is filled with kookily-dressed people from the art world having a raucous time. Drop-dead gorgeous models across the road in the Starbucks, label-wearing oddballs in here. Is there a convention of some kind happening here? No, this is how it is in this part of London. Pretentious people trying to impress other pretentious people they can’t stand. Not my scene, but it seems to be The Russian MILF’s. I think you can tell a lot about someone from the restaurants that they frequent. Hmm…
“Do you work nearby?” I ask. Always a good conversation starter that question.
“No. I work on the East side of London,” she answers.
That’s why she was late, but why make that effort?
“I guess you must really like this restaurant?” I ask.
“Yes. I love the food here. It’s always good,” she says as she buries her nose in the menu.
I look at the menu and see that even the starters are £10 a plate. The main courses start at double that. This is going to be an expensive evening. Is this why she quickly suggested meeting here? She wants a free meal from this restaurant? Hmm…
A waiter arrives to take our order. That’s when it started. The Russian MILF wanted to know the ins and outs about almost every dish on the menu. The poor chap had to leave us several times to go find out about a dish that she was considering having. Does it really matter what kind of vinegar the asparagus is daubed in?!
It was after the fourth time when he had to disappear into the kitchen to talk to the chef that I remembered something. Pay attention to how a woman treats people who serve her, people who are powerless before her, because that will give you an idea what a relationship with her will be like. The Russian MILF was showing herself to be high-maintenance.
Food was ordered after a quarter of an hour of explanation and fact-finding. I have never experienced such a labourious fuss over food before. I’m unimpressed, but I’m reminded of a time with Baltic Babe when she made a Polish waitresses’ life hell too.
“I see from your profile that we share a love of travel. Where’s your favourite place?”
“Oh, I absolutely love Italy. In fact, last week I got back from there having bought a farmhouse in Tuscany,” she says excitedly with a hint of a Russian purr that I find so sexy.
Hmm, so she has money of her own. Good. She can pay for half the meal tonight.
Conversation rolled around as I tried to keep things as positive as I knew how. Eventually it became serious and she started telling me her life-story. Her first love got her pregnant and shortly after they were married he died from a congenital disease. Wanting a better life for herself and her child she decided to leave Russia. After series of adventures and close calls in countries along the way to England she arrived on this sceptred isle a young woman with a toddler on her hip. She worked illegally as a cleaning lady in a London train station because her English wasn’t good enough for better work. Her precarious visa situation severely limited her options. She worked hard, took her chances and today had a high-paying job in a promising industry. I admired her tenacity, daring-do and drive. She reminded me of a younger me. I’m sure that there is a bigger story, probably with some ugly bits to it, especially to do with legalising herself and her child, but this being a first date I wasn’t going to pry.
We compared notes about our lives as immigrants in the U.K. and there were many similarities. However, it became obvious to me that our expectations of the future were very different. Love was not her highest priority, whereas it was mine. Understandably financial security is what she craved most. Her son was a young man finding his way in the world and as such was making mistakes that were an emotional toll on his mother. A man will always be in second place in a mother’s heart; her children will always come first. It’s totally in keeping with Nature’s Grand Conspiracy…and I don’t like it. I want to be the one and only in my woman’s heart. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t want children: I want Her all to myself. It’s one of the reasons why I have avoided dating single mothers.
After a couple of hours our main courses were finished, but The Russian MILF was still hungry and she ordered another over-priced side-dish. The food was quite ordinary and not worth even half the price. My understanding of her culture was that status, prestige and impression counted for more than substance. I couldn’t care less what other people thought; I’m my own man. Were are at opposite ends of the spectrum in this regard.
The Russian MILF made an ambiguous comment that had a sexual innuendo to it. Ah, we’ve arrived at the point when a woman feels comfortable enough to indicate her sexual interest in me, if it exists. I made a sexually laden reply, thinking we were getting playful now.
“Whaat?! What do you mean by that?!” she exclaims, obviously annoyed by my remark.
Shit, I’ve got it all wrong. Better apologize and backtrack.
“I’m sorry, but I misunderstood what you were saying. I do apologize,” I say.
“Good, because I didn’t like what you said,” she chides.
In that moment she reminded me of Baltic Babe. When annoyed by something, no matter how small, the cool demeanour instantly evaporates and is replaced by a demon spitting venom. Is this an Eastern European cultural trait?
I moved banter along and we enjoyed a very ordinary dessert. However, conversation between us wasn’t the same after that incident and I couldn’t see how to rescue the situation. Was there any point in doing so? I decided that the answer is “no” and asked the waiter for the bill. When it arrived The Russian MILF excused herself and went to the ladies.
I pulled my wallet out and paid the £100-plus bill. I think the waiter deserved his tip. I wasn’t too impressed with her manoeuvre to avoid paying for the bill. Was she punishing me for the spat? Or is this how she operates, getting men to buy her meals at this place? It didn’t really matter, I know she’s not The One.
The Russian MILF returns and I help her put her coat on. As we’re leaving the restaurant she makes a point of thanking me for the meal. I appreciate her manners but feel that it was money wasted. Was it an evening wasted? No, I got some reminders of Baltic Babe and got to see that she wasn’t so unique as I had always thought. The chemistry we shared was unique though.
It’s below freezing outside and the streets are deserted. I escort The Russian MILF to the nearest Tube station where we both have to catch a train to get us elsewhere. We sit side by side making small-talk until I have to get off first. I give her a polite kiss on a cheek to which she smiles and just says, “Goodnight”.
It was an interesting evening, but not what I was expecting. We didn’t really have any kind of chemistry between us. I do feel that I was led up the proverbial garden path when it came to the choice of restaurant. She is definitely a materialist and therefore we would never get along.
I would much have preferred to have spent the evening with Busty Blonde or Travel Gal. However, there is the little matter of meeting another Russian MILF in two day’s time. It’s going to be a busy Saturday because I’m seeing all three of them on the same day.
LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Baltic Babe was not that special 2) Easter European women are materialistic, more so than other cultures 3) Beware women who use dating as a way to a free meal; I need to control the choice of venue better 4) I need to get into the habit of letting a woman pay for her half of the meal if I have no interest in seeing her again.
Madonna – Material Girl