Date #45 – The Imposter

She appeared as my top match on OKCupid when I went onto that site just to see what’s changed. I was also wondering if I said goodbye to Busty Blonde what my prospects were. I immediately liked the look of this new woman, she was just my type: blonde hair and blue eyes. Her photos were of an elegant, sophisticated lady and her narrative echoed this. We were a 98% match but when I read some of her answers to the hundreds of questions she had answered I came away with the impression that we would get on each other’s nerves as we had polar opposite views on several important things. She also seemed undecided about wanting a child.

Shaking my head in disbelief I sent her a quick message saying that I had lost faith in OKCupid’s algorithm and that by the end of the first date she would want to claw my eyes out and I would want to delete my account. She wrote back with a cute reply and quick-fire banter commenced. She was Slovakian and worked in academia at one of London’s many universities.

For several weeks we sent each other a weekly feisty and humorous riposte. After a month of this banter we had descended into bemoaning our dating experiences and sharing other insights about our lives. It started to look like we had more in common than I first thought. Of course I felt pangs of guilt about doing this while still seeing Busty Blonde, but I knew in my heart that she wasn’t right for me

One Monday night the Slovakian and I swapped about a dozen messages and hers were much more lengthy than mine. This told me that she was more into me than I was into her. I was still curious about her and decided to suggest that we meet for a coffee one lunchtime. Before I knew it she suggested that we meet for dinner that Thursday night.

Could this Slovakian academic be The One?

I am quite excited about meeting this Slovakian. If she’s anything like The Fitness Freak then she’ll be good fun. I’m expecting the same kind of intensity as I felt with Baltic Babe because she seems highly intelligent. I am also being realistic in that she might want a child, so there’s no real prospect of a relationship, but I just have to meet her.

So why am I going to meet her? Largely out of curiosity and to see what I might be missing out on by way of attraction. There have been times lately too when I’ve been out in public and seen cute little girls. No not women that I want to bed, I’m talking about little toddlers with their hair up in knots, gurgling laughs and happy smiles. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have one of those in my life. Is my insistence on avoiding parenthood coming with too heavy a price?

I think it’s because I’ve been writing about Baltic Babe lately that my train of thought has wondered over to that topic. Despite that, the question remains: would my life be better if I had people in my life whom I loved? If so, for how long? How long would the woman love me for until the stresses and strains of parenthood tore us apart? How long before I became bored and felt trapped by the routine that children require?

It is my first new date in London in over 5 months. It feels like I haven’t been dating for ages. Yes, meeting The Saffa last week was a date, but it didn’t really feel like it because of it being in a cottage. I feel as guilty as hell for doing this without having broken up with Busty Blonde first. I convince myself that I’m letting her down gently by not springing a horrendous surprise on her. It’s easy to believe your own bullshit.

It’s Thursday evening and I’m standing outside Tower Hill Tube station with butterflies galloping around in my stomach. It’s the middle of May and it’s a balmy evening. Some pretty young things are already wearing short skirts and swaying their hips. Is it the week before their period, the time when a woman sways her hips the most?

Suddenly a woman with brown hair and green eyes comes up to me and calls me by my name. She tells me hers.

What the fuck?! This is my date?!

I’m expecting blonde hair and blue eyes. What’s going on here?

She also has lots of wrinkles that aren’t there in the photos on her dating profile. She’s definitely not thirty-seven years old as she claims in her profile; she’s at least forty-two, perhaps even older. Much of that can be explained away but the fact remains that she doesn’t have blue eyes. Who is this person?

Surely there’s been a mistake somewhere? What have I missed here?

Then it dawns on me: I’m dealing with an imposter. Someone is standing in for a friend or, like with the Wild Animal Tickler, someone else has been handling her dating profile.

Deceit kills it for me, instantly, no matter how small. If somebody is weak enough to lie about small things, they’ll definitely be weak enough to lie about big things. This woman – whoever she might be – is not for me.

What should I do? Should I just end the date now and walk away? Should I confront her and ask about the obvious? Or should I play along with this and see what happens?

I opt for the latter choice. I think it was that famous psychopath, Nicolo Machiavelli, who wrote “it is a double pleasure to deceive a deceiver”. I’m going with that approach on this date. I’m keeping my best poker face on.

What is this woman hoping to achieve here? What’s her motivation? Is she standing in for a friend who chickened out? Does she need dating practise? Is she horny and hoping to get laid tonight? I now think of her as The Imposter.

I smile and offer her my arm when we’re at the stairs that lead down to St Katharine Dock. My customary “Do you like chicken? Take a wing,” I think is lost in translation and falls flat. At The Dickens Inn my favourite waiter finds us a table on the balcony. We have the perfect view over the marina, but all I want is a view of The Imposter’s brain. I want to get inside that; I need to find a way. I have no interest in availing myself of any of her orifices, even if she offers them to me. She’s too skinny for my liking; I like some cushion for the pushin’.

My demeanour is relaxed and passive-disinterested, because that’s exactly what I feel about her: disinterested. Our chit-chat is civil and positive, but it feels like I’m swimming with a shark. I can’t let my guard down, I have to focus. I don’t care what she thinks of me, but for some reason I’m still inclined to pay attention because there might be some opportunity to come out of this farce.

I convince her to try some South African chenin blanc. On my other dates wine has had the effect of calming a nervous date down, loosening her lips and occasionally loosening the lips between her legs. Let’s see what happens.

Ordering food turns into a painful chore. What is it with Eastern European women and their fussy eating habits? The waiter gives me an annoyed expression as she asks yet another question about the ingredients of a dish on the menu. Does his look say, “No mate, she’s not the one for you,”?

The Imposter is in essence allergic to food, so that’s a big no-no to me. Basics shouldn’t be so difficult. Food should be fun, not a problem, especially as I like to cook for my woman. I’m learning that if a woman is fussy about food, she’s bloody fussy about everything. I’m developing an allergy to high-maintenance women.

About halfway through the meal The Imposter confesses that she has lied about her age on her profile. I feign shock and disapproval, then wind her up about it by saying that I find that trust is badly damaged by people telling lies on their dating profiles. Then I give her my naughtiest boyish smile. She seems to appreciate my sense of humour.

“Tell me something. Do you think that I look like my photographs?” she asks.

Is she playing games now? Obviously she doesn’t. Is she testing my honesty?

“I was expecting you to be blonde,” is my reply. The matter of the blue eyes remains unspoken. Why bother?

The Imposter laughs to herself and takes another sip of the wine. Does alcohol make her more confident, more brazen? She says nothing more about this and resumes hiding behind her own poker face.

We talk some more about our jobs. I should have known better. Very few of the women I’ve dated have said anything good about their jobs. It’s an instant downer topic of conversation. The Imposter almost slumps into a depressed stupor as she finishes telling me about her daily grind that finances her ability to live in an over-priced shoebox in a dodgy part of London.

I change tack and start talking about something we had discussed via email: starting our own business. I’ve started and built several businesses over the years. I know what’s involved and what it takes to be a successful entrepreneur. The Imposter starts telling me of her ill-conceived plan and I can’t help but offer some tips and advice. She rebuffs my contribution and is adamant that her airy-fairy ideas will work. She is quite uptight and rigid-minded. My freedom of spirit and unconventional thinking is probably uncomfortable for her.

To avoid an unnecessary argument I move the conversation onto other topics we’ve discussed before meeting tonight. She bats her eyelids at me, obviously nonplussed by my words. After prompts from me about several things we had exchanged emails about the conversation finally dies. Ah, there’s confirmation that she wasn’t the recipient of my emails.

The Imposter looks at me sheepishly. I think she realizes that she’s been rumbled. I give her a stern look, largely in an attempt to let her know that I don’t approve but also to let her know that the date is coming to an end.

I don’t care what she’s up to, this is just a waste of my time. Yes, I’d like to know what was going on from her side, but I just won’t believe anything she tells me. She foregoes having dessert because it might change the colour of her belly-button fluff, or something frivolous like that.

I stupidly pay for the meal; I just can’t stop being a gentleman. We’re both heading in the same direction so I stay on the same Tube line as her until I need to get off.

“It was nice to meet you,” is all I say as I get off the train. She doesn’t deserve more than that.

Looking past the deception was the evening positive in any way? No it wasn’t. It’s one of my worst dates ever. If she initially came clean and then we had great chemistry, then perhaps something might have come of it. However, I didn’t fancy her and there was no chemistry.

Her and her friend are obviously single for a reason. I now know what they’re about. They’re scheming, deceitful, manipulative bitches. I have no time for women like that.

I now also have no faith in OKCupid’s algorithm. I now call that site ‘OKStoopid’.

My curiosity was satisfied though. It seems that the pickings on the dating sites are slim and just a different flavour of the same old shit scene that I was wading through last year. Do I really have cause for optimism once I’ve dumped Busty Blonde? No.

On the train home it hits me. I deserved this date. I’m the deceitful one. I’m out dating women before having broken up with Busty Blonde. I need to do something about that and soon. Until then I’ll continue to wear my poker face.

Tomorrow I’m meeting The Saffa for our second date…

Lady GaGa – Poker Face

Date #44 – The Saffa

Busty Blonde and I are nearing our demise. I go on to MatchAffinity curious to see if there were any new prospects that had joined in the months since I had last subscribed. One of my highest matches is a South African lady who wrote a very direct and heartfelt profile. Although I’m not a member and can’t write to her, I decide to ‘favourite’ her nevertheless. She is just my type: blonde hair, blue eyes and pretty. Maybe one day I’ll contact her.

Overnight she writes to me, having noticed my favouriting her. She sends me a very lengthy email which I can read. In it she asks if I am from a seaside suburb, which I almost was, being from the seaside suburb alongside hers which she had mentioned. Intrigued I answer her email, explaining that I could only send one response for free, gave her my surname and suggest that she Google me and contact me via one of my websites. I wasn’t going to spend another penny on a dating website that had largely taken my money, wasted my time and only delivered a couple of disappointing dates.

I immediately get to work Googling her, given that I had her first name and where she was from. Within seconds I find her Facebook page which is wide open to read. To my amazement we have two mutual friends. I contact one of these friends, asking about our mutual friend. The response is a very positive one, so I make a friend request on Facebook to my prospective date. In my mind I was thinking of her as ‘The Saffa’.

It isn’t easy for me to do all this. I have Busty Blonde on my mind and it feels like I’m cheating on her. My regained sense of moral righteousness is squirming. However, my curiosity and desire to find The One dictates that I at least make an effort to meet this woman; we have too much in common to ignore.

The Saffa and I start swapping messages on Facebook and then text messages on our phones. She works as a live-in carer for elderly wealthy people around England and doesn’t have a fixed address. She has also only been in the UK for just over a year. A minimum wage, homeless person was a drastic drop from high-flying Busty Blonde, but chemistry is vital.

Late on a Wednesday night The Saffa texts me “Hotel California”; just those words. I responded with “The Eagles 1977. Saw them at Twickenham a few years ago” and then went to bed. The next morning I awoke to three more text messages from her in the hours after I went to sleep, telling me that she was with friends, drinking wine and listening to 70s music. I felt quite flattered that she was thinking of me, feeling the need to share her thoughts and feelings with me, not even having met me. I also found this behaviour a little unusual, bordering on disturbing. I appreciated the fact that she liked 70s music because I do too, but texting while inebriated shows a lack of self-control to me. My hopes aren’t high.

Is she another nutter?

We swap a few emails during the week. Mine are short and to the point, while hers are elaborate. She is unafraid of telling me just how much she was looking forward to meeting me. In my mind an impression is forming of a high-spirited chatterbox.

I’m very aware that, courtesy of my experience with Cat Lady, our common heritage will be an immediate plus point. I’ll be at pains to look past that to see if we have any grounds for a relationship. My acid test question will be, “If we were still in SA, would I want to see her?”

In a very unusual plan for our first date, The Saffa invites me to visit her at a friend’s cottage which is an hour’s drive away. The friend was away on business and The Saffa was house-sitting.

Could she be The One?

Well, I met her and she was as I anticipated, except more physically attractive than what I was expecting. Prettier with a flawless skin, plus bigger boobicles than her photos let on; I’d totally do her. An awkward kiss hello at the door to her friend’s cottage was followed by coffee and biscuits in the lounge. Not my typical date.

Yes, she’s a stereotypical blonde chatterbox, but I think she is gripped by a bit of nervousness. It turns out that I am only her second-ever internet date. The previous guy was as tall as her and not significantly taller as his profile said. The Saffa barely comes up to my shoulders. I think it a shame that the majority of women are so obsessed with their man being taller than them, but it works in my favour.

Hours of conversation reveals that we went to the same high school but at different times. I arrived there in the second year of high school which is when she left to go to a new school that opened in her suburb. All my school friends were hers too, yet we never met outside of school. We were like ghost ships in the night, gliding past each other, only visible to an astute observer.

Looking past the obvious South African connection, it becomes apparent that she has some baggage. Her previous long-term relationship of 8 years had ended 12 years ago when her partner died of cancer. Since then she has not felt ready for a relationship. She admitted to a couple of flings, one of which lasted 2 years, but she knew that she never loved him, but kept going anyway. I can’t be judgemental about that one.

It doesn’t take long for me to conclude that she fancies me too, because she started making unnecessary physical contact, brushing my arm or shoulder when speaking to me. We went for lunch in a restaurant in a nearby town and after lunch she responded very well to the “do you like chicken?” routine. Even after having to uncouple she would come back to couple up again.

Lots of positive conversation, but the stand-out items were unfortunately negative ones. Firstly, she intends to return to South Africa one day; I’m not prepared to do that as there a very bleak future there for me because of my skin colour. Secondly, when we were at the restaurant she struggled to make a decision about what to have and had to ask the waitress for a recommendation. This speaks of an indecisive person that is easily dissuaded and doesn’t know how to make a decision. This micro-issue gets magnified in her larger life in that she has moved to and from the UK three times. Thirdly, she has been retrenched 5 times in her life. That is unheard of in South Africa and in my experience speaks of someone who is a problem worker. She also recounted other workplace stores that told me that her employers moved her to a shit job in a hope that she would resign.

I have a dreadful cold, but that didn’t stop The Saffa from planting a big kiss on my lips when I leave. I wasn’t expecting that. I drive home with my head and heart full of conflicting emotions. It’s clear to me that she is quite taken with me. I wonder what our mutual friends have told her about me? Are their words colouring her perception of me? I did very little talking during this date; my man-flu reduced my energy level and I didn’t want to interrupt her.

She openly admits that she is a gypsy at heart, a constant wanderer. I don’t think that that is her intent, I think that’s how things have worked out for her. Is she relationship material? I don’t think so. Is she emotionally healthy? It seems not. She’s like a little bird, given to flight at the merest disturbance. This little bird is controlled by a vulnerability that she has become so accustomed to that it is now part of her nature.

I agree to meet her again for another date, but my hopes aren’t high. I feel like such a treacherous bastard for having anything to do with The Saffa. If Busty Blonde ever found out she’d be so hurt. Out of curiosity more than anything else I’m going to see The Saffa again. I must add that it is with a touch of reluctance.

Oh, there is also the little matter of meeting someone new soon. Now that date I’m looking forward to…

Nelly Furtado – I’m Like a Bird

Busty Blonde Blues

Four months have gone by with Busty Blonde and love has not materialized. I had high hopes that with patience and each of us being who we are that love would put in an appearance. It hasn’t and I don’t think it’s going to. The fault lies on my side.

She is everything I need, but not everything that I want. I’ve been writing about Baltic Babe and remember how I felt about her, how excited I was to be seeing her. That’s how it should be. I just don’t feel that way about Busty Blonde and I don’t think I ever will. I keep asking myself “why?” and the answer is the same: the magic, the chemistry, just isn’t there. The chemistry between us is more like being with a really good friend, not The One.

I find it sad that mundane things like making coffee for us are exactly that – mundane. If it was with Baltic Babe or Krazy Gal, the simplest of things would take on an other-worldly significance, so bewitched by them I was. I fear that I am making a fool of Busty Blonde. She seems so happy and content with me, but if she knew how little I felt for her by comparison, her legs would give way under her and she would collapse in a heap on my carpet and start sobbing.

I’ve done it again; I’ve hoped that a relationship would grow just the way I did with Sweet Thing.

I’m feeling very bad about this situation because I know that Busty Blonde has done nothing wrong, but I have to end it with her. Busty Blonde knows about my blog and has asked me not to write about her. I have said that I’ll keep any references to her to an absolute minimum. It’s the least I can do for her. Thus I’m only mentioning a few things that are relevant to my quest and lessons learned along this uncertain route.

Busty Blonde being made redundant has hit her hard and I’ve been hoping and waiting for her to find a new job, but this has been long in coming too. I now find myself playing the role of an emotional crutch at a time when she feels low about herself. Sitting at home alone during weekdays has slowly eroded her self-confidence. If I dump her now there’s no telling the damage I’ll do. I’m fully aware that the longer I take to leave her be, the worse it’ll be when I inevitably do so, but I’m counting on a feel-good factor from her getting a new job.

From a selfish perspective Busty Blonde has restored my faith in women significantly. Without her knowing it she halted my plummet into losing all respect for women because of what I had experienced through online dating. She is one of the most decent, honourable, respectable people I have encountered in my life. I know that I’m going to have the opposite effect on her in that she’ll be shell-shocked for a long time and might never trust another man. I fear that I might have damaged or ruined someone remarkable. I’m ashamed of that.

The dating cycle

The dating cycle.

How did I let this happen? What was the build-up to this disastrous situation? What can I learn so that I don’t do it again? We make the same mistakes in life until we take the time to learn from them.

Friends-with-benefits was toxic for me. It addled my brain with a distorted view of reality. I was wearing pussy-vision while high on a cocktail of meaningless sex, never-ending blowjobs, frustration and revenge. The latter is supposedly a dish best served cold, but for me it was red-hot (videoing a woman masturbating with a champagne bottle is emblazoned in my psyche for life now). Anal-izing women who wanted it blew my mind. I was running the risk of becoming addicted to the sexcapades and hi-jinks that online dating effortlessly led to. Double-, triple- and quadruple-dating was remarkably easy when stringing along unsuspecting innocents, but what did it say about me? I was turning into a selfish player – a monster – and opting to commit to Busty Blonde brought me to my senses.

The feeling of permanence that came with seeing Busty Blonde, fleeting as it was, felt like an emotional exhale. I became a bit of my old self again and am able to see just how far off my path of nobility and decency I have strayed. Do I miss the adrenaline rush of discovering a new lover’s sexual preferences? Yes. Do I miss the high drama of that first date? Only a little bit. Do I have a burning desire to go internet dating again? No. Do I still want to find The One? Absolutely.

How best to proceed?

I’m wanting to keep my options open with Busty Blonde. Love might finally materialize, but on the assumption that it’s unlikely to, it’s in my interest to see if there’s anyone else who might be The One.

Yes, I’m being chicken-shit and not ending it with her immediately. Not yet at least.

I’ve given myself a deadline of 1st June at which point, if I’m not in love with her, I’ll say goodbye as best and as compassionately as I know how. Heaven knows I’ve had enough experience at letting women down. In those six weeks I dearly hope that Busty Blonde finds a job. If she does before that date then a week later I’ll do the hard but right thing.

What I can’t figure out just yet: is my heart hard or is my heart weak?

I’ve reactivated my OKCupid profile just to see who’s joined the dating circus since last year and there is a stand-out profile. I find it almost impossible to not make contact…oh, and look, there’s a cute South African on MatchAffinty who has written to me too…

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) I have to get it in my head that getting involved with the wrong person can never turn out right. 2) If the chemistry isn’t there on the first date, it’s unlikely to arrive later. 3) I have to be more selective in who I go on dates with 4) I want a relationship more than I want to fuck around.

Cock Robin – When Your Heart is Weak

Decision Time

I can’t continue like this. I feel that I’m being dishonest with two women who deserve honesty. I’m sneaking around behind their backs and I don’t like how that makes me feel. This is not me at my best, more like me at the worst I’ve been with people. I’m looking for love and this isn’t the way to find it. I have to make a decision before one of them finds out about the other and I might lose what I’m looking for. It’s decision time.

Busty Blonde: She is very considerate and sweet. I trust and respect her. I have a wonderful sense of tranquillity when I’m with her, a calmness that feeds my soul. Does she feel like “The One”? No. Well, not at the moment. However, on paper she is almost everything that I need: positive, fun, devoid of drama, same taste in almost everything, gets my humour. The only thing “wrong” with her is that she isn’t as pretty as I would like. With time all our looks fade, so I’m not letting a fresh face influence me like it used to. I know and accept that there are imperfections about me in her mind too, but she’s decided to live with them.

Travel Gal: Her positives are that we share a love of travel and dogs. She’s a great cook and I enjoy eating good food. I feel intellectually stimulated when I’m with her. I trust and respect her too. However, her negatives weigh more. Her way of speaking irritates me. She’s starting to feel like a ‘Misery’, someone prone to being down in the dumps. Our last date was no fun at all; I drove for two hours to be bored for over a day. I sense that her mask reserved for early dates is starting to slide and I’m getting to see the real her. A major issue for me is that she just won’t suck my cock. I love getting a blowjob and a lifetime of no suction would feel like a prison sentence to me. I think that most men would feel that way.

There’s something else going on inside me that is influencing my thinking. I’m tired of reading women’s profiles that bear little resemblance to themselves in real life. I’m tired of meeting women who are more than five years older than their photos. I’m tired of wasting time, money and effort on oddballs, baby-brainers, gold-diggers, Miseries, psychopaths, confused cuties and emotional black holes.

I’m tired of internet dating.

I’m tired of a dating life that feels like an emotional roller-coaster. Yes, it’s given me some great life experiences, taught me necessary lessons and delivered good and bad sexual adventures, but I’ve had enough of it. I really want to lose myself in the warm, fuzzy cocoon of a committed relationship, especially one characterized by mutual love. I want to hold hands with and face the same future with someone who, for once, has my best interests at heart. I want to feel like I’ve found the best person I could be with. I want to share life with someone who would push me around in a wheelchair if need be and wouldn’t abandon me, because she’s with me for who I am and not what I can do for her.

Worryingly I suspect that I’m not entirely ready for what I seek. My trust issues have abated but are still present. I feel somewhat brutalized by my online dating experiences. Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl were massive disappointments to me. I was falling for both of them when it abruptly ended and the surprise of that exacerbated the pain. I’m concerned that in some ways I might be on the rebound. My shenanigans with other women has rocked my faith in womankind. Country Girl and Musician Gal were bitter experiences. Realizing that my Exgf is a cold-hard psychopath was a stunning revelation that has made me doubt my ability to know what someone is about. Feeling emotionally safe with a woman is something I yearn for but am finding increasingly rare to experience. I’m terrified of being taken for a ride by another woman. I’m scared of making another mistake; I don’t think I can deal with that. I need someone who can be patient with me. I’m not sure of much in the relationship department at the moment.

Yet a life without love is a life not worth leading, that I am sure of. I’m just not a selfish person and perhaps that will always be my undoing. I have to share my life with someone because any other kind of life is just not good enough. In order for that to happen I need to be with someone who wants the same things as me. I need to proceed with caution, I need to be with someone who makes me feel safe.

Busty Blonde is the most honest, decent and positive woman I’ve met through online dating. She is remarkable for that alone. Is that a good enough foundation from which love can grow? Perhaps. I need to be patient for that to happen because I know that love can’t be hurried. Patience, yes, that’s what I need…and also have to give.

Decision made: I going to see where things lead with Busty Blonde.

I phone Travel Gal, emboldened by my decision, but I still hate this part of dating. This crazy little thing called life is so much easier when you have a plan because you know what you need to do and you know what doesn’t suit the plan. Sometimes other people are not part of the plan, I know this, but it will always pain me to tell them this.

Travel Gal answers in a demure tone. Has she been expecting this call?

“Are you feeling better today?” I ask because of her cold, trying to soften the impending blow with a bit of common courtesy beforehand.

“No. I had to put my dog to sleep today,” she answers.

Instantly I feel like shit. I’m calling to dump her and she’s upset over the death of her loyal companion. He’s been more faithful to her than I have been. There’s no way I can dump her now. I’ll give it a few days and then try again. Maybe I’ll just make myself scarce and let her phone me when she feels better?

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was magnificent, possessing the sweetest personality I’ve ever encountered in a dog,” I say, meaning every word of it. Shit, that’s going to make her feel worse.

Travel Gal starts crying. I fall silent. Idiot.

I hate it when a woman cries. It takes me back to when I was little boy and I’d catch my mother crying after yet another fight with my father. Acidic, sepia-coloured memories of those dramatic days of my childhood mix with my feelings about having decided to dump Travel Gal, then they blend with the sound of her snorting back tears over the phone. I get a lump in my throat and my bottom lip quivers; I fall silent again. It’s the best I can do right now.

There’s no way I can dump her on this call.

After a minute of stifled sobbing Travel Gal regains her composure. I’m struggling to think of ways to make this call more pleasant for her without raising her hopes about me. My brain has slowed down too much under the weight of her news. I’m struggling to think of a way out.

“I get the impression that you’re calling me for a reason of your own,” Travel Gal says, breaking the heavy silence.

Shit, is she a mind-reader? I’ve hardly said anything. What does she mean exactly? Have I missed something?

“Uh…uh…,” I stammer like a horny, virgin teenager arriving at his date’s front door only to have it opened by her father.

“C’mon, out with it,” Travel Gal orders.

Wow, is aggression part of her grieving process? Fuckit, this is awkward. I don’t know what to say right now. Shit, let’s get this over and done with.

“I’ve been thinking about us. I’m sorry to say but I’m not convinced that we’re right for each other,” I say as compassionately as I know how. Well, she asked for it.

“Why?” she says directly without any hint of tearfulness. I’m surprised by her sudden change in attitude.

“Um, I think that we’re in different emotional places right now. Being more than two hours driving time apart is proving more of a pain than I had anticipated. I also think that in bed we’re not that well matched,” I say.

Too much honesty? I hope that she doesn’t ask for details. This could get messy. I’ve given her enough truths and more will only add to her hurt. Please don’t say “why” again…

“I see,” she says icily.

I don’t know what to say next. This call hasn’t gone anything like what I expected or am used to. I’ve still got so much to learn.

“Can I tell you something?” Travel Gal says after a few seconds of silence.


What the hell is coming my way now?! Am I about to lambasted with a verbal tirade of man-hating nonsense? Is she going to tell me something that will crush my world? Is there another guy on the scene? Has she seen me with another woman? Did she crack the password on my phone?

“You need to get some new underwear,” she says snottily.

“Sorry, what?” I blurt out. Where the hell has that come from?

“The first time we got intimate I was put off by your undies,” Travel Gal says.

“Well, they weren’t brand new and I wasn’t expecting anything to happen between us that day so I didn’t give it much thought” I say.

“That’s good to know,” she retorts.


“I guess there’s nothing much else left to say,” I proffer.

“Yes, you’re right. Goodbye.”


That was unpleasant but I don’t deserve better. I’ve been a shit with her although she doesn’t know this. I must and can do better in my conduct.

Deep breath.

Okay Busty Blonde and patience, over to you…it’s time for a relationship.

I must be patient…

Take That – Patience

Narrowing the field while playing it

The Russian MILF can go play in the traffic, I have no time for flaky people like her. It’s always about them, these Takers. I decide to not contact her, letting her think whatever she chooses because I’ve learned that the greatest disservice you can do anyone is to just let them carry on as they are. We are all our own worst enemy until someone enlightens us. She doesn’t deserve enlightening from me.

As for the other Russian, the Tiny one, she’s not for me either. She at least merits a phone-call from me, so I call her intending to let her know my thoughts. On Tuesday night Tiny Russian cheerily answers and we fall into a polite conversation about nothing in particular. Sadly it isn’t long before she starts telling me about the gory details of the court case against her ex-husband in an attempt to wring more money out of him for their daughter’s needs. I would love to hear his side of the story. After all he made the effort to give her a better life outside of Russia and fathered a child with her. As I listen to her belittling him I feel vindicated in my decision to bid her goodbye. I think of all the other Russian women I’ve encountered on my quest and conclude that getting involved with a Russian woman feels akin to a spider wrapping a web around me that is made of sickly sweet syrup.

After listening to her then moaning about her work situation I decide that I’ve heard enough. I interrupt her and deliver my preferred and practised series of words that let a woman know that I’m not interested in her. I always find this part of modern dating tricky because I have no idea how a woman feels about me. Finding the right balance of words and ideas isn’t easy but I proceed as thoughtfully as I can. As I say my piece it dawns on me that rarely has a woman contacted me to let me know that she’s not interested in me. They seem to sit in their ivory towers feigning disinterest when it suits them, preferring to have men making all the running while steadfastly espousing gender equality when it pleases them. It still falls on the man to make the first move in a nightclub or on a dating site, for a man to suggest a venue for the initial rendezvous, for a man to always pick up the phone first in the early days of a relationship, if he ever gets that far risking and enduring possible rejection every step of the way. It always amuses me when I hear a woman say, “all men are the same” because I’m certain that such a woman has treated all men in the same way. Perhaps there are times when the right of rejection should be reserved for men. If I respect the woman then I make the effort to end matters as gracefully as I can. If I don’t respect the woman then I make no effort to contact her again, such as I have done with the Russian MILF.

I detect a sense of disappointment in Tiny Russian’s response of “oh…okay.” My days of rescuing damsels in distress are behind me. I say my final goodbye and it doesn’t bother me as much as it would have a year ago. I wonder how she’d feel about me knowing that after I saw her I spent the afternoon with another woman and then fucked another woman later that night? How would she like me now?

On Saturday I meet Busty Blonde and it’s an uplifting experience. She is bubbly and positive, traits that are in short supply with the majority of women whom I’ve met through online dating. We go to the Natural History and adjoining Science Museum in Earl’s Court where we spend most of the day wandering around, talking about what we’re seeing and know of. She does have an intellectual bent to her, something I might be accused of too upon occasion. Our brains entwine and time flies by; she is good company. We brave the rain to find an Italian restaurant for a late lunch. Conversation never ceases and not once do I feel bored. There’s a wonderfully relaxed feeling between us and I find it liberating after some of the horror dates that I’ve endured.

Darkness grips London and we make our way back to her place where my car is parked…with my dirty weekend bag in the trunk. Busty Blonde invites me inside for a coffee which I gratefully accept because my bones feel cold. We indulge in a light bout of kissing on her sofa which she enjoys more than me. She probably hasn’t had sex in a while; her response to my lips tells me that. I can quite happily spend all night talking to her, but I make my excuses about having to leave to meet a “friend”, a detail that offers no meaning to her. She’s such an innocent, but I like that because it makes me feel safe with her. That feeling is rare to come by nowadays it seems.

I wonder how she’d like me now if she knew I was about to go spend the night with another woman?

I drive for almost two hours to get to Travel Gal and during the drive I find myself wondering what tonight would bring. I’m dying to know why she won’t give me head. I know that that’s not the best reason to be seeing someone, but it’s the truth. Yes, I do want to get to know her better as a person and see if there is relationship potential between us, but this sexual puzzle is foremost in my heads.

This time Travel Gal has a light dinner waiting for me. Unfortunately she has a bad cold and is lethargic. I’m sympathetic and easily agree to her request to stay in and watch movies. There isn’t much else around to do for almost an hour’s drive in any direction anyway. Sitting indoors on a cold Winter’s night, snuggled up in front of a television is not the worst way to get to know someone. However, she doesn’t seem quite herself and I wonder if she’s having reservations about me. It’s usually around the third or fourth date when women seem to drop their mask and exhibit bad or their behaviour with me. Eventually she tells me what’s bugging her and my thoughts are misplaced.

“My dog is poorly too. He’s been struggling to walk the last few days. I took him to the vet today and she said he might have an inoperable hip condition,” she says.

Right, so that explains her reserved attitude on top of her not feeling well. I guess tonight will be something of a dead loss. We sit in near silence, like an over-married couple who are together out of habit more than anything. This is only our fourth date and it’s starting to feel stale already. As we sit mesmerised by the screen I start wondering about what future dates with her will be like. There’s nothing much to do out here in the Styx. You can only fuck each other so much before that becomes stale too.

“Time for bed,” Travel Gal announces.

The dog slowly raises his head, apparently understanding her words before gingerly and painfully raising himself. Labradors are famous for their hip complaints and this old fellow might be nearing his long sleep, but I’m not going to say anything like that to her. I suspect that the thought has crossed her mind.

I expect to only spoon with Travel Gal tonight. Her cold is raging and she’s barely moved or said anything all night. However, she has other ideas.

She comes into the bedroom where I’m just finishing getting undressed. Her robe drops to the floor and she’s naked, standing like Botticelli’s Venus, except she’s making no effort to modestly hide her lady bits. Travel Gal has a serious look in her eye. Does she want me to take her?

Before I can decide or do anything she steps forward and pushes me backwards onto the bed. She starts kissing me all over. Where has all this energy come from suddenly? Ah, she’s been thinking about this and her cold isn’t going to stop her from making her fantasy come true. Kisses rain down on my body and it feels good. It isn’t long before before she’s kissing, licking and sucking my balls. We haven’t said much all night so it’s not anything I’ve said that has led to this course of action on her part. Her brain was turned on before I arrived.

Travel Gal takes her time licking up and down the shaft of my penis. Is she finally going to suck the head? Has she just been playing a silly game? Has she been working up to this, building the anticipation, because that’s what she really enjoys?

“Lie with your head on the pillows,” she says, gesturing towards the headboard.

I do as instructed and move myself ninety degrees. She obviously needs more space.

Travel Gal clambers onto the bed and then mounts me, slowly sliding herself onto my erection. Her pussy feels tighter tonight, perhaps because I haven’t fingered her. I put my hands either side of my head; I want to see what she’s going to do. She puts her hands on my chest which causes her beautiful breasts to bunch up and rest on the top of her puny biceps. Her eyes are closed as she starts to ride me. Why does she have trouble with eye-contact during sex?

With a touch of urgency her hips start grinding down onto my groin. She tilts her head back and her hips speed up. I can feel the bed under us starting to move in time with her. Travel Gal starts letting off her chant of “oh yeah…oh yeah” as I lie there, transfixed by the sight of her riding me. Only her fingertips are touching the bottom of my ribcage now and I watch her tits starting to bounce around. The bed is squeaking but I don’t think that she can hear it. She raises her hands, puts them behind her head and brings her elbows together in front of her face. Why does she do that? I know now that that’s her sign of being close to cumming, but I find it an odd thing to do.

The joints of the bed are very loose and the frame is now rocking backwards and forwards with her hip motion. She couldn’t be going any faster. No woman has ever ridden me like this before; it’s quite impressive. I hope she cums soon because this bed is about to fall apart. Now that would make for quite a story. Hang on a second. These joints have been loose for quite some time. Just how many guys has she fucked like this?

Just then Travel Gal lets off an almighty scream that the neighbours must have heard. Her body shudders and shakes as she slows down her riding motion. My pelvic bones suddenly feel a little sensitive. She collapses into a heap next to me and adopts a fetal position with her eyes still closed.

My heart is pounding and I want to cum too. Normally I’m happy to cuddle for a few minutes before taking my turn, but tonight things are different. My raging boner demands instant satisfaction. Seeing her riding me like that was quite a turn-on.

I get onto my knees and roll her over onto her knees. Her arse is pointing upwards while she’s still panting into the bedding. My cock slides easily into her pussy. Usually I fuck a woman for at least a quarter of an hour, but normally for an hour before I put her on The Hook. Tonight I shall dispense with that courtesy, largely because she’s already very turned on…and she won’t suck my cock. I have to get my kicks in other ways.

My cock has only thrust into her vagina a couple of times before I suck my thumb. How’s she going to react to this now? I slowly slide my thumb into her arse and I take a peek at her face as I do so. Her face doesn’t change and she lets off a subtle “oh yeah”. Travel Gal likes having things in her arse. That just has to be why she won’t go down on me because she expects my cock to go into her arse.

It doesn’t take long for me to cum. I usually do shortly after putting a woman on The Hook. There’s a naughtiness to it that does things for me. Again I’m grateful for pumping my cum into a woman who has been through menopause and can’t fall pregnant. I don’t know what I’d do if I got a woman pregnant.

We fall asleep without saying a word to each other. This has been a strange night. Am I starting to see her true colours? Is she a Misery?

The next morning, just like last Sunday, Travel Gal gets up to let her dog into the back yard and she starts making breakfast. I have no choice but to get dressed and join her. We start our day together with a kiss and a hug. She starts telling me about her hobby of baking and how she enters competitions that she usually wins something for. Again breakfast is excellent, but her cold is still gripping her. Conversation is stilted.

The day drags by as we sit in front of the television watching chick-flicks. I don’t mind movies like that because it gives me an insight into the female psyche. However, there are limits and by sundown I’m bored. I’m not easily bored but my options in this environment are limited. I’m tempted to say my goodbye claiming to fear catching her cold, but then I realize something about Travel Gal: she’s lonely. Vestiges of my White Knight Syndrome come to the fore of my behaviour.

I start doing DIY chores around her house. I’m quite good with my hands and not just in the g-spot sense. Unassembled, badly assembled and broken wooden things get assembled or fixed. Bottles and jars that she could never open are finally opened for her. Electrical devices that are troublesome are put back in full working order. Her television aerial which only allowed her to watch three channels gets seen to so that she has five channels now.

I spend the night with her, but we don’t have sex. She’s too ill for that. While she falls asleep in my arms I wonder about how future dates – a relationship even – with her will look and I don’t like what I see. It’s going to be too repetitive, too restrictive, too boring…and she won’t go down on me.

On the Monday morning I get up first and let the dog out. I watch him hobble around before having difficulty taking a dump. Poor old fella; he’s in pain. His mistress isn’t much better when I go back upstairs. She has a fever and I convince her to not go to work. I make her breakfast in bed, load her night-stand with medicines, make her her favourite tea just how she likes it and turn on the television in the bedroom to distract her, handing her the remote that I had fixed. I can see in her eyes that she’s not used to this level of service from a man.

I say my goodbye to Travel Gal with a kiss on the forehead, then head downstairs where I pour water and pellets into bowls for her dog. I pull the door to her cottage closed behind me. As I do so I wonder if I’ll ever be back here.

I drive home on a blustery Monday morning with my head full of thoughts about Busty Blonde and Travel Gal. What would each of them say if they knew about the existence of the other? Would they like me now?

The Heavy – How You Like Me Now

Travel Gal tail – final part

“Um, aren’t you going to suck on the head?” I blurt out in disbelief, suddenly feeling like a spotty-faced teenager as I realize my ineptitude.

“No, I don’t do that,” she says, crawling onto her hands and knees on the bed, then bunching a pillow together and pushing it under her stomach.

I’m in a mild state of shock. No woman I can think of has refused to suck my cock. Those lips are not going near my bell-end, I know this now. This is most unexpected and unwelcome too.

My emotions cycle quickly through the stages of shock but I’m left mostly angry. Why does this sort of thing keep happening to me? In that moment it seemed that Travel Gal was not The One.

Snap out of it. There’s a naked woman on all fours wiggling her arse at me. Make the most of this situation. To borrow a South African rugby expression, I should ‘go for the gap”. I’ll go for her gap alright.

This pose that she’s assumed strikes me yet again as being something odd. Again she’s averting eye-contact, looking away from me, facing the headboard. The pillow tucked under her belly I’ve only ever seen in a manual for advanced sexual techniques. Either she’s a natural or has had an educated lover in the past or she’s read the same manual as me. The latter option I discount in my head because I don’t recall there being a chapter about being a cock-teaser.

Maybe this is what she does: she gets men all worked up, then disappoints them which results in angry sex. Is that it, she wants angry sex? Let’s find out…

I position myself behind her and slide a finger into her pussy. It’s like a white chocolate fountain in there, she’s that wet. It’s also a bit like the Royal Albert Hall, a cavernous space. I can easily fit two fingers in her pussy. Either she has had sex recently, or had a lover with an enormous cock or has had many, many cocks in her pussy. My trust demon springs up in his cage. Down boy. Maybe she has a vibrator as big or bigger than Tech Titan’s Purple Pussy Eater? I’ve learned that almost every woman has a vibrator or two stashed away in her bedroom, usually in the bottom shelf at the back of something, either in a box or a fabric bag with a drawstring.

Fuckit, I can feel myself going soft; I need to keep moving. I pull my fingers out of her and she doesn’t make a sound. I move closer on my knees and slide my cock into her. Travel Gal makes a slow sound of approval, but I’m struggling to feel much because this pussy is spacious; too spacious. If I was wearing a body bag for my cock I’d feel nothing for sure.

I start rocking my hips but I still don’t feel much. Shit, I’m going to go soft and then it’s awkward talk time, something along the lines of “don’t worry, it happens to all men from time to time”. I don’t need that pity-party going on. I know, I’ll get naughty and see what happens.

Raising a hand to my face I suck on my thumb. I wonder how she’s going to react to this? Will she baulk like a bronco and catapult me off the bed? She’s a sophisticated country lady, this might be new to her, so there’s no telling how she’s going to react. I am curious though…

I gently slide my wet thumb up her bum as my cock rhythmically flails about in her pussy. Travel Gal doesn’t move or make a sound. Most woman would tense up at this surprise anterior intrusion, but not her, she stays relaxed. My thumb slid easily into her arse and I could swivel it around if I wanted. Having something in her arse was nothing new to her. It was the most spacious arse my thumb has ever been in. Was anal sex her thing?

Wait a second…maybe that’s why she won’t suck my cock?! She’s used to having a cock in her arse and therefore won’t suck on one. Could that be it? She thinks the tips of dicks are dirty? Well, they are, given their variety of uses, but I’m not arguing that case. In my head I start debating this possibility.

While I’m indulging in my penile monologue I fail to notice that she’s close to another orgasm. It’s only when she starts making louder sounds that I snap out of my errant orbit.

Travel Gal cums with a scream that she propels into a pillow that I didn’t notice her grab and put in front of her face. Has she done that before too? I know that we’re all second-hand lovers, but some of her moves are new to me and I consider myself very well read.

Reality check: She came while I fucked her pussy and had my thumb up her bum. This prim and proper country lady likes it dirty. I don’t know what’s going on in her head, but I need to cum too. I can analyze this later.

I haven’t let go of her and she’s still in position. My turn now.

Travel Gal is now more vocal, uttering that classic immortal line of “oh yeah”, almost chanting it like a mantra every my cock slams into her. As the front of my thigh slaps a buttock, each time she mutters “oh yeah”, over and over again. Her pussy has tightened and somewhat clamped itself around my shaft. She starts to feel good.

There I was, one of her big breasts in my hand, my cock in her pussy and a thumb up her arse…and she was loving it. This is not what I expected of her, but it’s probably not what she expected of me either.

Shall I be really naughty and put my cock in her arse and pump my cum into her there? It’ll easily fit; her arse is looser than most women’s pussies. No, after the anal sex incident with Krazy Girl I swore I won’t do anal again. I was fretting about it for months afterwards, scrubbing myself raw in the shower in a frenzy of pointless angst, driven by the fear of AIDS.

Remembering that Sunday morning with Krazy Girl leads to the memory of the time I fucked Tech Titan in the arse because it’s what she wanted too and…oh, I think I’ve just cum…

Yes, the greatest sexual organ is indeed the brain.

Travel Gal wriggles off The Hook, grabs a robe strategically hanging from the back of the door and minces off to the bathroom down the short hallway. A minute later she rejoins me and we cuddle up, making polite pillow talk until she drifts off away from me. I lie blinking at the stars who, through a gap in the curtains, were watching us and they blink back as my mind races, as I try to make sense of what just happened.

She wouldn’t suck my dick, that’s for certain. I can see us having this conversation:
Why Blowjobs Are More Intimate Than Sex

The next morning she stirs and goes downstairs to let her dog do his morning ritual in the back yard. I guess it’s part of her routine to rise early and just keep going because without much being said she goes downstairs and starts making us breakfast. I get dressed, give her a hug and kiss before going to my car to get my dirty weekend bag. I shower and ready myself for what I’m thinking is an unpredictable day.

Breakfast is one of the best full English breakfasts I’ve ever had. She’s quite good in the kitchen. Then we go for a walk around her hamlet, allowing the dog to do his thing. Even out in the boonies people are expected to pick up their dog’s shit. I watch Travel Gal expertly wrap a plastic bag around her hand and bend over, scooping her pooch’s pooh into her hand before pulling the bag over it and tying it up before dropping it in what must be the only doggy droppings bin for miles. She does this twice a day? How does this square up with my notion about her and anal sex?

We spend the day watching slushy romantic comedies such as ‘The Holiday’. Travel Gal has a romantic side to her. I can see it because I have it too. Sitting cuddled on the sofa seems like the logical thing to do as it’s another miserable, cold Winter’s day. I’m aware of not feeling the urge to go back to bed, but I’m also conscious of the fact that we haven’t said a word at all about last night’s sexual encounter.

Travel Gal makes an impressive dinner before we walk the dog one more time. The hands that cooked that meal pick up dog shit twice daily? Does it follow that the cock that goes in her arse will not go in her mouth? She will not eat shit. Is that what’s going on in her head?

Darkness overwhelms day and I make my excuses about leaving. She has to work the next day and I don’t want to overstay my welcome, that’s what I tell her. Her mouth smiles but her eyes don’t. We kiss passionately at her front door. I get the impression that she doesn’t want me to go, but I have to.

I get into my car intent on driving back to London…because I have another date lined up. It’s with the Russian MILF. I’m giving her a chance to redeem herself after our unsavoury first date. We should be good together, that’s what OKCupid’s system indicates, so maybe a second date will be better? I wonder if she’ll smell pussy on me? I drive for a little while until I have a signal for my phone. The Russian MILF has sent me a WhatsApp message saying that she can’t make tonight because she’s ill. The next message she sends me has a photograph attached. It’s of her and some guys at a fancy-dress party and her caption reads: “Me at a party last night”.

Well enough for a party last night but not well today? She can just fuck off. I can easily replace her. I respond with “Ok, no problem.

What are these women like? Okay, I won’t lie, a part of me is enjoying the unpredictable nature of this dating life. It’s certainly stretching my boundaries, perceptions and beliefs about life, women, relationships and sex. However, I feel that it’s coming at a price whereby I don’t feel enriched by it all. Instead I feel that a part of me is slowly dying and being replaced by something I don’t recognize.

I drive home hearing the “oh yeah” chants of Travel Gal echoing in my ears.

Yello – Oh Yeah

Travel Gal tail

Travel Gal better give the best blowjob known to mankind. That’s what is going through my head as I slowly make my way to Travel Gal on this January night. Driving through unfamiliar country roads of endless twists and turns in the dark during a raging storm is not my idea of fun. I don’t want to drive one-way for 2 hours only to not get a blowjob. If she refuses to go down on me, she just has to go. There are a few sensation in life that I love: the taste of milk chocolate hobnobs, tiramisu, cheesy doritos, a meat feast pizza, a cold cider…and a blowjob. No blow, she go. Simples.

I eventually find her home which is part of a series of stone cottages in the middle of nowhere next to a pub. I use the knocker on her door and her dog inside goes ballistic. Good guard doggy. Please don’t bite me. I wonder if Travel Gal will? I’m holding a bottle of wine in my hand, leaving my dirty weekend bag in my car. If I arrived holding that it might seem presumptuous, although from our last conversation the other night I got the impression that I’d be spending the night. I decide that discretion is the better part of valour.

Travel Gal greets me warmly and gives me a kiss on the lips; quite a welcome. Doggy recognizes me and his tail starts swatting furniture. I present the wine and she disappears into the kitchen with it. Her home is cosy, a stereotypical English cottage like the one in The Holiday. Hmm, is she going to be my Cameron Diaz?

“I haven’t prepared a dinner because there’s a pub I’d like to take you to,” she says.

“Oh, perchance the one next door?” I ask, trying not to sound like a smartass.

“No, the one we’re going to is a little drive away in the next village,” she says pouring fresh water for the dog then putting her leather coat on.

“The one next door no good then?” I ask, wondering if it’s a horrible dive. She’s quite classy, so will naturally avoid places like that.

“No, it’s my local and it’s good. I just don’t want people seeing us together in there just yet,” she says opening the door and ushering me out.

I’m not too sure what to make of that and just smile mawkishly to preserve the peace. Without a word I get into the passenger seat of her car which smells like soggy doggy. It seems like she has this all planned. This night is going to be interesting.

Travel Gal drives at breakneck speed through blackened lanes of murky ink that are obviously familiar to her. This reminds me of Pretty Teacher’s driving habits. I resist the urge to turn into a driving instructor. Must preserve the peace if I want my knob polished. I wonder if she swallows?

The quaint pub we end up in is deserted, so we have privacy by the cartload out here. The staff have different English accents, I’m so far from home. The food is surprisingly good, the wine suitable and the conversation sparkling. Travel Gal and I have no problem keeping each other intellectually stimulated, challenged and amused. All through our banter I’m treating our words as foreplay because I know that a woman’s mind needs to be turned on before her body is. I’m as subtle as can be, lacing witticisms with double entendres.

Yes, my highest priority for this encounter is sex. I’m incredibly curious about what happened on our last date which led to her being satisfied a few times but left me befuddled. Does she have an aversion to penises? Are we sexually compatible? These two things I have to know. Of course I want to get to know her better as a person, finding out what makes her tick, seeing if we have relationship potential, but those are secondary in my mind. Will the evening be ending with a long drive back home for me, or am I sleeping on the sofa with the dog’s farts for company? Or is something entirely unexpected going to happen?

Back at her place she sets about her evening routine of seeing to the dog and securing her home. I don’t know what to do with myself so I go upstairs to investigate the bedroom arrangements. We’ve not said a word about if I’d be spending the night but that has been implied, well at least I think it’s been.

The bedroom is something that Beatrix Potter would approve of. Old wooden furniture is in daily use, the bedding and curtains are chintzy. The bed is of the four-poster type of a good height. If I take her from behind then she can hold onto a corner post. I’ve always thought that that’s what those were for.

Travel Gal joins me in the bedroom having brushed her teeth. I’m not 100% sure what to do next, but I know that it’s up to me to initiate what I think she’s expecting. Have I done enough to get her in the mood? Shit, if I get this wrong it’s going to backfire horribly and I’m going to make a fool of myself and be overcome with embarrassment, but I have no choice but to go for it.

I gently pull Travel Gal to me and we begin to kiss. In what must have resembled a scene from The Flash, a flurry of frenetic activity sees clothes go flying around the room. One thing is definite: she fancies me.

Within a minute we’re both naked and she’s lying on her back on the four-poster double bed that dominates the room. I’m going down on her and, for an older woman who told me that she’s been through menopause, she has no problem getting juicy. Travel Gal must be healthy because there’s no funny smell to her natural lubricant; I’ve always appreciated that in a woman.

I introduce a finger to the mix and it finds her g-spot.

“I read up about the g-spot,” she says.

“Oh, really?” Should I stop what I’m doing? Is that her innuendo? I lift my head.

“Yes, I don’t think I’m a g-spot girl. I’m very much a clitoris girl,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Okay, noted,” I respond, releasing her g-spot.

“Stroke my clit gently up and down, not sideways,” she instructs.

That’s what I’m liking about older women: they know what they like and aren’t afraid to ask for it.

Did The Graduate get this degree of instruction from Mrs Robinson? Every woman has her own style or requirement. I’m learning that no two women are the same in bed. The single best thing a man can do in bed with a woman is to pay attention to her needs and preferences. If he doesn’t, a clock somewhere starts ticking. Naturally that works both ways.

I do as instructed and it doesn’t take long before she cums with a suppressed scream…and that sit-ups-like position with her hands behind her head, elbows almost touching so as to hide her face. What the hell is that about? I won’t ask. Okay, I’m going to, just not tonight.

Cuddling with a woman after I’ve made her cum is one of life’s sweet moments for me. That raw vulnerability mixed with trust makes me feel alive, valued and manly. I caress her as she lies against me. Her skin is like velvet and I like stroking her. She likes it too. Most women like to be stroked and not just between the legs.

Travel Gal pushes herself away from me. Going to the loo I suspect. I’m wrong. She starts kissing my face, my throat and shoulders. God, her lips feel wonderful. She’s taking her time about it; I love it when a woman does that. Wait a sec, I didn’t tell her that this is what I like! How does she know?! She doesn’t; it’s what she wants to do.

Oh lordy, have I found someone sexually compatible in Travel Gal? Could I finally get this lucky? After all these months of disappointments, false starts and lies, am I finally being rewarded?

Travel Gal is kissing the inside of my thighs and is working her way up to my groin. Her hair falls playfully onto my skin and that heightens what I’m feeling…heavenly. All my troubles, worries and responsibilities gently fade away as I feel her lips making their inexorable way to my genitals.

I love that feeling of anticipation that builds as a woman’s mouth is heading for my cock. The physical pleasure is obvious, but with me it also comes with a sense of giving that I appreciate. This woman is giving me pleasure, giving me wondrous sensations, giving me what I want and, to an extent, what I need.

Her tongue is warm and slippery as it glides slowly over my testicles. I’m so glad I manscaped down there this morning. The itching next week will be worth it.

Sensually she sucks one testicle into her mouth, swirls her tongue around it…wait, where’d she learn that?!…no woman’s ever done that before!…shut up, lie back and enjoy it, you dumbass. She does the same with my other testicle.

Oh yeah, now we’re getting to the main event. She’s gripped my cock, is holding it upright in front of her face and has begun tenderly licking the shaft like it’s a giant ice cream. Not long now until she’s sucking on the head of my penis. All eight thousand of my nerve endings collected there will be jangling in her mouth and I’m going to enjoy every second of it. Yes, almost there, any second now, all that life-reinforcing warm wonderfullness around my knob…

“Right, that’s enough of that,” Travel Gal suddenly says, letting go of my cock and it flops onto my belly like a dead fish.

What the fuck?!!!


To be continued…

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

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