Date #39 – English Shrink and the psychopath revealed

I feel the need to test my hypothesis about English women being all wrong for me, so I reactivate my dating profiles which results in a flurry of activity at my keyboard. The national newspaper’s dating site reveals to me someone that I find appealing. She’s English and a psychiatrist. This could be interesting.

It’s a rainy Friday night in November as I make my way through the huddled masses of rush-hour commuters. Banter with the English Shrink has been positive and short and after only three emails she agreed to my suggestion to meet up. She lives in my county but has suggested that we meet in London after her work ends. I’ve now been unemployed since August and don’t mind a visit to London for what seems like a promising date.

The English Shrink texts me to say that’s she’s running late and I answer that I’ll grab seats for us at the bar she has suggested meeting in. I find it unusual that a woman has been so emphatic about where we meet, but I go along with it. I’m not the type to sweat the small stuff.

She eventually arrives a few minutes after 6pm and the first impression is a poor one. Her platinum-blonde hair is wild and looks as if it hasn’t seen a brush since breakfast. Her clothes are old and shabby. Her face is far more wrinkled than the solitary photo on her dating profile. Dammit! I forgot my rule about single-photo profiles!

Then she smiles.

Oh my gawd. She has almost black teeth!

She is obviously an ex-smoker. I so hope that my face doesn’t show my feelings. I’m here now, so may as well make the most of this. Who knows, it might get better.

I order her a non-alcoholic drink and we sit side by side at the bar. It’s quite casual sitting like this, not so formal and adversarial as a restaurant table would be. Maybe we’ll end up in a restaurant later? I’ve set the whole night aside for her and wonder if we might catch the same train home as we might be living next to the same trainline.

After the initial chit-chat she launches the first serious question of the evening.

“Do you feel jaded by internet dating?” she asks.

“Umh, I’m inclined to say that I am. There have been times when it has felt like hard work,” I answer truthfully, perhaps too much so.

She says nothing and looks at her drink. Shit, I must remember that I’m talking to a psychiatrist here. Memories of my only date with the German Shrink hurtle forward to the centre of my thoughts. I remember her saying that analysing people was a professional hazard in her private life. Am I being analysed now too?

“How about you?” I ask.

“Yes. I’ve also had my fair share of dates,” she says.

In that moment, for reasons still unknown to me to this day, the date died there and then. The English Shrink’s answers became shorter and her eye contact became sporadic. Conversation became laborious and the atmosphere between us became stultified. What in my mind was promising to be a fancy restaurant for dinner became a Burger King for one on the way home.

At 7pm the English Shrink’s words nearly knock me of my perch that was the bar stool.

“I’m sorry, but I have to get going. I’ve had a long day and tomorrow is another early start for me,” she says.

I’ve learned that when an English person uses those words “early start” it actually means “I would rather be home alone watching shit on television eating crap out of a cardboard container.” Fine, that’s her choice. I’m not particularly taken with her. In fact, I’m disgusted by her teeth. I don’t find her physically attractive at all, more to the contrary.

“Well, we’re both heading for the same train station now, so may I escort you?” I ask, sticking to my unappreciated gentlemanly ways.

“Uh, uh…uh…oh, okay, let’s go,” she says after suspicious hesitation.

We walk and talk as we cross soaked streets, avoiding buses and cars that might splash puddles onto us. I’m going home and I’m just being friendly and civil. I know that we’ll never see each other again and I’m fine with that. Once at the train station that serves our county I continue with my old-fashioned manners.

“May I escort you on the train until my stop?” I offer.

“Uh, uh…uh…no. There’s something else I need to do first,” she says and gives me a polite kiss on my cheek.

I’m speechless, smile a confused smile and watch as she turns away and walks out of the concourse into the darkness outside.

An English shrink could only handle an hour of a date with me. Jeez, what was that about? Am I that repulsive?

I get myself a Whopper meal and sit eating it on the train. My head is spinning, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened there. It took me longer to get to the date than what the date actually lasted for. What did I say or do that was so wrong?

Ah, it must have been my admission that I felt jaded by internet dating. Yes, that must be it. Of course, English Shrink went off extrapolating and analysing all that and must have come up with a conclusion that she didn’t like.

Stupid! There’s something else that I’ve forgotten about. She’s English! One of my reasons for going on this date was to get confirmation of my theory that English women are unsuitable for me. Well, how much more evidence do I need?

It was only when I got home did I realize something else. The date was so short because she had another date to go to! That’s why she walked back out of the station. That’s why she was hesitant about catching a train with me. That’s why she wanted to meet in London and why she specified where to meet because her next date was nearby.

By 8pm I’ve thrown myself down on my sofa. It feels like I’ve hit an all-time low with online dating. It feels like it’s been a big waste of time, energy and money. My opinion of women, English women especially, has hit rock-bottom and is digging it’s way to Siberia where it will no doubt freeze to death after being beaten to a pulp by heartless Russian female prison guards with moustaches because it had committed the heinous crime of arriving without enough money.

Flicking through television channels leads me to an interesting documentary about psychopaths. I think it’s because I’ve just had an encounter with a psychiatrist that this televisual fare appeals to me. ‘Psycho’ is a term we all use, but it’s something I know nothing about. I’ll watch this as a way to distract me from my miserable dating life.

As I sat there watching this show I slowly became cold as blood drains from my upper body. Aspects of psychopathy being detailed were uncomfortably familiar to me. Each trait identified led to a little tick-mark in my head about someone I knew!

To be continued…

Krazy Weekends

Any plans for tonight? Fancy cheering a petite blond up???” is what Krazy Girl’s text message said late on Friday afternoon. I’d spent the week coming to terms with what had happened with Pretty Teacher and my Exgf the previous weekend and mulling over my thoughts about English women. I was also starting to doubt my marketability in the online dating scene; I was feeling low. I knew her message was a booty call and that suited me. I wasn’t in the mood for anything serious and good sex was all I could handle.

I fetched Krazy Girl from her parents place, her childhood home, drove us back to my little shag-pad and she made us a meal that involved me going off to the local supermarket while she worked away in my kitchen. It was as if we were a couple, doing normal coupley things on a Friday night, but I’ve come far enough in my emotional development and knowledge of women to know that this was just a glimpse of the life that I yearn for.

I had it clear in my head not to get my hopes up that a relationship was in the offing. I knew not to talk about anything serious and especially not to mention anything to do with her past or even broach anything that might make her think of her past. She had been unemployed for over six months and was probably mildly depressed because of that and it’s consequences. I had to keep things light and positive and my reward would be a good fucking.

Krazy Girl was not fit for a healthy, loving relationship, she was just too emotionally fucked up for that, courtesy of the never-ending fallout from her failed marriage. Her heart was in chains and these chains were the memories and emotions of her divorce. She was by now perhaps indulging in some self-loathing, so anyone who dared love her was ultimately deemed a fool and eventually made a fool of. I’ve come to realize that for a relationship to work, each person involved must love themselves first, before they can love another. Krazy Girl was operating from a position of emotional weakness not strength. On the back of that emotional fragility no man stood a chance with her and she stood no chance with any man.

It wasn’t long before we were naked and enjoying each other’s flesh. We were in missionary position and it felt fantastic to me, physically and emotionally. Her pussy was a perfect fit for my cock and I was often having to think of my childhood pet dog Rusty dying to distract me from cumming too soon. Hers was the best feeling pussy my cock ever had the pleasure of sliding into. Emotionally this was heavenly because it stroked my ego having my dream woman under me. It also gave me a sense of hope that I am marketable, that I am able to land a woman like this. Yes, it was tempered by knowing that emotionally she will never be mine, she’s just too troubled inside her head and heart to be anybody’s.

As I was heaving into her, she started running her hands over my shoulders and arms, then developed a serious look on her face, as if she was studying something. I’ve given up trying to understand what goes on in her head as well as no longer caring because I know that our future is limited and that this could be my last tango in her pussy.

“You really are pure man, aren’t you?” she said, squeezing one of my biceps as hard as she could.

The fact that my cock was buried deep in her seemed irrelevant, almost as if it wasn’t happening. She was more taken by my physique than what my physique was doing to her. Her remark is typical of the oddity and unpredictability that swims around her.

“Do you like it?” I asked, thrusting as deep as I could. I couldn’t care less what she thought.

“It’s rare,” she wheezed in response to my penetration.

I guess she would know better than me but I had other pressing measures to attend to…like pressing her cervix.

She slipped her arms under my armpits and latched onto my shoulders; I think she could sense that I was getting closer. We’d fucked enough times for her to have noticed that my cock swells to its greatest size in the minute before I cum.

As usual I wasn’t using a condom; I’ve never had a good orgasm using one of those things. That pleasant, familiar purple haze descended over my vision and I came with an almighty blast of sperm firing out of my cock. Krazy Girl clung on tight, her nails boring under my shoulder blades. I don’t know if she enjoys that, but feeling her so tight against me heightened the glorious sensation of my pumping and squirting cum into her.

I would be very surprised if I ever have better sex with anyone else. I can’t think of anybody better to have a dysfunctional relationship with, especially when the sex is so good.

The next morning we fucked furiously again and by lunchtime I was dropping her off around the corner from her parent’s house. I said goodbye not expecting to hear from her again, but I was wrong.

The next Friday at lunchtime I got another plaintive text message from her. By the evening we were sitting in an Italian restaurant then caught a movie afterwards. She kept talking during the movie, not fully understanding the plot-line as much as she didn’t grasp cinema etiquette. I don’t appreciate having popcorn thrown at me by strangers in the dark.

That night we just fell asleep with me wrapped around her, soothing her bruised soul while cupping her breasts. The next morning we were fucking the crazy out of her, or at least attempting to. Was I providing more fuel to the fire that was her psyche? Probably. If she wasn’t doing this with me would she be doing the same with some other guy? Definitely.

Our weekends seemed incomplete if it didn’t involve her being down on her hands and knees, my one hand bunching her golden hair together and pulling back, lifting her chin, while my cock was balls-deep in her pussy, pounding away while the thumb on my other hand was buried deep in her arse. That position, that brutal invasion and total domination provided an unspoken release for her that her body seemed to crave and her soul had to have.

By lunchtime we were saying goodbye at our usual spot. I began thinking that this might become a regular thing. Driving home my mind began to wander over the surface and shape of what was going on between us.

She was using sex as a way of numbing the pain that she felt inside her. The confusion that ruled her mind had become an unbearable burden, something that made her feel powerless. Her riding me cowgirl style, bouncing mindlessly on my cock, made it all feel better, perhaps even made her feel powerful again.

It was so hard for me to have this physically perfect woman lying in my arms, but knowing that we had a short lifespan as lovers before us. I knew it was never going to be more than that. Nevertheless I would love nothing more than to have her turn to me, look me straight in the eyes and say, “I love you” and for it to be more than just a lucid moment, but I knew that that was never going to happen. Never and that was a pity, for both of us.

She was in a psychotic state, in a trance, in an out-of-body dream that was real. She wasn’t emotionally connected to anything other than traumatised feelings. Her eyes would be open but she would be a million miles away from me. It would be fantastic if she were to open her eyes and see me, see who and what she has in front of her. See me for who and what I am, but I know it’s not going to happen any time soon and might never happen. Her pain and damage is deep and she seems to be revelling in it, somewhat addicted to it because of the twisted sense of security it provides, while deriving a perverse power from it too because she can hide behind the victim complex.

No amount of fucking was going to make her feel better. No amount of orgasms was going to make her life better. All that sex did was provide a momentary escape from it all. She was hurting more than me, but as much as I wanted to ease her burden, only she could do so.

One night she told me her ex-husband’s name, so the next day I Googled him and found photos of him. In terms of looks we could be brothers, with me being the taller one. It must have been surreal for her to look at me because she must have seen him.

I would like her to snap out of her self-imposed hubris and be happy, not for my sake, but for hers. She is a good person whom life has been unkind to; she deserves better. However, until that happy day, she seems determined to just call me when she’s down, when she can’t face another night with her parents and needs an emotional boost. I could simply be happy to fuck her when she wants it, but in my heart I want more – I want it all.

Good news! I’ve got a job!” her text message read on a rainy November week-night, only a few days after we had last seen each other.

Congratulations. When do you start?” I replied.

Next week. I’ve also got some bad news. I’m afraid we can’t see each other any more. I need a time out to get my head straight. I hope you understand???

Of course I understand. Feel free to get back to me once the way forward is clear. Good luck!” I answer after a bit of thought, realizing that our time together was up but still leaving the option open to get together another time, under better circumstances.

She didn’t respond and like that she was gone from my life again.

LESSONS LEARNED:If she’s hot and on a dating site, then she’s crazy.

Snow Patrol – Open Your Eyes

Lightning Strikes Thrice

I was expecting to hear from Pretty Teacher on Saturday night as it was her turn to call; she didn’t. On Sunday morning I get the feeling that we won’t be seeing each other. It was noon on Sunday when she called; I wasn’t sure what to expect. The call started out amicably enough but quickly grew serious.

“I’ve been thinking,” she starts out, takes a breath then follows with “and I’ve decided that you’re not right for me.”

It felt like I have been hit by a bolt of lightning.

I really didn’t see this coming. In my guessing about what was bugging her I hadn’t for a moment considered that she was about to dump me. I swallow hard, collect my thoughts, latch onto a notion and begin to speak.

“Do you mind telling me why?” I ask.

“Yes, you’re just too confident,” she replies.

“Sorry, what?!” I stammer.

“You’re the most naturally confident man I’ve ever met. You ooze self-assurance,” she says.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why that’s a problem,” I counter. Is this some lame excuse for something else that she doesn’t want to tell me about, I wonder to myself.

“I’m very close to my family and I don’t think that they’d take to you. You’re just not as humble and quiet like English men,” she answers.

I’m stunned.

“Are you serious?” I blurt out.

“Yes, absolutely. I’m off to have lunch with them now and the thought of taking you with to meet them makes me uncomfortable,” she says.

I know that she thinks the world of her family and there’s nothing wrong with that. I think it’s great that she’s so close to her family because I’ve never known what that’s like. I think it a major factor in a long-term relationship if your other half’s parents like you. My ex-wife’s parents didn’t like me because I wasn’t religious enough for them and it weighed on our marriage.

“Okay, I understand your concern. So are you saying that we have no future together because of a cultural difference?” I ask.

“I suppose putting that it way, well, the answer’s a yes, I guess,” she says.

I’m stunned again. Then my fledgling sense of paranoia kicks in, spiced up with a sense of guilt that probably helped it to the surface of my psyche. I have been wondering about something.

“Tell me, why did you call me so late on Wednesday afternoon?” I ask, suspicious that she might have seen someone herself that day and that’s the real reason we’re having this chat. If that’s the case then I’d feel a whole better about things.

“Well if you must know, I spent the entire time with my friends discussing you and what I should do about you,” she answers with a cold bluntness that I don’t like.

So Pretty Teacher and her friends sat decorating that Christmas tree while discussing me. Not one of them have even seen me, let alone spoken to me. All they had to go on was what Pretty Teacher chose to tell them, that committee of overly-protective friends. What fun they must have had. They took turns stabbing my character with their flaming tongues, while my cock was stabbing Krazy Girl. Now I’m glad I was doing the latter, so very glad.

I’m not going to ask what she got up to last night, there’s no point and I now really don’t care. We politely end the call by wishing each other well for the future.

I feel disappointed that things with Pretty Teacher have turned out like this. Not seeing her final move tells me that I still have much to learn. I sit pontificating all that I’ve just heard. I appreciate her honesty, as uncomfortable as it feels, but the truth apparently sets us free. Free to do what exactly? I feel bewildered by Pretty Teacher, but now for different reasons.

Less than an hour later my phone rings again. This time it is my Exgf. Time for a booty call? I could do with a bit of physical pampering right now. She does give a good blowie. After initial polite chit-chat it turns out that my Exgf has other ideas.

“Well, I’ve been thinking…” she begins.

Hang on, I’ve heard that somewhere else today.

“Our little arrangement has now come to an end. No more fuckbuddies, you and I, mister,” she says emphatically, as if chastising a child.

Again I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning. I also didn’t see this coming, well, not so soon and not like this.

“Huh?” is the best I can say. Classy, I know.

“Yes, we can only be friends from now on,” she states.

“What’s brought this on?” I ask, curious about her reasoning.

“Sally says that I’ve been a fool for letting you date other women while shagging me. I agree with her,” she answers.

Humph. Women advising each other about me never ends well. Are there voodoo dolls of me in the stores?

I know my Exgf, once her mind’s made up there’s no changing it. In the early days of our relationship I thought that a commendable trait but in the latter years it became a pain in the backside. I have to accept her decision, which I’m fine with because I knew our fuckbuddy days would come to an end one day. I was struggling to think of a way to engineer a soft landing to end it without there being any negative fallout for either of us. This outcome suits us both. We make small-talk and end the call amicably, agreeing to keep in touch, but only as friends.

I can’t believe that I’ve had these two conversations less than an hour apart. I sometimes get the feeling that I’m living life according to someone else’s script. What’s the chances of these two calls happening in such short order and having the same negative result for me?

Life wasn’t done with me there though.

About an hour later my phone rings again and I’m reluctant to even look to see who it is. Ah, it’s my female friend who introduced me to her friend that I shall forever more think of as The Bitch. Yes, I’ll take her call, chatting to her will cheer me up.

I tell her about my conversation with Pretty Teacher but mention nothing about my Exgf. I was expecting some sympathy and disparaging remarks directed at Pretty Teacher, you know, snide comments questioning her sanity. Nope, not what I got.

“Well, it’s not just that. You can be too much of a gentleman and English women can find that controlling or overbearing,” she says.

Too much of a gentleman?! Is that possible?

It feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach by a lightning fast blow from Mike Tyson.

I pride myself in my old-fashioned gentlemanly ways. I think it’s charming and respectful. I don’t get upset with my friend because I value her being so frank with me. The truth is sometimes a difficult pill to swallow. My friend and I discuss the issue at length and it becomes clear to me what Pretty Teacher was saying about a cultural difference.

After that third call I sit there thinking things over, trying to see matters from a different perspective, struggling to grasp a reality that I was blind to. Some things from my recent dating experiences start to make sense.

The Model disappeared suddenly, as did Miss Indecisive. Local Lady and I just didn’t hit it off, which surprised me after good build-up we had, but that happened several times with other dates. Diving Dame had made a comment about “too much chivalry”. Wild Child was an odd experience; it felt like there was barrier between us at times. Country Girl was a big disappointment after a promising start, which is also true of Krazy Girl. Deranged Dater was a truly strange date. Lusty Lass was another weirdo. Musician Gal was an even bigger disappointment; that weekend together still rankles. The Wild Animal Tickler will one day win prizes for her cookiness. The Bitch was the worst date of them all by far.

What do all of these women have in common?

They’re all English.

My worst dating experiences were all with English women. Slightly more than half my dates have been with English women and in the main have been disappointing. Why did I not notice this earlier?! Hell, my Exgf is English. To be fair, some of my best dates and experiences were with English women. Tech Titan and Sweet Thing are English. However, seen on balance, almost all my bad dates and only a small number of my positive dating experiences were with English women.

The vast majority of my best dating experiences were with women from Eastern Europe. Baltic Babe stole my heart. Fitness Freak was great fun. The Hirsute Russian looked good until I spotted the caterpillar on her top lip. The Pretty Pole and the Randy Russian were good experiences. On the negative side of the balance sheet there was only the Picky Pole.

Seen statistically, I shouldn’t bother with English women any more and should direct my efforts at women from behind the former Iron Curtain. But why is this? I think about this and I realize that cultural affinity involves ideas of gender roles. We all are imbued with expectations about important topics that make-up this constantly evolving jigsaw puzzle called ‘Life’. Eastern European women expect a man to behave as I do, by way of treating them like a lady. English women wanted to be treated as an equal, like one of the guys. Feminism took root in the UK in the 1960s and it has had its social impact. I’m from a culture where feminism was only whispered of. My mindset about women and accompanying behaviour is at odds with English women’s expectations.

From my travels around our great planet, I have found myself better able to make friends with men from the former English-speaking British colonies. I include the USA in that. I also provide a proviso by way of especially getting along with men from rural areas and that also applies to non-English-speaking cultures too. Now that doesn’t make me a farmboy, but rather more of an old-fashioned man, never to mistaken for a metro-sexual. It seems to me that urban men have been emasculated and that feminism has overpowered chivalry.

I say what I mean and I mean what I say. People always know where they stand with me. I’m realizing that English people find that makes them uncomfortable. They have a preference for coating everything in layers of sugar that I find sickening. I’m not brash, but I am open. I’m as tactful and diplomatic as any English person, but I have drive. That also makes some people uncomfortable. I wasn’t brought up with a post-colonial sense of guilt that holds me back. I go for what I want, but I don’t hurt anyone in the process. My English peers seem overcome with self-doubt and riven with indecision by comparison. I don’t think of myself as an alpha-male, but I have often been called as such. I think of myself as more of a go-getter. It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that I have very few male friends who are English.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I’m not bashing England. My adoptive country has been very kind to me and I am grateful for what I have experienced here. There are many commendable features about life in the UK. It’s just that it is now clear to me that English women and I have an unlikely romantic future. I might be in the wrong country to find The One. Fortunately I have London on my doorstep and it’s the most cosmopolitan city in the world. She has to be in this seething, squirming anthill of humanity.

Until I find Her, I ride alone…so fucking alone.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) By the end of the third date it’s going well, or it’s not going to go well after that. 2) English women are not for me. 3) Women are easily influenced by their female friends. 4) Eastern European women and I are a better match. 5) It’s apparently possible to be too much of a gentleman.

Lee Clayton – I ride alone

Pretty guilty date

My quickie with Krazy Girl wasn’t as satisfying as I had hoped for, that compounds my sense of nervousness and guilt as I arrive at Pretty Teacher’s place. Will she be able to sense that I’ve been a naughty boy or is she too absorbed by whatever the hell is going on in her head?

We politely kiss hello as her front door, but all I can think of is are there are bite marks or signs of kissing on my face or neck? Have I overdone it with the deodorant or isn’t there enough? Do I look guilty?

Pretty Teacher invites me inside and she leads me to the lounge. Is this the part where she sits me done and asks me what I’ve been up to? Or is this when she has a heart-to-heart with me about whatever is bugging her?

“Look at what my friends and I did today,” she says pointing at a freshly decorated Christmas tree that occupies a window bay.

It’s only mid-November, a bit early for a tree to be going up, but I say nothing. Instead I make approving sounds and Pretty Teacher beams her delight. She seems in a better mood today. I might just get away with this.

“C’mon, lets go to my favourite Thai restaurant,” she says grabbing her jacket.

I know not to quibble as we walk to her car. She always wants to drive, even though she’s a bad driver. That might take some getting used to. It isn’t a surprise to me either that we head for the same town we’ve always gone to, even though there are several others equidistant. She does like to be in control and for things to be predictable it seems.

The banter as we drive is okay, with her telling me about her morning that became an afternoon too with her friends. I consider her tone and demeanour neutral. We drive up an empty street where the restaurant is but Pretty Teacher can’t make up her mind where to park. As if it makes any difference. Eventually she chooses a spot. Memories of Miss Indecisive come flooding back. It seems I really am getting to see similar personality types on the dating scene.

The Thai restaurant is empty and we have a choice of tables. There are times when I want to be more assertive and do the choosing and this is one of those times because, driven by my sense of guilt, I let Pretty Teacher decide where we should sit. After some umming and ahhing she chooses a table, but hardly are we seated when she says another table is better and we move there.

Conversation now dries up while we inspect the menu. I try my best to get conversation flowing, hoping that it will be like our first date again, but she’s adopted her iceberg routine again. Why am I bothering? Well, I want a relationship, not a fuckbuddy thing like I have with my Exgf and Krazy Girl. I’m hoping that things between Pretty Teacher and I flourish into a wonderful romance, that becomes a life-long lasting love.

It’s important to have dreams and goals, things that make us get up every day, things that give us pleasure, things that make life worthwhile.

Right now Pretty Teacher is not giving me any kind of pleasure. She’s sitting there staring at me, scrutinising me. Has she spotted something? Is there lipstick on my collar? Have I been rumbled?

With merciful timing a waiter arrives to take our order. Pretty Teacher can’t make up her mind about what to eat, so before she does I give the waiter my order. I usually wait for the lady to order first, but the waiter starts to look bored and I’m beginning to think that Pretty Teacher is an annoying ditherer. She might be one of those people who stands in a queue in a fast-food outlet but still don’t know what they want by the time they get to the counter.

Conversation is as dry as the Sahara until our food arrives. We sit eating in stony silence. Fuck, this is hard work. I can only guess that she has spotted something incriminating on me and now she’s deciding how to broach the subject. I can see that it is tricky for her if she has. You don’t want to accuse someone you’re dating of fucking around because you could be wrong and then unnecessary damage has been done.

Dessert is eaten in silence as well. There’s still nobody else in the restaurant and the silence is echoing off the walls. It’s starting to feel like I’m a prisoner in a holding cell waiting to hear judgement, followed by sentencing. She gets out her phone and plays some online scrabble. Or is she texting a friend her suspicion, asking what to do? What if she does confront me, accuse me? Me being me I’ll probably confess to my infidelity. I’m a terrible liar; my face was not made for poker, but more for radio.

Out of guilt I pay the bill, Pretty Teacher offers to pay her half but I dismiss her offer with a shake of my head and a smile. We walk back to her car, it’s chilly tonight so I offer her my jacket, which she declines. Once at the car I open her door for her, to which she just smiles.

As we drive out of the deserted town a drunk woman staggers out of a pub. She lurches into the road a few yards in front of us. Pretty Teacher slams on her brakes and we skid to a halt. The drunk stops, turns to us, raises an upturned hand and extends her middle finger.

Pretty Teacher goes berserk! She starts screaming and swearing at the other woman who probably can’t hear her. I’ve never heard a woman swear like that before and I’m shocked. The drunk staggers off, but Pretty Teacher keeps hurling verbal abuse after her. An angry foot hits the accelerator and we speed off in to the darkness.

Hmm, maybe she’s not as classy as I would like. She seems quick to anger and her knowledge of crude swearing would impress a battle-hardened soldier. My opinion of her takes a turn for the worse, but I can’t be too hypocritical because if she knew what I was up to hours earlier…

We sit in silence as she drives. I sense that she’s fuming to herself about the drunk, which suits me fine because it takes the invisible spotlight off me for a while. I sit thinking about what happens next. Is she hoping/needing/wanting to get physical with me once we’re at her place? I’m not really in the mood, not because I’ve just shagged Krazy Girl, but more because I’m not desirous of Pretty Teacher. Her shit behaviour and uncouth outburst has put me off her somewhat. However, if she does want to fuck then I’ll oblige, but I need to down the purple helper I have in my jacket pocket first and give it half an hour to kick in.

Back at her place she makes me a coffee. Shall I take the Viagra now? I decide not to because I first want some signs that she wants whoopee. Just like last time I was here we sit side by side on her sofa, but this time we stare at the Christmas tree. Pretty Teacher seems more interested in it than she is in me. We sit with empty mugs in our laps, not talking. Any minute now she’s going to say something important.

“It’s been a long day for me and I have a stonking headache. Shall we call it a night?” she eventually says.

I’m not entirely sure what the last part means because it’s ambiguous to me. Am I sleeping over or not?

“So am I sleeping over?” I ask.

“I’m afraid not,” she says with a dead-pan look on her face.

“Okay, not a problem,” I say as I get up. A sense of deja vu creeps in. Didn’t we have this conversation the last time I was here?

Pretty Teacher stands next to me as I put my jacket on. Her arms are folded. I don’t give up easily, it’s something of a character flaw I’m starting to think.

“How about you come visit me on Sunday?” I suggest.

“Okay, we can talk about it tomorrow night,” she answers.

I drive home feeling conflicted. Yet again I’m angry and frustrated at her attitude towards me. I’m also unimpressed by her outburst at the drunk; she was exhibiting quite low-class behaviour during that incident. I feel guilty and ashamed for having fucked Krazy Girl earlier in the day. That frolic has left me feeling confused because Krazy Girl might have another guy on the go herself, that’s what I’ve deduced from her bruises.

I don’t know what to make of all this.

Looking back on it now, there was no way I could have predicted what happened next.

Another guy and paranoia

I’ve never been inside Krazy Girl’s parent’s home; I’ve always been made to hide in my car around the corner. Today I get to go inside and fuck her there. I wonder where her parents are or is she now so horny that in teenager-style she wants me to fuck her while they’re in the home? The more daring the sex, the more she likes it. As I knock on the door I’m filled with feelings of shame because I know that Pretty Teacher might be trying to call me as she has promised but I’ve now switched my phone off.

Krazy Girl comes to the door and greets me like I’m a friend returning a bowl of sugar. She leads me to the kitchen and I’m shocked at how shabby this home is. All the furnishings are from the 1970s and it smells musty, like an old-age home. It’s an end-of-terrace, double-storeyed dwelling with the bedrooms upstairs. No wonder she didn’t pull up her nose the first time she saw my place.

“So where are your folks?” I ask, concerned about the obvious.

“They’re at a funeral, then they’re going to the wake afterwards, but I don’t really know when they’ll be back, so we’ll have to be quick,” she says with a pained expression on her face.

Be quick? That suits me just fine. I want to splash and dash too.

“I’m going to have a quick shower. Why don’t you go upstairs to my room? It’s the only one on the left as you get to the top,” she gestures while heading off to what I surmise is the bathroom.

I get to the landing and notice three doorways, but none of them have doors, they only have curtains that are about four inches above the floor. Did her parents really bring up three kids in this house like this? Then I remember that Krazy Girl’s brother had hung himself in one of these rooms and that she was the one to find him first. I can’t imagine how she feels about having to move back here after losing her job earlier this year. I feel sorry for her. Her tortured, twisted heart and emotionally befuddled state has some extenuating circumstances.

Walking into her room I almost stumble over cardboard boxes that look strangely familiar. Ah, I had last seen them in her place, but now they’re all stacked up here. There’s no sign of a wardrobe for her clothes, just a series of suitcases strategically placed on top of boxes. Her prize cat is sitting imperiously on top of pillows on her bed; it blinks at me. The only free floor-space leads from the bed to the doorway; it’s so cramped in here.

Krazy Girl joins me, a towel wrapped around her. She pulls that off and starts rubbing her hair dry. I stand and watch as her breasts wobble. My eyes wonder up and down her body, as if it was the first time I’ve seen it. Ridiculous considering that we got carnal less than 48 hours ago.

She tosses the towel aside and starts undressing me. When she does know what she wants it’s a very impressive sight. I like the assertive her; I find it quite sexy. She lets my clothes fall to the floor, somewhat to my annoyance because I need to put those back on later and make my way over to Pretty Teacher’s, so they need to look fresh.

As she gets me naked, I notice a couple of bruises on her thighs, not ones which indicate an accident but several deliberate acts by someone. They weren’t there on Monday. Has she been seeing another guy? We saw each other on Monday and today is Wednesday, so what did she get up to yesterday?

“Where do those bruises come from?” I ask, expecting to hear a lie.

“Oh, that’s from my gym. I tried a bit of kick-boxing,” she says after a split second of thinking.

It was the “oh” that confirms her lie to me. Whenever I knew that she was telling a lie in the past, it also began with that nonchalant “oh”. Has she been fucking some other guy and he didn’t satisfy her, that’s why she put out a booty call to me? She knew I’d satisfy her, give her what she wanted, always have, possibly might always be able to.

My mind goes into overdrive, thoughts of deceit and incessant lies fill the vacuum between my ears. I start to doubt myself. Has all the experiences of late twisted my perception of things to such an extent that I’m becoming paranoid? Perhaps, but I need to know more to make certain.

“I thought you said you had given up your gym membership because you couldn’t afford it?” I probe. The thing about lies is that one begets another.

“Oh, I got a day pass,” she answers after another second of contemplation. Day passes at gyms don’t come with sessions to kick-boxing. The little liar, I’m going to fuck her so hard. I become angry, but try my damnedest to not let it show. I decide to transmute my feelings into actions.

I don’t say another word and don’t even bother kissing her to kick things off. I just put a hand through her hair, cup the back of her head and gently pull her face down to my cock which she instantly takes in her mouth, like a good little cock-sucking slut should.

Krazy Girl sucks away on my cock while my brain continues to ricochet around inside my skull, convulsing with negative ideas at the speed of thought. What if I’m wrong and she’s telling the truth? Am I becoming paranoid about every interaction with a woman? Am I going crazy? Is Krazy Girl making me crazy?

All that women seem to do to me is fuck me around!

Pretty Teacher is fucking me around. Krazy Girl might be fucking around. Now I’m fucking around too.

I become filled with a sense of rage that makes my blood boil. All that that serves to do is to make my cock bigger and harder. I look down to see Krazy Girl is now seated on the edge of her bed and is happily sucking away on my now fully erect cock. Her eyes are closed and she has a serene look on her face. It seems she’s in a cocknotic state.

Suddenly she stops, stands up, spins around and climbs onto her bed. She assumes doggy-style position and reaches back with one hand, pulling a buttock askance, inviting me to penetrate her. Does she want both holes drilled? My rage is such that ramming my cock into her pussy is an instinctual thing to do.

Her pussy is slippery, which surprises me considering the lack of foreplay. Ah, she’s horny, probably woke up wet this morning. Maybe the sense of urgency, the danger, is a turn-on for her? She wants it hard, fast and rough, I guess. Okay, let’s find out.

I suck on one of my thumbs and slide it gently up her arse. Krazy Girl doesn’t make a sound, nor move or offer any kind of reaction to what I just did. Yep, she’s totally turned on and anything goes now.

I wriggle my thumb around in her arse, my cock plunging into her wet pussy as she pulls the window-blind back with one hand and peers out at the street, looking for signs of her parents returning early. She is so wet that the squelching sound as I force my cock in her probably has some of her juices squirting out as my cock goes in. I don’t look down to check as I take this spectacle in. I love having my way with a woman like this, especially one as big-breasted as Krazy Girl. Her tits are swaying all over the place and I’m mesmerised by them like a puppy watching a kitten.

Her focus is entirely on the street outside, oblivious to my thumb flailing around in her arse and the tip of my cock hitting her cervix. I couldn’t be any deeper in her holes and she doesn’t mind at all. I think it’s what she wanted, to feel used, to feel degraded; it’s all in keeping with her own self-image issues.

She is just a piece of fuckmeat to meet, no longer someone to be loved or cherished. She was beyond redemption and only good for being my sex toy. She is treating me in the same way; her primary interest is my cock, plain and simple. We’re using each other and neither one cares.

The clarity of this insight makes the whole thing uncomplicated for me. It sets me free to enjoy myself, to feed my carnal needs, unencumbered by unnecessary, complicating emotions. It is pure fucking, nothing more, nothing less…and it feels good.

God, her holes feel amazing, her skin is flawless and her tits perfect. She has the face of an angel. I’m in heaven. I know that below her surface dark demons pervade, but that doesn’t matter right now.

Krazy Girl starts making sounds, so I look down and realize that she’s getting closer to cumming. With my free hand I bunch as much of her lustrous golden-blonde hair up as I can and I pull back initially gently, then forcefully. My hips go as fast as they can for as long as they can while I hold her like this, on the hook. Her shoulders start making strange movements as she cums. She lets of an unnatural sound, like an angry spirit being exorcised from her body might sound.

Her arms collapse and I have to let go of her hair. I keep fucking her pussy with my thumb up her bum while she lies slumped and panting. Shall I put my cock in her arse? I reckon she’ll let me. However, I don’t want to take too many chances with her. Again I’m in danger because I’m not wearing a condom. Anal would be going too far. Before my internal debate resolves itself I feel that I’m about to cum.

“Where do you want my cum?” I ask.

“Wherever you want. I don’t care,” she answers.

“Roll onto your back,” I instruct, pulling my appendages out of her holes.

Krazy Girl slumps over onto her side, then flattens herself out, her eyes closed and breathing heavily through her nose. I’m in an aggressive frame of mind, so I direct my cock at her face. It takes just two tugs before my cum explodes out of my cock and goes flying, most of it landing on her face. She barely flinches nor makes any kind of sound and just keeps her eyes closed. Obviously she’s used to this.

A few more tugs and I’m empty. Krazy Girl still has her eyes closed, but opens her mouth and her little tongue makes an appearance. It roams around the perimeter of her mouth, collecting whatever semen it can find before she withdraws it to swallow whatever it has found.

Only then do I notice that her cat has been sitting there watching us the whole time. I don’t think I’ll ever like or even get used to that, being watched by a pet while having sex.

“I’ll go shower again,” she says, getting up and walking off without making eye contact with me.

That was damn intense and I feel electrified. Still, this all feels so unnatural to me. Thoughts of Pretty Teacher spring up in my mind. I get dressed as quickly as I can before switching my phone on. It’s now almost four o’clock. I see that she has called, but only five minutes ago and has left a message. In a thief-like fashion while Krazy Girl showers I listen to her message in which she simply asks for me to call her back. I need to get out of here, pronto. I switch my phone off and hide it in my pocket.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t have my parents catching you here,” Krazy Girl says as she comes up the stairs.

“I understand. I’ll leave now,” I say, trying to sound as neutral as possible. This sneaking around thing doesn’t come naturally to me.

We kiss politely before I slip out the front door. As I walk to my car my inner dialogue resumes.

If she is seeing another man, then I’m ‘the bit on the side’, I’m now somebody else’s ‘other guy’. I don’t like how that makes me feel. This whole situation is all so wrong for me. If I never see Krazy Girl again it won’t bother me.

Once in my car where it is quiet I call Pretty Teacher and she apologizes for calling so much later than she had promised. I make nothing of it, largely because I’m starting to feel guilty again. We agree for me to be at hers in the next hour so that we can have an early-ish meal. I’m not too sure what to make of that. What does she have planned?

I realise that I should have showered at Krazy Girl’s to get her scent and the smell of sex off me. As a precaution, before leaving home, I had put a small can of deodorant and face wipes in my glove compartment. I get to work using them, hoping to hide my sins. I nearly gas myself in my car, such is my level of concern. Ever practical, I’ve also brought along a little purple helper, just in case I need to satisfy Pretty Teacher too. I’m not counting on that happening because everything is so uncertain with her.

One thing is for certain, I need to calm down, get my head straight and go visit Pretty Teacher. My emotions are running quite high, am I going to be able to not let anything slip about this afternoon? Will she smell it on me?

Rupert Holmes – Him

What to do a.k.a. Oh, F*CK!

I feel as guilty as hell for having fucked Krazy Girl while hoping for a relationship with Pretty Teacher, but that feeling only lasts until the evening when I speak to the latter again. I take a deep breath before phoning her; will she ask me about my day and I’ll have to lie? Her attitude on the phone is frosty, aloof and disinterested. I’m not going to demean myself by asking her what the matter is; it might seem like grovelling. The call ends with her promising to phone me on Wednesday by noon with details about our date that night.

After the call I sit there trying to figure out what is going on with her unpleasant attitude towards me. I did phone her the day after we had sex, not doing so is a big issue to a woman, so I got that right. Maybe she was expecting more from me the next time we saw each other? I know! Chocolate. I didn’t bring her chocolate. I’ve heard good things about what that stuff does to women.

If a woman is upset, throw chocolate

If a woman is upset, throw chocolate

No, that’s just silly. If she’s so easily upset by such a trivial omission then she’s not The One for me. Wait, maybe it’s not me. Of course, it could be that time of the month! Why didn’t I think of that sooner? My Exgf become a bitch from hell when she was on her period. Perhaps Pretty Teacher is PMS’ing? I can’t ask her that; that would be bad.

Girlfriend upset because of period, PMS.

Girlfriend upset because of period, PMS.

Somehow I don’t get the feeling that that’s the issue here either. There’s something else going on but I just can’t figure it out. There are so many things that could be causing her behaviour, vexing her that I don’t know where to begin.

Why could my girlfriend be upset?

Why could my girlfriend be upset?

I sometimes think I’ll never know how to keep a woman happy. I wonder if there is a formula for doing so somewhere out there that I’m just not aware of? It would be nice if someone were to be kind enough to clue me in because this women-dating-relationship thing is such hard work.

How to keep a woman happy.

How to keep a woman happy.

Perhaps there’s a book that I need to read? Women seem to put a lot of faith in these self-help, gender differences, relationship guides type of books and magazine articles. I remember my ex-wife being an avid fan of ‘Men are from Mars’ – wow, that book lead to a lot of arguments. There must be one for men to help them understand women?

Understanding women

Understanding women

Or is it simply a case of her showing me her true colours? I think everybody puts on their best behaviour in the early days of dating someone but it’s only so long before the real person comes to the fore. Is she a Misery perhaps? Is this why she’s single?

Woman shows her true colours.

Woman shows her true colours.

Maybe she’s a control freak and into mind games? Is she testing me so as to see how I deal with this situation? That’s a dangerous game to play with me. I don’t like it and I have no problem meeting women. Granted some of them are seriously messed up in their heads and use their personalities as contraceptives. I think the way to beat someone playing mind games…is to not play.

Women and mind games

Women and mind games

Pretty Teacher phones me on Tuesday night and has very little to say for herself. I have to make all the effort to keep conversation going. The only thing that animates her is tomorrow’s get-together with all her friends at her place. She promises again to phone me afterwards and no later than noon. Then the conversation becomes hard work again and I can’t wait to get off the phone. It shouldn’t be this difficult.

It’s now noon on Wednesday and Pretty Teacher hasn’t called. I’m the type of person to always do as I promise and I value that in my significant other. She was so emphatic about calling by noon that I can’t help but wonder if there’s something else going on. What do I do? A sense of bewilderment stirs in me, then followed by frustration that leads to anger. I’m seething by one o’clock as I sit eating my lunch. Finally my phone comes to life.

It’s a text message…

From Krazy Girl…

I’m still so horny. Can you come over?

Holy shit!

I don’t believe this. What do I do? Time is of the essence here; I need to make a decision quickly.

I’d love to have sex with Krazy Girl again, but I want to have a proper relationship and Pretty Teacher has seemed like a good prospect. I can’t go off and fuck one woman then have dinner with another…who might be expecting sex afterwards. Or can I?

Doing that would be so wrong in my book; it reeks of infidelity. How can I start a real relationship with Pretty Teacher while fucking Krazy Girl behind her back? I’d be the most guilt-ridden non-Catholic in existence. That’s not who I am nor what I’m about. I’m a decent man imbued with a sense of decency and honour that I believe has served me well in life. I’ve never done anything like this before and under these circumstances I’m struggling to discern wrong from right here.

In my head I hear the words of my friend, Vicious Vic, who is the most amoral man I know. We’re at polar extremes in morality and thus we entertain each other. His words are, “Who’s going to know? Go’on son, have some fun!”

I can see the case for servicing Krazy Girl and then taking my chances with Pretty Teacher. The latter’s behaviour has been disappointing and there’s no reason to believe things are going to rebound and hit the heights that I hope for. I’m not saying that she deserves to have me philandering, but I also don’t deserve her attitude. At the moment my strongest feeling towards her is one of confusion, closely followed by frustration.

There is also the practical matter of sex. As a younger man I could easily have rampant sex three times a day. I remember my ex-wife complaining once in our early days by saying, “What have I got myself into?” Now I’m in my early forties and just once a day is all I need. If I exhaust myself with Krazy Girl will I be able to satisfy Pretty Teacher mere hours later? I don’t know. With my luck the Dating Gods will decree that both these women be horny on this solemn day.

If I turn down Krazy Girl I’ll probably never hear from her again. However, I wasn’t expecting her appearance today either, so there’s no telling with her, but I know it’ll end abruptly with her no matter what. The situation with Pretty Teacher is out of my control because there’s no guessing what’s going on in her head. She now feels just as unpredictable.

I mull over the pros and cons, analyse the scenarios and come up with the following. It isn’t my highest priority, but good sex with Krazy Girl is a sure thing. I’d like to keep that option open if things with Pretty Teacher peter out. Matters with the latter feel like they’re a 50/50 at the moment, things can go either way. If I don’t shag Krazy Girl she’s gone from the scene for sure, but then I’m left with a big unknown outcome with Pretty Teacher. I could lose both of them within days.

Vicious Vic wins. I decide to put my morals aside, have some fun with a certainty and take my chances with the other uncertainty. I’m going to fuck Krazy Girl and then visit Pretty Teacher, possibly shagging her too. This is new ground for me, dangerous and exciting, wrong by my former standards. I feel like such a cheat, but I’m going to do this anyway.

I text back to Krazy Girl, “I’ll be there in an hour.

How is this going to turn out?

Bryan Adams – Run To You

Urgent sex

I know she won’t be on the scene for long so I have a small window of opportunity to do as I please with her. I especially want to get video footage of me fucking her in the arse; images to complement my memories of our only anal encounter. Pretty Teacher’s bewildering attitude on our last date has left me in a tailspin where she is concerned. It feels like we’ve hit an invisible wall, so indulging in the best sex I’ve ever known is relatively guilt-free, a bit like a diet cola.

At 9am Krazy Girl is at my front door. She is very well dressed, wearing heavy make-up, as if she is going to a job interview. Is that the lie she told her parents so that she can use her father’s car so early in the morning? Probably, but it doesn’t matter, because she is here to get her holes drilled by my cock and I’m looking forward to obliging her. She is still the best fuck of my life, so I know it’s going to be good.

We greet politely, but no kiss. She comes inside as if she belongs in my home, takes her jacket off and goes to my hallway cupboard where my Winter gear is kept. She remembers well and in a very familiar fashion, as if she has done it countless times, hangs her jacket up. As she does this I’m looking at her body, noticing that she seems to have put some weight on. Her tits are going to be even bigger than before, more than an e-cup now, I think to myself. I know not to get into a serious conversation with her because all I’ll get in return is emotional vomit.

Krazy Girl starts saying something trivial as I step forward to give her one of my slow, gentle kisses that make her knees go weak and her pussy get wet. I cup her face with my hands and keep my lips on hers, as gently as I can, teasing with them, waiting for her to start using her tongue which I know is the signal that she is getting turned on.

She really is horny because it is only a matter of seconds before her slippery little tongue is in my mouth, searching for my tongue. I feel her body rise as she stands on the tips of her toes, our tongues entwining, her breathing growing faster, faster than my cock is hardening. I had almost forgotten how our kissing turned even me on, almost as much as it did her. It’s rare for kisses to have that effect on me.

I drop my hands from her face and slide them down her body, being careful not to touch her breasts. As much as she likes me playing with them, I wanted to build the anticipation in her body, even in excess of what is obvioulsy already there. She can’t have been fucked in a while, given the noises she is letting off, but I have no doubt that a horny little slut like her has been with at least one other guy after me, if not more. She needs sex more than I do; I’ve never met a woman with a sex-drive like hers.

Perhaps since me she has taken on two or more cocks at once – taking a ‘dp’ (double penetration), one cock in her pussy and another in her arse at the same time. Perhaps she had been ‘airtight’ – a ‘dp’ with a third cock in her mouth. I could just see her saying “naughty”, her code word for enjoyment, as all three cocks started cumming in all her holes at the same time. Yes, she’d enjoy that, feeling hot cum in her mouth, pussy and arse at the same time, as it started to drip out, especially out of her gaping arse. The arse that I already had once before the pleasure of fucking until she couldn’t take it any more.

Her innocent Good-Girl routine doesn’t impress me any more, I know what she’s about. I’m not labouring under any illusion that this is the start of a new romantic liaison between us; this is just sex. Frenetic, impulsive, unfettered, urgent sex. That’s all she wants and that’s all she has to offer. In her current emotional state it’s all she’s good for.

In the blink of an eye we’re in my lounge. Krazy Girl is on her haunches, her back is resting against the rear of my sofa and my cock is in her mouth. I’ve never seen a woman get my cock out and start sucking on it so quickly. Has she been thinking about this moment?

“Have you missed my cock?” I ask.

“Yes, and this time I’m not trading him in,” she says before swallowing as much of my cock as her mouth can take.

That remark confirms to me that earlier in the year, when we had first met, there was another man on the scene and she chose to run with him. The truth always comes out, usually at the worst opportune time and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool. Krazy Girl is such a fool, but for the next little while, she’s my fool.

“Lie on the sofa,” she instructs.

It’s not normal in my world for a woman to take the lead in the proverbial bedroom, but with Krazy Girl I don’t mind because I’m keen and curious to know what she has planned. For a woman ten years my junior she has skills, skills that I don’t want to think about how and where she got them.

I do as I’m told while Krazy Girl stands in front me, undressing herself with an almost evil look on her face. A disturbingly demonic look in her eyes makes me wonder what she’s thinking. She strips down to a sultry black bra and panties with suspenders holding her black pantihose just above the knee. She looks stunning. She is easily the most sensual, desirable woman I have ever seen in the flesh. Yes, she’s carrying a bit more weight than six months ago when I last fucked her, but she’s still totally sexy!

“Wait, I want to film this,” I say, beginning to get up, my cock flopping out of my trousers.

“No, we’re not doing anything like that! You just lie back!” she barks.

I’m not about to get into an argument when I have all this on offer. I know what’s good for me, so I lie back. I have to forget about videoing anything; my memory will have to suffice.

Krazy Girl pulls her panties aside as she straddles me, slowly lowering her pussy onto my cock that she expertly grabs. She’s still got that strange look in her eyes, as if this is the most important thing she has ever done. Her pussy is gloriously warm and wet as she slides onto my dick. She lets off a satisfied gasp and throws her head back. Krazy Girl closes her eyes, swallows hard, then raises her head and looks me in the eye again. Slowly she starts lifting and lowering herself onto my cock, biting her lower lip painfully as she does so.

We don’t talk because we don’t need to; our bodies are doing the talking. I decide to let my fingers do the walking, so I reach up and pull her bra straps down onto her puny biceps. I let them dangle there for a moment as I take in the sight that is Krazy Girl enthralled on my cock. She was dickmatized: only interested in what my cock could do for her. Anything I said or did would be irrelevant or irritating. All she wants is my cock. It’s as simple as that.

I reach up and pull her bra-cups down, letting her perfect breasts tumble out. Cupping them with my warm hands makes Krazy Girl let off an approving sound. It is chilly November and I am unusually warm-blooded; several women have enjoyed sleeping next to me…so that they can defrost their feet.

Krazy girl starts speeding up her motion and lowers herself totally onto my crotch area. I’m still fully dressed, how is my belt and zipper not hurting her? Maybe they are and she likes it? She does have a pleasure-pain thing going on in that mixed up head of hers. She grinds her pussy down onto me, letting my cock fill her up. Again she closes her eyes in satisfaction.

A little over a week ago Pretty Teacher and I were fucking on this fabric sofa. I haven’t had a chance to wash the covers yet. Will Krazy Girl notice any hint of my cum and another woman’s pussy juices? I surreptitiously start scanning for stains on the material. What if she notices some? Is there a smell?

“Take me on the floor,” she suddenly says, getting up off me.

I have a mixed feeling of relief from the stains now becoming a non-issue while at the same time experiencing a sense of deja vu. The very first time Krazy Girl and I got intimate involved us doing it on the floor. I’m not going to quibble. Carpet burns is a small price to pay for the best lay ever.

In a split second I quickly undress and we’re on the floor making the beast with two backs. What is it about women loving having me on top of them? They must like how it feels. In Krazy Girl’s case I think it’s the yin-yang of domination followed by submission. She wants to feel all powerful at first, but then secretly wants to be overpowered. I wonder if she has rape fantasies? I’ll ask some other time, if there ever is one.

There is no better way to put this: our bodies were made for each other. She feels perfect. She looks perfect. Such a damn shame that she’s all messed up in the head and heart. We could have been so good together. I don’t think there’s enough time to fix what might never be fixable. Lusty Lass is still prattling on about her divorce five years after the fact, but her ex-husband was nowhere near as much a mean bastard as Krazy Girl’s was. Her damage might be lasting the rest of her life.

I can feel that I’m getting closer to cumming; it’s way too soon. I pull out of her and start playing with her clit and g-spot. Her eyes are wide in disbelief at what I’m making her feel. Her pussy is tight and I surmise that she hasn’t been fucked in a while. Fuckit, I have to know and I don’t care if she gets upset. I’m not counting on seeing her again after today.

“When last did you have a cock in you?” I ask.

“I saw someone briefly in July,” she answers instantly.

I don’t believe her. She likes sex too much. There’s no way she can go months without it. That’s when it dawns on me that I’m in danger again by fucking her without a condom. One of these days I’m going to pay the price for that.

Krazy Girl starts to writhe and squirm on my lounge floor. Her g-spot has swollen and her pussy is a fountain of lubricating juices. She’s getting closer to cumming. I keep making that ‘come hither’ motion with my finger on her g-spot while running two fingers up and down either side of her clitoris with my other hand. The latter move is, as I discovered earlier in the year, what slowly sends her over the edge.

There’s a series of squelching sounds before ‘squirt-squirt-squirt’ as she ejaculates into the palm of my hand that is fingering her g-spot. She lets off a mixture of a screaming orgasm, a shocked gasp and a sound of embarrassment. I’ve never had a woman have a strong squirting orgasm like that before…and it’s fabulous.

I go wash my hands in the bathroom and return to her. Krazy Girl is still sprawled on the floor, in a daze of sorts. She looks lovely lying there like that, all feminine and vulnerable..and totally fuckable. I bend over, slide my arms under her and pick her up. She instinctively throws her arms around my neck and shoulders, just like Delicate Flower did when I bedded her.

I’m getting too old for carpet burns and cleaning semen off my rugs; to the bedroom I take her. Lying on top of her, my cock buried deep in her pussy, pressing against her cervix, feels like where I belong. I do as Mother Nature intended and, I must confess, I don’t give a damn what Krazy Girl is thinking or feeling. I can’t allow myself the dangerous luxury of becoming emotionally connected to her. I’ve been down that road with her and it’s the Highway to Emotional Hell. I try to learn from my mistakes, after all, they are lessons in disguise. There really is no need to pay twice unless you like the learning part so much.

It doesn’t take too long before I have to cum. I manage to pull out just in time and feed my cock to Krazy Girl who happily swallows my load. She has never shown any resistance to swallowing my cum and I think she might even look forward to it. Does it make her feel used and powerless? Is this act an emotional release for her?

We lie cuddling without speaking for what feels like a blissful eternity before she gets up and goes to the bathroom, grabbing her handbag left in the hallway. She returns a few minutes later, all dressed with her smudged make-up rectified. Only then do I realize that it is approaching noon. Fucking time flies by.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to dash,” she says.

“If you wait a minute I’ll get dressed and walk you to your car,” I say.

“No, there’s no need. I know my way out,” she replies and leaves, pulling the front door closed behind her.

As quickly as she had arrived, devoid of pleasantries or chit-chat, she departed.

I don’t expect to hear from her again…unless her need is urgent.

Foreigner – Urgent

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

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