Teacher Gal, the cats and bumping uglies – Final part

I gently slide an index finger into her pussy; it’s a tight fit. Shit, if my finger is struggling to get in there, my cock certainly won’t. Oh no, not another Baltic Babe situation?! I don’t want to hurt her. I’m going to have to really take my time turning her on so badly that she wants my cock and any pain won’t matter.

Still sucking her clit, I slowly move my finger around inside her tight pussy. Teacher Gal’s very wet, but her pussy is so neglected that it might be haunted.

Doesn’t she have a vibrator like any other woman? I have to know. We might be needing it.

“Do you have a vibrator?” I ask as casually as I know how.

“No, I don’t like those things. Please don’t stop,” she replies.

With her clit protruding into my mouth, I turn my finger around and find her g-spot, which is big and round. This might be what’s taking up all the space in there! I start sliding my finger around this bulbous, uncharacteristically smooth g-spot (all others have felt like the rough spot behind your teeth in your upper palette) which makes her body tense up.

“What the hell is that you’re doing?” she asks, raising her head.

“That? Oh, that’s your g-spot. Do you like how that feels?” I say haughtily.

“Dunno, it feels strange. Nobody’s ever done that before,” she says.

“Well, if you relax, you’ll enjoy it. I won’t hurt you” I reply.

Teacher Gal drops her head back onto her pillow and I resume sucking on her clit and fingering her g-spot while she makes strange sounds. You think you’ve got problems, lady? I don’t think that my cock is going to fit into your tiny little pussy!

I’m mindlessly doing my thing, pondering anatomy and physics when I realize that she’s about to to cum. Her hips are twitching, she’s noisier and her breathing is fast.

Kaboom!

I look up to see her head shoot up and shudder as she climaxes, letting out a strangled scream, an anguished look on her face. Her clit pops out of my mouth and I notice that my hand is covered in her glucose-rich pussy juices that have seeped out.

Teacher Gal is panting like a dog with heat-stroke and I lie next to her, half covering her, almost cuddling her. I say almost because of my soaked hand; I didn’t know what to do with it. I rested it on her impressively flat stomach; I don’t think she noticed or if she did, she didn’t care. Hell, it’s her juices.

After a few minutes she swallows hard and speaks.

“I’ve never felt anything like that before,” she says, catching her breath again.

I say nothing and just smile to myself. I’m still focussed on how tight her pussy is. More foreplay will be required before she can accommodate me, I decide.

We lie entwined, engaging in pillow talk. I love the afterglow. I don’t have to cum to enjoy the cuddling and feeling after making my lover cum. Most people either enjoy the foreplay, or the sex or the afterglow. I enjoy it all.

After about half an hour or letting her rest and recharge, I do it again. This time I start off by kissing her all over, starting with her face, nuzzling her neck which makes her squeal like a little girl, then spend a little time kissing, licking and sucking her breasts. Teacher Gal loves to have her breasts sucked. I work my way down to her pussy and repeat what I had done previously, as if I had never done it before and she reacted as if she had never felt it all before. I don’t think she’ll tire of my sucking her clit while rubbing her giant g-spot.

And…Kaboom!

It was de ja cum all over again. I had seen this orgasm somewhere before.

After more afterglow cuddling, she says to me, “What would you like me to do to you?”

Her reciprocal nature and willingness to please warms my heart…and my cock a little bit.

“I would absolutely love it if you were to kiss me all over,” I respond, curious to see what she does.

Teacher Gal starts kissing my forehead, then my face and working her way down. She takes her time, is unhurried, which pleases me because someone going through the motions is a passion-killer. Eventually she arrives at the main event: my cock.

She kisses around it, takes it in her hand and looks at it for a second. Then she pulls the foreskin back, holds it erect, lower her mouth down on it, covers the head with her mouth…and sucks on it like a goldfish blowing bubbles.

That’s it. That’s all she did.

No going down on it as deep as possible, no twisting and turning her head and/or moving her head up and down on it while doing so. No head movement whatsoever. No, none of that. Just latches onto a spot and makes like she is smoking a giant cigar.

Maybe if I was patient the rest of her technique would kick in. After several minutes of the worst blowie I’ve ever experienced, I had less of a clue about what to say than she knew how to give head.

How do you say to a woman, “Er, is that it? That’s your idea of a blowjob?” or “Please stop, my cock’s getting bored,” or “Looks like somebody needs loads more practise”.

I could get all sarcastic with “Gee, where did you learn to do that?” or “I don’t know how much more of this I can take”, but it would be wasted humour.

Then the thought crossed my mind: If I gave her an orgasm, would she spit it back at me?

I realize that I am in danger of going soft, such was the effect of her efforts. Now or never, I have to see if her little pussy can handle my cock. This is relationship-breaker stuff.

Without a word I pull away, stand up and find my jeans where my wallet is. I find the condom that I have learned to carry and turn my back towards her as having someone watch me fiddle with a condom is unhelpful. Surely by now humanity would have invented a better condom and wrapper?

I turn around and Teacher Gal is lying on her back, legs scissored open wide and wrists next to her head. She is a stunning sexual sight. I position myself on top of her and do a quick safety check: I feel her pussy with my fingers. She is still dripping wet, so no lack of lubrication there. I edge forward and position my cock at the entrance to her pussy and slowly push my cock forward…where it meets a ring of steel.

My cock is not going into that pussy, no matter what. We are badly mismatched in terms of size, worse than I suspected. We both try to make light-hearted fun of it, in an attempt to spare each other’s blushes and maybe even to help her relax. Several attempts only yields the top half of my cock going into her, then getting stuck there, unable to go any deeper. A couple of times she flinches and wriggles; I’m hurting her. I’m getting frustrated and she’s getting embarrassed.

Then I get the feeling that we’re not alone and that we’re being watched.

I look up and on the pillow next to us is her two cats, sitting shoulder to shoulder, looking down at us, staring intently, serious looks on their faces. They seem like judges at the finals of the gymnastics at the Olympic Games. All that is missing is little white score cards at their paws that say: Composition 0, Technique 0, Originality 0 and Overall 0.

I roll off Teacher Gal in utter frustration, the cats scatter as I rest my head on their pillow.

“I can’t believe the cats were watching us,” I say, not wanting to mention the obvious problem.

“I can’t believe you’re letting two cats throw you like that,” she retorts.

“Do you normally let them on the bed?” I ask, thinking about the health issues involved.

“Yes. That’s where they sleep next to me every night,” she replies.

Great. Now my hair is full of cat hair and who knows what else.

As first times go, this was memorable stuff, but sadly for all the wrong reasons though.

I’m now no longer in the mood and she’s a little deflated too. We lie together, my arm around her, cradling her to me and we talk for ages. As usual, conversation is driven by me; she’s not really one to initiate anything. Obvious sexual incompatibility aside, I do wonder if she’s too timid for me. It feels like I’m all the energy in the relationship.

We fall asleep and I’m woken a few times during the night by a cat trying to press its bum against my face. In the morning I wake first and a cat is sleeping on my pillow. Teacher Gal is still asleep next to me, her bare shoulder exposed to me, so I lean over to kiss it, which wakes her and startles the cat which runs away.

Teacher Gal and I engage in mild pillow talk about cats, but all I have on my mind is our unfruitful sexual efforts of the previous night. I have a raging erection and a desire to complete unfinished business. I take her hand and put it on my cock, to which she smiles and strokes it for a minute or so.

She pushes the duvet off us and positions herself between my legs, crouching on her knees in an upright foetal position before taking my cock in her mouth. She doesn’t pull my foreskin back, just latches onto it and starts her goldfish smoking a cigar routine.

This sight and sensation puzzles me. Not only can I not feel much, but it looks odd, unnatural even. I realize that she probably doesn’t enjoy doing this and is probably just humouring me, which, if it is the case, I find sweet. However, the fact remains, this is the worst blowjob ever.

It might have served as a bit of foreplay to get her wet, but when I reach between her legs, causing her to topple over, I feel just how small her pussy is with a finger. Nope, my cock is not going in that hole any time soon. Teacher Gal is lying on her side and my hips are facing her. She’s still in that foetus position which is a sign of something, but I don’t know what. She’s still puffing away on my cock. That’s never going to do anything for me.

I remember that I have to get my arse into London to meet Delicate Flower and I have no idea what time it is. This encounter has to end soon, so I decide that cum I must, but pussy fucking and a blowie weren’t going to get it done. All that was left was a handjob. A handy is the lowest form of orgasm in my book, but if that’s the best on offer…

“Why don’t you take my cock in your hand and tug it?” I ask, hoping that she won’t be offended.

Teacher Gal sits upright and I roll flat onto my back. She takes hold of my cock at the shaft and starts moving her hand up and down, not realizing that I was never going to cum like this either. I let her do this for a while, hoping that she will vary her technique, hoping that she’s the queen of handies, but no, this was it. If I started giving her instructions then this could get embarrassing for both of us. I decide to cut my losses.

“Sweetie, it’s just not going to happen for me today,” I say as sheepishly as I can muster.

She lets go and lies down next to me, giving me a fake smile. We make some small talk and I try to make her laugh, with mixed results. Teacher Gal goes off to shower while I lie in bed pondering the situation and trying to figure out the best way forward.

This was all so very disappointing to me. Sexual compatibility is a must-have in a relationship for me; sorry no exceptions. I’m not willing to sign up to years of sub-standard, mediocre sex. I know that I can take the time to teach her, but how long would that take and the results are uncertain.

Houston, we are a problem.

Garfunkel & Oates – Handjob, Bland Job, I Don’t Understand Job (You might need to click on the YouTube logo on the bottom right of the video.)

Teacher Gal, the cats and bumping uglies

I phone Teacher Gal during the week and we have a polite conversation, at the end of which, in an attempt to get clarity, I ask if we are getting together again. “How about this Saturday?” she responds, which surprises me, but I naturally agree to. I guess the heavy petting incident didn’t put her off me. The next night I get a text message from Delicate Flower that reads, “Are you free on Sunday?” I feel a little uneasy about this situation, but tell myself that thus far I’m just exploring possibilities with both these women. One might be a romantic prospect – the thing I want most – and the other is just a potential fuckbuddy for me. Nothing is certain with either of these women, so I agree to meet Delicate Flower on Sunday.

It’s Saturday morning and I drive my red sports car to Teacher Gal’s town to collect her. We both have an interest in history and I take her to Milton Keynes where there is a new museum dedicated to how Britain deciphered Nazi Germany’s secret communications using the first computers. It’s a vast complex of huts, bunkers and buildings that all have fascinating displays in them, but involve a lot of walking around. It becomes a drizzly day and we huddle under my umbrella.

Teacher Gal seems quite affectionate today, occasionally put her head against my shoulder and coming to hold hands with me when I’m looking at a display. Her behaviour is much more tactile and she’s smiling at me a lot . It’s almost as if she’s made some kind of decision about me.

We could have spent the entire day at Bletchley Park, but Teacher Gal tells me that we need to get back to her place by 6pm because she needs to feed her cats. She has cats? I didn’t know. It’s no big deal because I wasn’t really expecting to even spend as much time together as we have so far. I’ll take her home and say my goodbyes; I really am not counting on much more than that.

“Would you like to come in for a coffee?” she asks as we near the gates of her complex.

“I’d love a coffee,” I say, seizing the opportunity to progress our relationship.

I meet her cats and they are disinterested in me. I guess that’s cats for you. I grew up with dogs as a kid and even today don’t know anyone with cats. I don’t know much about them, don’t have anything against them and see this as a new experience – knowing someone with cats. Then I remember: Krazy Girl had a cat. Hmmm.

Teacher Gal feeds her cats as I look around. Her place is spacious, light and airy, just the way I like it. Her furnishings are basic and her decorative touches are colourful African ornaments and paintings. The place feels calm, but slightly cold, lacking that soulful feeling that a home should have. Nevertheless, I feel comfortable.

It isn’t long before we’re sitting kissing on a sofa while the cats take up position on other seats and stare at us. The kisses are turning Teacher Gal on and she starts making primal sounds and liberally using her tongue. Suddenly she gets up and disappears into the depths of her apartment. I hear her closing windows and curtains. Well, it is getting dark, maybe this is her sign that it’s time for me to go?

As I contemplate leaving she returns to the lounge and closes the windows and curtains. Then she comes over to me and before I can say a word, she straddles me. She recommences kissing me passionately and I go along with it, not really sure where this is leading. She’s a ‘Good Girl’, right?

Teacher Gal straightens her back, takes her jumper and blouse off, tossing them carelessly onto a seat that startles a watching cat. She unclasps her bra and throws that over her shoulder without looking. It lands near the other cat who gives it a dirty look, but he doesn’t move and returns his gaze to us.

Teacher Gal leans forward and positions a breast at my mouth. Like a good little starving baby I take the breast in my mouth, swallowing it all, which leads to her letting off a sigh of satisfaction. I gently suckle on it, slowly twirling my tongue around her giant areola. Just how far are we going to go this time? This is no time for discussion, the time for talking is over.

I release her breast and take the other other one in my mouth. She lets off an “Ughh” sound. I wonder just how wet her pussy is getting. Is her pussy big and flappy or small and tight? Is it neatly trimmed and odour-free or is it a smelly, hippy-bush with crabs doing bungy jumps with leftover tampon cords?

Releasing that breast, “Do you like this” I ask sarcastically.

“I love having my breasts sucked like that,” she says, keeping her eyes closed.

“More than having your clit licked?”

“No, I like that just as much,” she replies with a little laugh.

“Would you like me to lick your clit?”

Teacher Gal instantly pushes off me and stands up. Have I really gone too far this time? The twinkle in her eye and naughty smile tell me otherwise. Without a word she walks off to her bedroom. I guess I have to follow. Quite happy to actually, to get away from these voyeuristic, pervy cats. I’m not used to being watched while getting amorous, there’s something just not right about it. Who needs an audience while sucking boobies?

In the gloom of her bedroom I undress Teacher Gal, pretty sure that we’re going all the way tonight. This surprises me, but if I were to back out now, it would only cause problems. As unexpected as this is, I’ll make love to her and then figure it all out tomorrow. An awkward morning is infinitely better than a night of lonesome wanking.

“Lie down on the bed and spread your legs,” I say to her.

She looks at little surprised at my directness but does as she’s told. I undress myself in front of the bed so that she can watch me doing so. I climb onto the bed, knees first but keep strong eye contact with her. She’s biting her bottom lip, with one arm behind her head, the other on the duvet. Teacher Gal looks so sexy. The uncertainty and anticipation in her eyes is a turn-on for me.

I break eye-contact and kiss the inside of one knee and she sucks in air through her teeth. Slowly I kiss up the inside of her thigh, arriving at her groin. Her pussy is small and tight, no flapping labia lips and it’s neatly trimmed into almost a Brazilian. I ignore it for now, knowing that she’s expecting me to kiss or lick her pussy, wanting it even, but I’m going to make her wait.

Moving down to the other knee I notice her stomach muscles release; she was expecting me to go down on her. I kiss the inside of the knee and slowly kiss and lick my way back up to her crotch. She’s breathing faster now.

I lick inside her groin and do the same on the other side; her breathing picks up speed. Positioning the top of my tongue on her slit leads to her making a “Hnnn,” sound. Then I slowly push down with my tongue and pull my head slowly up, gently parting her pussy lips, letting the rough of my tongue make as much contact with her wet fleshy bits. As my tongue slides over her clit, I can sense her butt-cheeks clenching and she makes that approving “Hnnn” sound again. Reaching the top of her hairline, I pull my tongue down, this time letting the smooth underside slide over her clit and down between her lips.

“Oh my god!” Teacher Gal exclaims.

“Has it been a while?” I ask. Yes, it’s none of my business, but I’m curious to know.

“It’s been over two years. Please don’t stop what you’re doing,” she implores.

I resume sliding the top and bottom of my tongue over her lady garden. The mixed sensation of rough and smooth is doing things for her and she’s becoming increasingly wet. I try to push my tongue into her vagina, but it’s just too small and tight. No matter, she’s not totally turned on yet, I tell myself. I can change that.

Teacher Gal’s got quite a big clit for such a small tight pussy. I slowly run my tongue around it a few times before sucking it into my mouth. I feel her legs shift next to my biceps as this happens and she makes that sound gain. I think it’s very easy to be a good lover – all you need to do is pay attention to your partner’s reactions. I’m learning that every woman is slightly different, but they all love having their clit licked and sucked.

To be continued…

Date #18 – Delicate Flower – Final part

I’ve never bedded a woman on the day of meeting her, nor have I had a one-night stand. I’ve been all moral and conservative. Fuck that shit! It was time for a change. What would it be like to go home with someone I’ve just met and indulge in passionate, intense sex, only to never see her again? How would it all feel? I want to know. I’m learning my lessons and know that I’m packing rubber.

“Do you like Thai food?” I ask.

“Yes, it’s one of my favourites,” Delicate Flower says with a smile.

“Good. Let’s go get some,” I say, intent on drawing out our time together, not giving her an excuse to flit off somewhere else, like a pub where she could be picked up. I wanted to have a one-night stand with her and knew it would take more time for this to happen.

I walk as slowly as I can, knowing that Delicate Flower’s little legs and those stilts would struggle to match my strides. When we get to cobbled bits of pavement I offer her my arm which she graciously clings onto until she feels steadier.

Through Covent Garden and the theatre district I lead her and not once does she ask where we were going. She is happy to just be with me it seems, what we are doing doesn’t really seem to matter to her. Past bustling Chinatown we make our way into Soho, to the Thai restaurant where I had taken The Model. The food was good, the service non-intrusive and it was quiet, the perfect place for sophisticated dining, romantic even, especially as I was hoping to see her pretty face sucking away at my cock in a few hours time.

Delicate Flower is suitably impressed by my choice of venue and barely notices my ordering another bottle of Chenin Blanc. One for the talking, two for the fucking; such is my thinking. The laid-back atmosphere and unhurried service allows us to savour our food and wine, making for just the right mellow, sensual mood.

Naturally we get around to talking about our past relationships and she is taken aback at my only having had two. She, however, has had many more than me. The elixir of wine continues to work its magic for me when she innocently tells me of her having committed my sexual foible – the one thing that I can’t accept a woman doing.

Somewhere deep in the cauldron of my psyche, my trust demon stirs in a dark corner of his cold, rusted cage. He steps forward into the gloom, his slitted eyes straining, searching for his prey, the being that he can store no faith in. His sooty hands latch onto the flimsy bars of his prison, causing flakes of rust to fall into the silent abyss below. Gnarled, hairy fingers slowly pull at the metal. His intent is to break free and rage at her seated before him…then defile her.

I swallow hard and fight off the desire to make a judgemental comment. Why say anything? Her latest revelation confirms that she isn’t ‘The One’. She might dress, smell and talk like a lady, but she isn’t one. She truly is becoming just a piece of fuckmeat to me. I wonder what sound she’ll make when my cock slides into her pussy?

Dinner over and I hatch a plan to string the date out more. The vibe between us just isn’t right for her to take me home with her. I need more time to get her in the mood for sex. I need to work her up a bit more, tease her more. Hell, I haven’t even kissed her yet.

I pay for the over-priced meal and note that Delicate Flower makes no offer to contribute, although as we are leaving she does thank me and say how much she enjoyed that. So, she’s used to being wined and dined…and then fucked. Does she prefer being on top or does she prefer being dominated?

I used the excuse of there being no dessert on the menu to my liking to suggest that we go to a nearby Italian coffee and confectionery outlet that the Fitness Freak introduced me to. Once there I watch Delicate Flower struggle onto her high chair. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. I had to resist the urge to pick her up and seat her.

I get her a glass of pinot grigio and myself a coffee – I might be needing the caffeine for later. After a mouthful of tiramisu (my favourite dessert) I realize that my mouth is now sweeter than when it had Thai curry flavouring it. Perfect time for our first kiss.

She was in mid-sentence when I lean over to her face, but stop short of her lips. She doesn’t move, blinks once, looks at my mouth and then leans forward to kiss me. Our lips meeting is like fireworks going off, but in miniature.

Her lips are soft and small, even smaller than I was expecting. She keeps her eyes closed as we kiss, while I always keep my eyes open because I want to take everything in, for storage in my personal video bank of images – all part of my ‘Fucket List’.

I pull away, deliberately, wanting her to be breathless and keen for more. I sit upright while she remains frozen in space and time with her eyes now closed and still leaning slightly forward. She opens her eyes again, bats her eyelids a few times, focusses and looks at me and says, “Wow! I’ve never been kissed like that before.”

She regains her composure and sips her wine. My plan is working. She’s becoming more inebriated, her defences must be weakening, her lust must be aching and my kiss has just floored her. First base secured.

We make some more light-hearted small-talk and, again while she’s saying something, I kiss her. Surprise is her initial reaction, but she didn’t pull away. Instead she started using her little tongue and breathing heavily. She was getting turned on. Once again I pull away before she decides to.

I calmly return to my tiramisu and coffee as if nothing has happened. I notice that her body is turned squarely towards me – I have her total attention. My inexperience in this makes me a little nervous, but fuck it, I’ve got nothing to lose, so I go for it.

“Would you like me to go home with you tonight?” I ask with as naughty a smile as I can muster.

Delicate Flower’s eyes bore into mine; she’s thinking hard. She looks away, takes a sip of her wine, I say nothing. She looks back at me and I make a concerted effort not to flinch. I’m aware that this is a critical moment and my saying another word is likely to be counter-productive. The silence seems to last an eternity before Delicate Flower finally speaks.

“Maybe not tonight,” she says with a facial expression that gives nothing away.

“No problem,” I counter, trying to sound as suave as possible. In the art of English understatement, her words meant “not tonight, but another time”, which is fine by me.

We chat for about an hour more and kiss a few times again. It’s now after 10pm on a Monday night. The fact that she hasn’t made an excuse to leave immediately after my proposition I take as a positive sign. We agree that it’s getting late and decide to call it a night. I escort her to a nearby bus stop and wait with her until her bus arrives. We constantly engage in polite, mindless small-talk. I really can’t tell what she’s thinking and feeling.

As her bus approaches, she turns to me and presents her face, obviously wanting a goodnight kiss. It might also be a goodbye kiss. In a Clarke Gable moment from Gone With The Wind, I stoop down and kiss her the softest, gentlest kiss that I have learned to give from all the other dates I’ve been practising on. I let this one linger until she starts using her tongue. I let her play until I decide the moment is right to pull away, leaving her gasping for more.

Delicate Flower has a stunned look on her face and we don’t say another word as she boards her bus. She gives me a meaningless look from her seat as I give her a smile and a brief wave. The bus pulls off.

I don’t expect to ever see her again.

Just propositioning a woman on the day I meet her is a massive step outside of my comfort zone. The fortress that was my morals is crumbling down around me, brick by mossy brick…and it doesn’t feel so bad.

LESSON LEARNED: If a woman is the first to make a sexual remark, it means she is interested in sex with me.

John Mellencamp – Crumblin’ Down

Date #18 – Delicate Flower

I’m a little pissed off at having to spend a long weekend by myself. Teacher Gal is away on a school trip and although we spoke a few times during the week, it still isn’t clear to me where I stand with her after our heavy petting session. She seems a little distant now. The loss of my two fuckbuddies still rankles. I was starting to think it’s a good setup having a lover while trying to find my soulmate, having my physical needs taken care of while pursuing my emotional need, the former reducing the pressure on the latter.

It’s the Monday morning of the public holiday in May of 2013 and I notice a new message on OKCupid which reads:

“Your pictures seem to indicate that you would share my love of travelling to interesting, historical places. What are you looking for on here? I’ve had enough of being single, I want someone to come home to, someone to share my life with…”

The profile of the writer floors me. Not only is she a pretty blonde, but it’s one of the best-written profiles I’ve ever read. It speaks of an intelligent, sophisticated and cultured lady; I’m intrigued. I have to meet her even though OKCupid’s algorithm only gives us a 73% match. She’s English, 35 and five foot four inches tall.

I send off a polite response and minutes later she writes back. Her emails are as articulate as her profile, so she’s genuine and hasn’t copied a profile from somewhere on the internet. I respond again, hinting at us meeting one day. She asks if I’m free later today, I say that I am and give her my phone number.

Could she be ‘The One’?

A whirlwind takes hold and a few hours later I’m standing outside Somerset House in central London, surrounded by tourists intent on seeing what this building has to offer inside. It finally feels like the first day of Spring and people are wearing sunglasses and girl’s skirts seem shorter. I’m wearing black jeans and a navy-blue shirt; no jacket required today.

After a few minutes I get that familiar feeling that someone is looking at me. I turn to my right and a vision is approaching me. One of the cutest petite blondes I’ve ever seen is looking at me with big eyes and then breaks into a smile as she nears me. It’s my date and she’s even prettier than her pictures…and very short.

On her profile she said that she was five foot four; well the four was the height of the heels she was wearing. Without her heels she might even be under five foot. I’m over six foot, so we are in serious danger of becoming the little and large show. Whenever I’ve seen guys as big as me with women as small as her, I’ve always thought it looked odd…and that she goes on top, cow-girly style. Hell, if she was supple enough I might make a propeller out of her; spread her legs, position her on my cock and spin her around. What other people call fantasies, I call plans! Once, just once…

I greet her with a polite kiss on each cheek and we both can’t stop smiling. It’s not just nervous first-date smiles, I think we like the look of each other. She’s dressed in a very cute navy-blue skirted outfit with carefully thought-out white stripes and motifs in just the right places, reminiscent of a little sailor’s uniform. The skirt stops just above the knee. She smells as good as she looks, just the right amount of something I can’t recognise but nevertheless like. (Can any man name more than five ladies’ perfumes?)

She is as sweet and delicate as a newly-bloomed flower. In my mind I dub her ‘Delicate Flower’.

We are at this venue because she wants to see a photographic exhibition. I think it’s a great way of meeting somebody and not being in a pressurised situation of having to make small-talk. We pretend to look at photos, but I can’t tell you a thing about them because I’m not really looking. I’m marvelling at the good fortune I’ve just had by way of her contacting me out of the blue. That profile of mine is working wonders, I tell myself.

I notice that Delicate Flower is constantly grinning or smiling. I am too, I think neither of us can help it. I just want to scoop her up in my arms, let her feet dangle free and kiss her like she’s never been kissed before. Patience, dammit!

Eventually we run out of photographs for us to pretend to look at. It’s a beautiful day and it’s now just after lunchtime. I notice a terrace wine bar overlooking the Thames and suggest that we have a drink. She politely accepts and we find a high table with two high chairs. Delicate Flower stops and looks at the chairs and I realize that she might have a problem getting onto the chair.

We both look around and see that this is the only free table. Do I offer to pick her up and put her on the chair? Oh, the indignity. Do we leave and find somewhere else? It’s lunchtime on a sunny public holiday, everywhere will be full.

I decide that discretion is the better part of valour and say, “I’ll go get us a bottle of wine and some glasses. How about you hold the table for us?”

Delicate Flower smiles and nods as I leave. She now has the chance to get on the chair without embarrassing herself in front of me. The devil in me wants to turn around and watch her clamber up on the chair, but I decide it isn’t worth it.

I introduce her to South African Chenin Blanc and she likes it. All the women I’ve dated do. It’s as if they can taste the sunshine, but to me it’s an elixir of truth. Enough of this wine in a woman and she’ll pretty much tell me anything I want to know.

We have a view over the Thames with a clear blue Spring sky above us. Pleasure boats are plying the river, tourist buses clog the roads as awe-struck tourists throng the streets below. It’s the perfect temperature, no hint of a breeze and I can feel the sun on my back. In front of me I have one of the prettiest women I’ve ever spoken to and she can’t stop smiling at me. For a few moments life feels perfect.

I snap out of it, catching myself before sleep-walking into another mis-matched relationship like I recently had with Krazy Girl. It was time to get down to business, to find out the salient facts about this woman, to discern if she is relationship material, to see if we want the same things from the future, to find out why she’s single. Let the games begin!

Delicate Flower tells me that she is a manager of a department in a private hospital.

“Do you enjoy it?” I ask, knowing that few people in management roles enjoy their jobs, myself included.

“Oh yes, very much. I get a kick out of making sure that patients get the best possible care in my area,” she says.

“Come off it, you get your kicks out of bossing people around,” I tease.

“Actually, no, I don’t,” she says with a frown. “I like helping people and if the best way for me to do that is by being a good manager, then so be it,” she says.

“That’s very noble of you,” I say with a smile, warding off a potential conflict situation. So, she’s a caring, giving person. Looking good.

We chat away, the bottle nears empty and eventually the alcohol and sunshine combine to heighten the feeling between us. Delicate Flower suddenly makes a surprise reference to something sexual, with a naughty grin to boot. This tells me that she’s thought about having sex with me. Game on.

“Has it been a while for you?” I ask brazenly.

“It’s been more than six months. It’s been a long, cold, lonely Winter,” she says with a sparkle in her eye.

Hmm, she’s just hinted that she’s horny and wouldn’t mind being fucked because it’s been a long time.

“What do you normally do when you get horny?” I ask, expecting to hear a reference to fingers, a favourite vibrator or the occasional shower head.

“Oh, I just go into a pub and sit and wait,” he says nonchalantly.

I was surprised. Was she teasing? Was she joking? The look in her eye told me that she was being serious.

“Have you done that often?” I ask.

“If I’m not in a relationship, then a couple of times a year,” she says honestly.

That Chenin Blanc is good shit.

Delicate Flower instantly went from being a possible ‘Good Girl’ to a definite ‘Good Time Girl’. A Good Girl would never go sit in a pub by herself with the intent of going home with a stranger and getting fucked.

Some people have a ‘Bucket List’ – a list of things they want to experience in life before they kick the bucket. I have recently come up with a ‘Fucket List’ – a list of sexual experiences that I want before my time is up.

Delicate Flower was now the perfect candidate for an item on my Fucket List.

To be continued…

Teacher Gal petting plus FWB disaster

I’m horny so I send a booty call text message to Tech Titan and Krazy Girl; one of them has to come off. It’s Saturday morning and last night’s date with Diving Dame has left a bad taste in my mouth. I’m standing at my train station waiting for Teacher Gal to arrive. She doesn’t know it but I’ve got quite a day planned for us. I don’t expect to bed her; she’s too much of a good girl for that to happen so soon after us meeting. I don’t want to rush things with her either, in case she’s ‘The One’.

My phone burps into life with a message from Tech Titan which reads: “Hiya. Sorry, no can do. That party I went to last weekend, well I met someone there. Our little arrangement is over for now. I’m in bed with him now. I’ll phone to discuss later. Xx

I’m stunned but pleased for her. She deserves a shot at romantic bliss as much as anyone I know. I want to keep being friends with her at least because she’s a lovely person and I like being with her as we’re always laughing.

Still holding my phone, it burps again and this time it’s a text message from Krazy Girl that reads: “No thanks. The last time we hooked up you started getting all serious on me. I’m deleting your number from my phone.

What the fuck?! It’s the abruptness that stuns me. I’m not too surprised at the rejection, only the manner. Did our last encounter warrant this? I stare at her message, shaking my head. How typically her.

My phone burps again and this time it’s Teacher Gal: “My train is about to arrive at your station.

I feel like I’m in a boxing ring, surrounded by three women simultaneously throwing punches at me. How is it that all this happens in the same minute? Do you sometimes get the feeling that you’re living life according to someone else’s script? Am I in my own ‘Truman Show’?

I spot Teacher Gal getting off the train and she’s wearing jeans, a blouse and a jacket – no sign of a hideous accessory today. This is the least frumpy I’ve seen her looking. Right, I’ve got to forget the two ex-fuckbuddys thing and devote all my care and attention to the woman I have before me.

I kiss her hello on the cheek and she smiles, almost blushing. She can be so cute. We chatter amiably about our working week as we walk back to my place. I make no mention of Diving Dame or the now ex-friends with benefits. I doubt she’d know what the term meant. She’d probably think it was some guy who owned a bakery.

My red fast car impresses her; her eyes light up. I open the passenger door and she gets in, without my saying a word. Oh good, she’s not afraid to follow my lead. I drive us (occasionally at speed) through my county to a zoo. We spend most of the day here, walking around, sharing what we know about the bored-looking animals.

After a couple of hours I spot the opportunity to indulge in some ‘kino’. I’ve been reading up online about the art of seduction, all in attempt to improve my skills with women. ‘Kino’ is the slow, steady escalation of using touch to make a woman comfortable with you physically, then to trigger her sexual desire for you so that sex is the logical and ultimate outcome.

Over the course of the day I’ve touched her elbows, then put my hand in the small of her back to guide her. Now it’s time for something with meaning. I walk slightly in front of her, look back and put my hand out for her to take. She looks at it, blinks a few times as she thinks about it, then takes my hand. Like that we walk around and I can feel her little hand becoming clammy, then decidedly sweaty, but she doesn’t let go. Teacher Gal likes holding hands; so do I. It warms my heart.

After we tire of seeing enough poor, sad creatures we leave; me with a lump in my throat. In the car we discuss animal rights and agree that zoos worldwide should be subject to minimum standards for what size enclosures should be – at least triple what animals are subjected to currently. I’ve touched on her humane side and she sees mine too. For a moment we smile knowingly at each other.

Now for what I think of as an acid-test for my prospective mate: the first time she sees my basic (shitty) apartment. I observe her face as we enter; she seems unperturbed. She tactfully makes no comment other than, “Wow, you’re neat and tidy.”

I get to work making us a risotto and while that simmers, I introduce Teacher Gal to Californication. I’m keen to see how she takes to it and I’m disappointed when she frowns disapprovingly at the nude scenes. She only laughs at the really funny bits and even then its only meekly. The less funny bits that involve clever word play and innuendo are wasted on her. I detect a mismatch in humour between us and become concerned that she might be a little prudish.

Over dinner she mentions that her right shoulder has been bothering her for a month.

“Is now a good time to tell you that I’ve done a massage course?” I say, wondering how she’ll react, not telling her it was just a one-day introductory course.

“Really?” she says, her eyes lighting up. I see the opportunity.

“I’ll give you a massage if you want, but just one condition,” I say matter-of-factly.

“What’s that?” Teacher Gal says keenly.

“That you don’t try to seduce me,” I say with a straight face.

“I’ll try not to,” she says, almost blushing.

I lead Teacher Gal to my bedroom where she takes her blouse off but keeps her bra on. I’m finding the massage oil but steal a peek at her breasts that seem on the small side to my liking; she’s a b-cup. She lies face down on my bed and I commence massaging her lower back, just to get her used to my touch. As I work up her back I come to the point where her bra is a problem, so without a word I unclasp it and push the straps down onto her little biceps. She doesn’t make a sound and buries her head in a pillow.

Her skin is smooth and unblemished; my hands slide easily over her back and shoulders. Teacher Gal starts making involuntary approving sounds, a sign that she is relaxed and enjoying it. I feel the knots and stressed muscles give way under my touch. I work them with ever increasing force and frequency until they’re almost all gone. I start wondering what it would be like to make love to her. We haven’t spoken since we entered the room.

The massage finishes and she’s a happy, crumpled heap on my bed. I lie next to her, keeping a hand on her naked back and wonder if she can breath as her face is still buried in the pillow. I look at her hair and realize for the first time just what lovely hair she has; golden blonde and well cared for. I delicately move hairs out of her face so that she can breath a little easier and see that she has her eyes closed and is smiling. Teacher Gal looks so pretty, angelic even.

I lean over and give her a gentle kiss on a cheek. She giggles like a little girl and I lean against her, keeping my arm over her back to keep her warm. Teacher Gal makes an approving sound; she likes to be held it seems. I kiss her shoulder and her body shivers. I see goosebumps appear in places. Are her nipples getting hard, I wonder.

I kiss her cheek again, not with any agenda or outcome in mind, but purely because I want to. Giving a woman pleasure gives me pleasure. In fact, hearing and seeing a woman writhing and moaning with pleasure, or screaming as she cums, I find more emotionally satisfying than my average orgasm. Now don’t misunderstand, I’m not talking about getting a kick like a control freak would, revelling in the power. No, it’s the intimacy that does it for me. Being one-on-one, all barriers down, totally vulnerable and trusting each other and my not abusing that or disappointing her, but pleasing her, delivering on my potential as a man, living up to being the best lover that I can be and in return expecting nothing, that does it for me. I guess that makes me a giver.

Teacher Gal turns her head to face me and is smiling. I edge closer and kiss her lips as softly as I know how. In my peripheral vision I notice her bra-strap falling down, exposing a breast, but I don’t look down – only an amateur lover would do that. I lose myself in her blue-grey eyes and continue touching her lips with mine, teasing them. I hear her breathing pick up as she closes her eyes. Our lips lock tight and she surprises me by sliding her little tongue gently into my mouth. There was a time when I would have pulled away, but I’ve learned that when a woman does this, she is turned on and the way is clear to escalate matters, but slowly.

I roll onto my back and take her with me so that she’s lying on top me, all the time we’re kissing. Putting my hands on her ribcage I lift her body upwards slightly so that I can kiss her neck and throat easier. Teacher Gal lifts her head and lets me do exactly that, revelling in the sensation. I can smell her perfume and then I taste it on my tongue as I gently kiss and then lick each spot as I work my way around. I pull her bra-straps down, but she says “No, don’t”, which surprises me, but I respect her wishes.

After some more kissing, holding her ribs once more, I slide myself a little further under her, this time pushing her bra up and letting a breast fall into my mouth. I do it so quickly that she doesn’t have time to think about anything. A split second before taking her breast in my mouth I can see that her breasts are round with unusually large, dark nipples that are erect. The areola cover almost a third of each breast; I had never seen anything like it before.

Her breast fits easily into my mouth and I suck onto it gently, hearing her make a muffled sound of pleasure. I slowly twirl my tongue around her nipple repeatedly; around and around my tongues goes, speeding up ever so gently. My hands are still on her ribs and I can feel her breathing picking up; she’s loving this.

Teacher Gal spreads her knees and straddles me, her hands holding onto my headboard. Her sudden movement jerks the breast out of my mouth and I wonder if she’s had enough…or too much. Then I realize that she wants me to suck her other breast. I push the other bra-cup upwards and take the lonely breast in my mouth, again taking in a quick look at them both. They are small, but firm enough; I could get used to sucking on them. I think she could too.

Once again my tongue swirls around her erect nipple and over-sized areola, to which she makes approving seething sounds as she sucks in air through her teeth. By now I’m turned on too. I’m sporting a respectable boner and I wonder if we could or should go all the way. It would be unnatural not to, I tell myself.

More out of curiosity than anything else I slide a hand between her legs and cup her pussy through her jeans. They’re soaked! Her jeans are like a wet tea-towel.

“Okay, mister, that’s enough,” she suddenly says, pulling away from me, her boob making a popping sound as it left my mouth. Teacher Gal starts re-arranging her bra and quickly puts her blouse back on.

I’m in a state of mixed emotion. I’m pleased that I can turn her on; I’m stunned by how wet she gets, but more than anything I’m confused by why she ended our fun. My best guess is modesty. I don’t ask for fear of coming across as an insecure, needy little boy. I’m a knight now, a grey knight and Stupid Boy is history. I play it cool and say nothing.

“I’ve got to go now. It’s getting late,” she says, not making eye-contact.

It was getting late, but I knew that that wasn’t the reason for her suddenly wanting to depart. At best I had spooked her and at worst I’d ruined it between us, whatever it was that we had.

I walk her to my station, we don’t speak much other than for a few pleasantries and as her train approaches up the hill, I turn to her and say, “Are we going to get together next weekend?”, curious about what she was thinking and feeling; I needed some clarity.

“We’ll see,” is all she says, but with a smile, an enigmatic smile that adds to my confusion.

Date #17 – Diving Dame

I had written to a couple of women on MatchAffinity before getting my first response from Teacher Gal. One of the other prospects responded to me on the night of my second date with Teacher Gal, offering a trifling excuse about why she was only writing back now and suggesting a date for the coming Friday night. She’s English, 35 and living in London.

I hadn’t decided anything concrete about Teacher Gal other than that I wanted to keep seeing her in the hope that something developed. This new arrival sported a lively, positive profile and just one pretty picture. If it was a scam (scams are characterised by single-photo profiles) she wouldn’t be suggesting a date. I was curious about her and decided to explore in the spirit of ‘I might always wonder’, so I answered. Over the course of the next few days we swap messages and phone numbers, agreeing to get together on the coming Friday night. I like her decisiveness.

I arrive at Baker Street Tube station and make my way past Sherlock Holmes-loving tourists. The pub we’re meeting at is across the road and I can see it’s busy. As I enter, a woman is walking out and I recognize her as my date, so I say her name. She looks at me and her eyes momentarily go wide…she fancies me.

I give her a kiss hello on a cheek, giving her the chance to smell that expensive eau de cologne that Baltic Babe introduced me to. I withdraw and she smiles at me, obviously unsure about what to say next, which is fine with me as I’m not afraid to take the lead.

“How about we order some drinks and we find a table?” I suggest calmly.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” she says sternly. How very English of her, I think to myself. English girls like a ‘g & t’ because it isn’t fattening and it takes many to get drunk on. It’s a sociable drink without the downsides; my date was playing safe. I notice that she doesn’t say “please”.

“I don’t suppose you fancy grabbing us a table before they’re all gone?” I ask, wondering how she’ll react to my idea.

“Okay, I see one over there,” she says, pointing to what is probably the last empty seats in this bustling pub. She walks off and I join the back of queue at the bar.

It’s May, but it’s still too cool to sit outside; a shame because it would have been quieter. I look over at her occasionally, checking her out. She’s got her compact in hand and is powdering her nose. She’s not quite as pretty as the solitary picture on her profile. She’s also flat chested; I’ve got bigger moobs. Deep down we’re all superficial. None of us are attracted to somebody’s personality at first sight. This might be a long evening for me.

Sitting down opposite her and chatting becomes a problem because of the noise level. As the patrons around us slowly get drunk they speak louder and a domino effect kicks in. I only just hear my date tell me that her favourite hobby is scuba diving. I dub her ‘Diving Dame’.

Diving Dame is softly spoken and I crane to hear her, but after a while I can’t hear a bloody thing she’s saying. I make approving sounds when appropriate and frown when she frowns. I purse my lips, feigning interest when she pauses to have a sip of her drink. I’m doing my own version of Marcel Marceau the mime artist here and she hasn’t noticed. It’s amazing how I can cue off body language alone and just occasionally say things like, “and then…” or “really?” when I guess that it would keep the conversation going. This lasts for at least half an hour. She likes the sound of her own soft, slightly high-pitched voice. Luckily she didn’t once seem to ask a question of me, but I can’t be entirely sure.

Eventually I can’t take it any more; I’m hungry and I’m getting bored, so I say loudly, “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry now. How about we go somewhere quieter for a meal?”

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting a meal tonight, but why not. I know a great place nearby. Let’s go,” she says audibly for once, downing her drink. I offer to carry her satchel that has a laptop in it, but she declines my offer, to my annoyance.

We walk for what seems like an eternity through the streets of London talking about our jobs before arriving at a wine-bar where everything is black: floor, walls, ceiling, tables, everything. Very macabre I think to myself. Does Diving Dame have a dark side to her? Is she familiar with Torture Garden? Does she strap on a lacy corset and let herself be paddled and abused in mass orgies too, a la NutSlut?

Unfortunately the place was booked out for a birthday party and we found ourselves literally standing out in the cold.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Diving Dame squeaks.

“Not your fault. I recall us walking past what looked like a good Indian restaurant. Fancy that?”

“Oh yes. Indian is my favourite,” she squeaks again.

Finally, we have something in common. I’m hoping a better environment might lead to a spark igniting some chemistry between us. Until now I’ve found her demeanour stiff, so I’m hoping a few glasses of wine will loosen her up.

The Indian restaurant is empty, just the way I like it: quiet and calm. Service will be good and kitchen staff will take their time. I flummox Diving Dame by opening the door for her and trying to help her with her seat. Chivalry doesn’t seem to sit well with her. I guess she’s one of these thoroughly modern working women who read books about women’s rights and love their ‘independence’. I bet she’s got a copy of ‘Men are from Mars…’ at her bedside.

“So, how many dates have you been on?” I ask, succumbing to my curiosity.

“This is my first,” she says with a serious look in grey-blue eyes.

“What? Your first this month, the first this year or the first since becoming single again?”

“My first ever,” Diving Dame squeaks softly.

My mouth drops open and I go ice-cold.

“Care to elaborate?” I counter with.

“Well, I met my ex-husband at university and we got married just after we graduated. I never got to go on a date,” she confides.

I’m stunned but I recover quickly.

“So when did you get divorced?” I ask the pertinent question, bracing for another shocker.

“Last year,” Diving Dame answers matter-of-factly. She’s probably on the rebound still if it’s been such a long relationship.

“And you only recently started online dating?”

“Yes, my friends have been on at me about giving it a go, so here I am,” she says less cheerily than I would have liked.

It dawns on me that I am wasting my time with Diving Dame. In her mind she’s expecting to go on several more dates after me. I’m her ice-breaker, her baptism of fire, a stepping stone on the road to her relationship rehabilitation. I feel duped and used. This date is turning into a disaster.

“So, be honest now, are you online dating more to get your friends off your back or because you want to?” I probe, not really caring for the consequences of an inappropriate question.

“It’s to appease my friends,” she says burying her nose in a glass of wine. My lessons learned about women and alcohol is reaping rewards…sour ones, but the truth nevertheless.

I’ve heard enough and I try to change the subject.

“You suggested meeting around here. So does it mean you live nearby?”

“My ex and I used to live around here. He still does. I bought myself a cottage in the countryside six months ago,” she answers.

“Whereabouts?”

“Oh, it’s out in Berkshire,” she says.

“On your dating profile you said you live in London,” I point out.

She says nothing. I’m starting to go off my food. Why do women insist on telling lies on their profiles?

I soldier on and try to help the evening end as civilly as possible. It’s clear to me that we have nothing in common and I would have more chemistry with a blow-up doll.

“So where are you travelling to next?” I ask, thinking travel is always a safe topic of conversation, remembering her profile mentioning her love of travel.

“I told you in the pub all about my upcoming diving trip next week to the South Pacific. Don’t you remember? Weren’t you listening?!”

“Oh yes. Sorry, I forgot,” I lie, sheepishly. So that’s what she was squeaking on about.

Mercifully the evening comes to an end naturally. I pay for the pricey restaurant meal because I’m a gentleman idiot. I offer to escort Diving Dame to her train station but she declines my offer. I give her a peck on the cheek as we say goodbye while she clumsily shakes my hand.

The next day I get a text message from Diving Dame that reads: “Thank you for a wonderful evening. You’re quite the gentleman. I’m just not comfortable with so much chivalry. I’ll be in touch when I get back.”

I’ve never heard from her since.

I’m learning that I have a Triangle of Temptation: great personality or pretty face or big breasts and at best I only get two of those three. In this girl’s case there was none. This was the worst date of my life…so far.

Moving on…

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) I must ensure that I’m not her first date. 2) I must choose the venue where we meet so that conversation is possible 3) I must avoid single-photo profiles.

Second date with Teacher Gal

It’s a Tuesday night and I’ve driven up to Teacher Gal’s town for our second date. I’m sitting in my car waiting outside the Italian restaurant she asked to meet at. My thoughts take flight and return to the past weekend. Yes, fucking Tech Titan was fun, but doing it with Krazy Girl is amazing. The way things ended with Krazy Girl left me with a nagging, negative feeling in the centre of my chest. I know that I should have kept my mouth shut and just let things be physical between us, but Stupid Boy wanted it all, when it so obviously isn’t on offer.

I spot Teacher Gal and she’s carrying something in one hand. It’s a box from a bakery. I get out my car and meet up with her, kissing her hello on a cheek. She’s wearing a different coloured version of last week’s outfit. Once again the jacket is adorned with an over-sized accessory, this time a gaudy brooch, which again let’s her whole look down.

“I’ve brought you something,” Teacher Gal says before I get a chance to tell her that age-old lie of how nice she looks. I think I’ll always struggle to tell white lies.

I smile, take the gift out of her hand and start carefully opening it, revealing a large slice of an elaborate, multi-tiered spongecake.

“Aaw, thank you,” I say, hiding my bemusement as to why she had brought me this.

“It’s from a town in the north of England where I went hiking on the weekend. It looks incredibly sweet and remembered that you have a sweet tooth,” Teacher Gal elaborates.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I say, wondering just how old this cake is. So, I was in her thoughts while she was away from me? Good.

We enter the restaurant and it’s full, busy and noisy. I was hoping for a quiet romantic evening after yet another shit day at work.

“I don’t suppose you have another wing or floor?” I say to the maître d’. I can see that Teacher Gal is impressed by my taking charge of the situation. We get escorted to another floor where there are plenty of tables and nobody else. Perfect for getting to know each other better.

We choose a table and I ask her which seat she would like, then I offer to take her jacket off, put it over the back of her seat and pulled the chair out for her. She sat down as I stood behind the chair and pushed it in for her before moving over to my seat. Most other women I had done this for were perplexed and it showed that this was new to them. Teacher Gal hardly blinked an eye and it told me that she was accustomed to being treated like a lady. I am old-fashioned (I blame my mother, for many things) and enjoy being a gentleman. I don’t do it to show off or score points or anything silly like that; it’s just how I am.

Teacher Gal and I get down to talking about the old country and it is enthralling to hear her stories of African sunsets, wild animals and favourite places to have a cold drink under a hot sun. I can see that she is less reserved than on our first date, but she only really relaxes once she finishes her first glass of wine.

The evening eases away as we chat, laugh and occasionally flirt with each other. A couple of times I just look at her, say nothing at all and smile with my eyes, bite my bottom lip, which makes her look away and almost blush.

By the time we leave the main restaurant area is empty, we’ve been upstairs talking for that long. I escort Teacher Gal to her home, walking through the deserted streets of her town. We arrive at the gates of the complex where she lives and we kiss slowly and tenderly under the light of a lamppost. I don’t use my tongue, having learned to wait for her to do so, but she doesn’t. I bid her goodnight and watch her walk off; she doesn’t turn around.

As I walk back to my car, I decide it’s time to answer my acid-test question: is she a good girl or a good-time girl? Without a doubt she’s a good girl. The way is clear to consider having a serious romantic relationship with her in that regard.

There’s something else I consider: trust. After my experience with my ex-girlfriend (Exgf) I’ve started to realize that I might have a trust problem. ( http://www.meanddating.com/2014/08/the-ex-girlfriend/ )When I sit talking to a woman, most of the time I’m wondering if what she is saying is true. I believed everything that my Exgf told me, so when the truth was revealed it was a big shock. I think it’s that shock that still lingers deep in my psyche somewhere, like an unwanted fart.

Most of my previous dates failed this test, consciously or unconsciously. The strange near-misses I had with The NutSlut ( http://www.meanddating.com/2014/05/the-nutslut/ ) and Irish Eyes ( http://www.meanddating.com/2014/04/irish-eyes-were-smiling-oh-yeah/ ) reminded me that I need to be careful with a woman until I knew much more about her. If at any point on the first date she let slip that she had been unfaithful in the past, then I instantly lost trust in her. Those who had confessed this to me, usually under the affluence of incohol, had been unfaithful in their twenties. Nevertheless, I believe that we all have an in-built sense of wrong and right and once a cheat, always a cheat. All that’s required is the right ingredients.

If I have any hint of doubt about my date when it comes to the trust stakes, I play safe and don’t see them again. I don’t have that concern with Teacher Gal. I think because of our similar upbringing we have an almost identical moral code; well, mine used to be like hers. The fuckbuddy arrangements has bent and twisted my moral compass, but not broken it.

Teacher Gal’s decency and elegant femininity is what is good in my world. She’s more like the kind of woman whom I can trust and respect, the type to share my life with. Just being with her helps me to forget about the recent horror show with Krazy Girl and the sweet, but unsustainable friends with benefits arrangement with Tech Titan.

This is more like it. This is what I want.

LESSON LEARNED: 1) Wine relaxes women, usually to my advantage.

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