Baltic Babe is kryptonite?! – Part 2

At the fanciest Chinese restaurant in my town we had an elaborate meal. Baltic Babe didn’t like overly spicy foods, so I ordered a medley of dishes for her to try. It was apparent that she didn’t know much about Chinese food. My travels around China came in useful to explain to her what she was eating and how it was made. She loved information like that.

The conversation twisted and turned and my alter-ego, Stupid Boy, put in a surprise appearance. He made me tease and taunt her.

“You know, if we were to have a child, it would be a great one.”

She looked at me with a deadpan face, having stopped mid-chew. Stupid Boy and I were just getting started.

“Yes, I can see him now. He would have blonde hair and green eyes. Your eyes are yellow-green and mine are hazel, so his would be green. That makes sense don’t you think?”

She kept looking at me, but resumed chewing. I wasn’t done.

“He would be very athletic. I was a good sportsman in various sports when I was at school. You were an international athlete. I think it’s a given that he would be athletic, don’t you think so?”

She finished chewing and took a sip of wine. I was warmed up now.

“Yes, he would have our best traits. He would be very intelligent, speak several languages and get good grades at school. He would be very determined, but have a compassionate side to him. What do you think?”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” she replied calmly, nowhere near as ruffled as I thought she would be. Her reaction was almost non-existent. I expected indulging in baby-making talk would get her animated. It didn’t. Why not? Ah, because I said any child of ours would be a boy. Images from her playing with my friend’s daughter on my birthday three months previously came flooding back.

Baltic Babe wanted a daughter.

When we left the restaurant it was cold outside and I noticed her shiver. In attempt to share a little bit of body heat as we walked back to my car, I said, “Do you like chicken?” and offered her my arm. Until that moment physical contact between us was non-existent. She thought about it, remembered the line, smiled and then coupled her arm with mine.

However, I then noticed a look of confusion on her face. I too felt confused about what was happening between us and my sub-conscious worked quickly to come up with what I said next.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about something. I’ve never done this before, but I’d like to be friends with you. That way I get to have some laughs with you, but don’t have to put up with any of your shit like I would have to if we were a couple.”

“Interesting,” is all Baltic Babe said.

I drove her home and we chatted amiably all the way. Baltic Babe had bought a few things too so I helped carry them into her home. As I was about to go back to get the all-important rake, she offered me a coffee. I wasn’t expecting to be invited to stay for any length of time as it was now 8pm, so the offer surprised me. Of course I accepted and before I knew it we were sitting together on her sofa.

“I now have a favour to ask,” she began.

“Yes,” I said slowly, a sense of trepidation kicking in. Had she been working up to this all day?

“My laptop has been acting up. Can you have a look at it please?”

“Of course, but I can’t guarantee anything,” I said relieved that it wasn’t something I couldn’t do. Quite honestly, I was happy to have an excuse to spend more time with her.

I got to work on her laptop and while an anti-virus scan ran at the longest possible setting that I could find we sat and chatted.

You know how when you have two magnets in your hands, as you bring them closer to each other, you feel that wonderful, magical sensation of the two being drawn to each other? That’s how I was starting to feel inside me as I spent more time with her. I could feel a familiar pleasant, warm sensation at the back of my head.

“While that runs, I’m going to get changed,” she said as she got up and disappeared upstairs.

As I sat there I thought about leaving. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I had spent far more time with her than I expected. I didn’t want to run the risk of having a blow-up of some kind that would spoil the day with a bad ending. I also didn’t want to end up in bed with her because that would have turned my world upside down.

But dammit!…how can someone so wrong for me feel so right?!

Before I could decide about how and when to make my exit, Baltic Babe came back having changed in to “something more comfortable”. She was wearing a pink sweatshirt, white socks with little pink hearts on them … and very see-through white tracksuit bottoms so thin that I could see her little white panties.

My torso turned to putty, my head to candy-floss. My arms became lead weights and my legs were made of cast iron. My heart started pumping faster. I couldn’t move if I tried.

Baltic Babe went around the lounge lighting little candles and then switched the overhead lights off. The room fell into near darkness, except for the slow-dancing candlelight. What the fuck was going on here?! All that was missing was the sound of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s get it on’ playing softly in the background.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7aDBgUUs3A

 To be continued…

Baltic Babe is kryptonite?!

A few days after saying goodbye to Potty Mouth, out of nowhere, I got an email from Baltic Babe at the end of November. It had photos from our week in Sunny Beach and the following words:

“Hi, sorry for sending these so late. Hope you are enjoying your new job.”

It had been more than a month since I had last heard from her. Was this a sign that she was thinking of me? In a fit of excitement and curiosity I phoned her, but she didn’t answer and I left a message, never expecting to hear from her. I did, however, seize the opportunity to use as an excuse the fact that my employer was laying on a lavish Christmas party and I had nothing to wear. I’m colour-blind and buying new clothes is a particular hell, so I needed a woman’s eyes because women can’t be colour-blind. I asked her to help me. Of course I had other women that I could ask, but I wondered if she would take the bait.

The next morning I got the following response:

28th November 9.30am

“Morning Mr Small, got your voicemail. I have to confirm if I could do it this sat as I may need to do something else for my mom. Have a nice day!”

Baltic Babe and I got together two Saturdays later. I had constipated bees buzzing around in my stomach as I drove over to her house in London. I was expecting an initially awkward atmosphere to be followed by a few hours in a shopping centre and then perhaps a civil lunch. We might not get that far even. How long before she blew up over something trivial and threw a hissy-fit?

I wasn’t hoping to rekindle a romance. I wasn’t hoping to hear her apologise. I wasn’t hoping to take her to bed. What I wanted was to see if she was as great as I remembered. I wanted to hear the sound of her laugh. That was all.

Some things will never change. Baltic Babe came to her front door and she wasn’t ready.

“As you can see, I’m running late as usual. I need fifteen minutes. Make yourself a coffee if you want,” and off she scampered. It was if nothing had happened between us.

“You’ve run out of milk,” I shouted up the stairs after having been in to the strangely familiar kitchen that I thought I’d never see again. There was no sign of the magic coffee mug that I had sent her.

“There’s a shop down the road. You can leave the front door on the latch,” she shouted down over the din of a hair-dryer.

So like a good little boy doing as he was told, I went in search of the shop “down the road”. I took a wrong turn and walked past a very large school ground that served a primary and secondary school. Backtracking I eventually found the shop and bought milk.

Back in Baltic Babe’s kitchen, having made coffee for both of us, I said to her, “I noticed that there is a large combined school a couple of blocks away.”

“Now you know why I bought this house,” she said and sipped her coffee, maintaining eye contact with me. Her yellowy-green eyes were smiling.

We got in my car and I drove us to the shopping centre where I knew I could find clothing in my size. Within minutes we were laughing and stimulating each other mentally, spurring each other on to say something that made the other laugh. I had forgotten how good that felt.

At the shopping centre we agreed to split up and meet after an hour. Baltic Babe had some Christmas shopping to do and I wanted to scout the place out for what I wanted. She would then deliver a verdict on anything that caught my eye in the shops.

There was a very expensive jacket that I liked the look of and Baltic Babe approved of my choice. Then she started giving the sales assistant a hard time. She wanted to know everything there was to know about the jacket. How long it would last, how best to clean it, what to do if there was a mark. The questions seemed endless and reminded me of an interrogation. The poor guy was getting flustered at one point and I noticed him looking over to his colleague at the till with an expression that said, “Please help me!”

“Okay, I’ll take it,” I said, just to put an end to the poor fellow’s misery.

Baltic Babe dawdled off to the front of the shop while I paid. As I was leaving the doorway to the store, I heard the one shop assistant say to her harassed colleague, “Jesus, she really put you through the wringer with all her bloody questions. Who does she think she is?” I smiled to myself.

“Is there anything that you want that you can’t find?” I asked Baltic Babe.

“Yes. I want a rake for my garden, but it must have a short handle,” she said.

So off in search of a short-handled rake we went. After an hour of searching we couldn’t find one and decided to have lunch. We sat and chatted while we ate, with her telling me about how unpleasant her work situation had become and that she felt totally ostracised at work.

I suggested that we go to a nearby hardware store that would have a selection of rakes to which Baltic Babe agreed. Once there we found what she was looking for after having given a bemused assistant a barrage of questions about the rake.

Nearby was another shopping centre and I suggested that we visit it so that I could complete the look for my office party. I was pleased to hear her agree to this. I was enjoying interacting with her and, yes, she was as great as I remembered and, yes, I loved the sound of her laugh.

It felt good to see her blonde head bobbing alongside my shoulder as we walked. When I was with her it felt as if it was her and I versus the world and that we would win no matter what came our way.

After buying a few more things, I realized that it was getting late, the sun was setting, so I said to her, “We’re quite near to my town. As a thank you for helping me choose clothes today, I’d like to buy you dinner somewhere nice. Would you like that?”

“Yes, I would like that,” she said with a sly smile.

I didn’t want the day to end.

To be continued…

Potty Mouth opens the lid

My experience with the three other dates over the weekend made Potty Mouth look like a prize catch, so I decided to have another date with her. Perhaps on our first date she had been tired and it was the drink talking that contributed to her torrent of foul language? Stupid Boy. Before I contacted her, she emailed me to suggest another date. Oh goody, she must like me.

I had a Groupon voucher for a Spanish restaurant in the financial district of London and booked us a table, eager to learn more about Miss Potty Mouth. It was a chilly Thursday evening in November as I sat in the restaurant waiting when her text message came in. She told me that she was running a few minutes late because she went home to get changed.

After the mismatch in clothing after our initial date, this time I had come more dressed down in chinos, a shirt and a blazer…and I was freezing. Potty Mouth must have been aware of our mismatch in clothing because she arrived dressed to kill in a sparkly dress, heavily made up, gold jewellery and a full-length real fur white coat. I laughed to myself, while I think she was a little miffed.

She hadn’t touched her drink when the first f-words came flying out of her very lipsticked mouth. The excitement I had felt before seeing her again that had been sitting on the top of my lungs, instantly sank like a lead weight to the bottom of my stomach. My initial impression of her had been a correct one. She was a foul-mouthed woman by nature. The night ahead seemed very long.

Potty mouth

I made small-talk and she made swearing-talk. We ate our food and drank our drinks as I sat clenching my teeth. I wasn’t feeling any chemistry towards her whatsoever. I discovered that she was a bit of a party animal, even at the age of 36. Several times a week she would stagger home at dawn. That’s part and parcel of single life for women in their twenties living in London. I was never part of that scene. Potty Mouth must have had a liver like a teabag.

“Jesus, you Saffas are rough buggers,” she said. “Saffas” is what Australians (Ozzies) and New Zealanders (Kiwis) call South Africans.

“What do you mean?” I asked, pretending not to know what she was referring to. I was curious to learn what her perception of a Saffa was.

“Well, I’ve met a few Saffas through work and they all had some fucking military experience,” she said.

Okay, quite a tame perception then.

“Yes, it’s true that all the white guys had to do National Service,” I replied, trying to keep it neutral. I knew that discussing politics on a date is a big no-no.

“So what the fuck did you do?”

“I was involved in security in the Air Force,” was what I chose to say.

“So you weren’t a fucking mercenary then?” She knew a few things it seemed.

“Yes, I had papers to join a mercenary outfit. I had just finished my stint and entered the job market just as the recession of ’92 kicked off. It’s the only skills I had,” I said, giving her more than I was comfortable with.

“So what the fuck stopped you?”

“I met a sweet little girl and she talked me out of it. She probably saved my life. She’s my ex-wife now,” I said matter-of-factly, hoping she would drop it.

Mentioning an ex-wife worked and I moved the conversation on to a more pleasant topic. I noted that Potty Mouth didn’t seem too shocked or perturbed that I had contemplated being a mercenary, or ‘private security contractor’. She was a tough old bird, not easily shocked it seemed. Most women would have been uneasy upon hearing that snippet from my past.

While I settled the bill, she started using her phone to see what her friends were doing the rest of the night. I deliberately let Potty Mouth see me pay with a Groupon voucher. I didn’t care whether she liked it or not, I just wanted to see if the Gold Digger test idea had any validity. It did. She instantly said to me, “I can’t fucking believe that you paid for this with a fucking Groupon voucher.”

As easily as that I learned that she was interested in a man with money. The right woman for me wouldn’t care how I paid for her meal. She would be only too pleased to be with me, not my wallet. I decided to use this voucher ruse on future dates.

Potty Mouth had made plans to meet some friends in some club somewhere so we went our different ways at a Tube station. I had no interest in seeing her again.

It was approaching noon on the Saturday when I found the emotional energy to phone Potty Mouth to let her know that we wouldn’t be seeing each other again. Somehow I had got it in my head that this had to be done via phone.

Potty Mouth answered after a while and from her speech it was obvious that I had woken her.

“I’m sorry to have woken you,” I said.

“I fell into fucking bed at seven. Bit of a party at Spiffy’s place. What’s up?” she droned.

“I’m just calling to let you know that I think you’re terrific, but I don’t think we’re right for each other,” I said, relieved to spit it out, not caring a damn that she was hungover.

“Oh, that’s okay. I wasn’t that fucking crazy about you either,” was her instant reply.

Lessons learnt: 1) good banter via email beforehand doesn’t make for a great person. 2) first date impression after two hours is generally correct 3) Groupon voucher trick can filter out money-grabbers.

 

Date #10 – Quiet Katie killed me softly

I stood outside Tower Hill Tube station at noon on a Sunday going over in my mind the plan for the day when I sensed someone looking at me. I turned to see approaching me a tall, atrractive woman with auburn hair who was smiling at me; it was my date, the fourth in four days. She had bright, sparkly blue eyes and round, rosy cheeks. I kissed her hello on one of those cheeks. Let’s call her Katie.

As we neared the edge of the steep flight of stairs that lead down to the Tower of London, I said to Katie, “Do you like chicken?” and before she got a chance to answer or say anything, I continued with “Take a wing,” and offered her my bent arm which she accepted with a laugh.

Once at the bottom of the flight of stairs I moved my arm and she uncoupled hers. Yes, it might start with a cheesy line, but damn, does coupling arms break the ice! A lady can’t help but become more comfortable with me. I think the act also taps in to a deep-seated need in a woman’s psyche to know that her man is physically strong and can protect her. It also displays a dash of gentlemanliness and consideration. I might be wrong and deluded, but as delusions go, I like this one.

We walked around what would have been the moat to the Tower of London towards St Katharine’s Docks, past the restaurants and pubs that line the marina and towards the Dickens Inn. Once there we shared conversation over a pizza and some wine. Katie was a rare creature: a Londoner born and bred. I couldn’t help but ask how she perceived all the changes that had happened in the city. She didn’t seem to have an opinion.

I found myself broaching topic after topic and almost every time Katie’s response was a variation on “I don’t know”, “I’ve never thought about that” or “Let me think about it”.

That in a nutshell was the problem. She didn’t seem to have any ideas or opinions on anything. There was a vast intellectual gap between us so large that you could drive a London bus through it. For a while the state of the lighting overhead assumed a curious fascination and importance to me.

Snapping back into it, I was ever the gentleman and gave this date time to flourish. Perhaps she was slow to warm to people. Katie certainly seemed quite willing and able to smile a lot, but struggled to say a lot. I wanted to be with someone that I could share lively, funny banter with.

In my mind I decided to call her Quiet Katie.

I’m not a bad conversationalist and can talk to anybody about any topic. I’m quite well-travelled, having been to more than thirty countries on long vacations. I’ve even lived in three countries and hold two passports which I use regularly. I have a natural curiosity about our planet, its peoples, histories, cultures and cuisines. I like to think that I know how to keep a conversation going. I can find humour in pretty much any situation and I’m not backward in coming forward. In many ways Quiet Katie was the opposite of me.

Several months earlier I had bought a Groupon deal for a river cruise and high tea on the Thames. It was a surprise that I had been saving for Baltic Babe and had to be used by a certain date, so Quiet Katie was the unintended beneficiary. We walked down to the nearby Tower Pier and queued, waiting for the river cruiser. I don’t think she once started an avenue of conversation or asked a single question. Did she keep quiet because she didn’t want to interrupt me? To be fair, she did enthusiastically join in on any topic of conversation but it would peter out as she ran out of material to contribute.

Mercifully the river cruise came with a deafening audio commentary that pointed out all the sights as we travelled up the Thames to the Houses of Parliament and then down to the Millennium Dome and back. The booming cockney voice provided an excuse to not make conversation and be distracted by what we saw on the riverbank. The tea, coffee and sandwiches arrived and we ate in silence, politely smiling at each other when making eye contact.

Quiet Katie was a sweet, decent person who, much like me, was just looking for someone to love her. However, we were not a match. I was starting to think that if I gave her another brain-cell that the two would fight and that the battle would echo in her head.

Boring

Back on dry land I decided to cut my losses and end the date. She seemed ambivalent to this, but it had been several hours and it was getting dark. I walked her to the Tube station and bade her farewell. There was zero sign of emotion in her, nary a hint of relief neither.

The next night there was an email from Quiet Katie waiting in my inbox. All it said was, “Hi. How was your day?”

Oh lordy.

I hate the saying “no thanks and goodbye” part of dating. It’s just not in me to hurt someone else’s feelings. Well, a woman’s that is. I have no problem hurting men’s feelings; I actually like it. As an alpha-male, I always get away with it. I can bulldoze my way over men no problem, but I have utmost respect for women and treat them with kid gloves. Finding the right words to let a woman down is so difficult for me.

Revisiting the STD clinic would be more fun than another date with Quiet Katie. I decided to answer her email with a polite “no thank you”, but opted to also be honest with her because it was what she deserved. Doing so over the phone seemed like unnecessarily hard work, so I wrote to her saying that I found making conversation with her very difficult at times and therefore we didn’t have the kind of chemistry that I expect.

I have never heard from her again.

LESSON LEARNED: No matter how attractive, a lack of chemistry kills that initial attraction.

Date #9: The German Shrink…who analyzed me.

My Happy Humping Ground site had another profile that caught my attention. Attractive woman in clear photos, well-written profile that had things of interest such as her being a tennis player. As a teenager I played tennis to tournament level, so I thought that would serve as a great starting point for a conversation. I had to do so carefully though, because the last time I broached tennis in an email to someone on a dating site, I ended it with “I’ll bring the balls. We can play with mine” and for some reason I never heard back from her.

It was the third date of my four nights of dates and I had to forget about the disappointment of the previous two nights. I wasn’t too sure what to make of the upcoming date because the email exchange had been very brief and blunt. All that I knew about her was her name, that she was German and that she was a psychologist. You must think me mad for wanting to date a psychologist. However, that was part of the attraction because she was obviously intelligent and it was likely that the conversation would be good. Stupid Boy reporting for duty.

For the second night running I was standing outside Covent Garden Tube station waiting for a date. The novelty of dating so many women in row wasn’t lost on me, but I was hoping that meeting one of them would lead to a relationship.

When the German Shrink arrived I was delighted by how pretty she was and I think my smile might have made it obvious. She was smartly dressed and wearing a string of pearls, which I thought was a nice touch. She smiled politely as I kissed her on the cheek.

“Are you hungry or do you fancy a walk around Covent Garden to work up an appetite?” I asked.

“I’m not really hungry yet, so a walk would be nice,” she replied.

It was too soon to try my “Like chicken? Take a wing,” trick, so I bided my time intent on trying it later. It was already dark and people were scurrying about the piazza in the centre of Covent Garden, either on their way to a show, a restaurant or a pub while we took our time as we ambled around the square, making small talk as we went.

Making conversation with the German Shrink wasn’t easy. She kept her answers very short and didn’t give much detail away. There was very little material to build banter with. This date struggled to get out of first gear and into fun gear.

Her English was fluent and devoid of a German accent, so I diplomatically asked about this. My mischievous alter ego, Stupid Boy, was careful not to mention the war.

“I lived in Australia for five years and have lived in London for another four,” she answered.

“Oz? So was it for adventure, money or man?” I pried with a slight laugh to soften the inquisition.

“Man,” was all she said with a wry smile. I bit my tongue before Stupid Boy spoke.

We chose a Thai restaurant hidden away in a quiet arcade. I won’t forget the look of surprise on her face when I pulled her chair out for her to sit on and then pushed it in for her. Her look reminded me of the first time I held my car door open for my ex-girlfriend and the exact same look that she gave me. I think you can tell when a woman has been with a gentleman, or not, as the case may be.

I found myself constantly having to broach new topics of conversation. Don’t get me wrong, she was happy to talk, it was just that she was always reactive, never proactive. Then I remembered her profession.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you found that telling people you’re a psychologist kind of alters conversations or causes people to go on the defensive,” I asked, my words barely cold when I realized that Stupid Boy had taken control of my tongue.

“Yes, that does happen,” she said as her face became serious.

Stupid Boy wasn’t finished. He then started to ride me like I was a bucking bronco at a rodeo.

“So do you find yourself analyzing people even when you’re not a work?”

“Yes, that is a professional hazard,” she said without blinking.

“So what’s the most common condition or issue that you encounter in people?”

“Most people don’t seem to know when something or someone is good enough,” was her cold reply.

What was previously a very pleasant Chardonnay suddenly started to taste like vinegar. Stupid Boy had had his fun and left us to our pad thai, rice and curried meats, all of which seemed suddenly unappetizing. Why had the German Shrink said that? Was she trying to tell me something? Had she come to some kind of assessment of me? How exciting! Not.

I looked at my watch and it was only a quarter past nine. I wanted to get the hell out of there. With a bit of luck I could make it home in time for Match of the Day. I was bored, baby!

Bored baby

I thought about trying to rescue the evening somehow by coming up with something that would lift the mood or bring her to life, but I had come to the conclusion that the German Shrink was a serious little thinker and that there wasn’t much life to be had. The German Shrink was all head and very little heart. She could fail a personality test.

Hardly anything she said indicated a person capable of the kind of emotion that I can feel. We were a bad match in that regard. Consequently there was no chemistry between us, not a drop of anything like I felt when I was with Baltic Babe.

At the first opportunity I let the date come to an end by paying for the meal, which the German Shrink politely thanked me for. I walked her to a nearby Tube station and said, “It was nice to meet you. If you would like to see me again, feel free to send me a message. Good night.”

I’ve never heard from her again.

It didn’t matter, because there was another date waiting the next day…and she wasn’t blonde.

LESSONS LEARNT: 1) Bad or boring banter via email is a hint of a boring date or lack of chemistry. 2) Some people are boring and it might be why they’re single 3) There will be shit dates.

Announcing: New hosting and design to aid your reading pleasure

Greetings and salutations!

Today I upgraded this blog to a self-hosted website, bidding a sad farewell to the generosity of WordPress.com because I want the freedom to do so much more with my blog.

http://www.meanddating.com is now with us.

Please bookmark it and tell your friends about it.

If you are a regular follower, then I hope you like the new look.

If this is your first visit to my blog, then a wet, warm welcome to you. (No need to curtsy.) Here you can learn how a White Knight in shining armour became a Grey Knight…

The transition has not been without it’s challenges and setbacks. All the previous ‘likes’ so graciously bestowed upon me by you can not be ported across to the new website! Alas and alack…of foresight on somebody’s part.

Your naughty comments, however, have been rescued and are across the moat and safely in the castle keep.

You can now also follow my jousts, defeats and conquests on Twitter at:

https://twitter.com/MeandDating

I hope that new design makes it easier to find the kind of bawdy fun you’re looking for here…

If you spot anything wrong or wish to suggest something, I not only have an open mind, I have an open comment system too. Add a comment if you wish, I shall be happy to hear from you.

On to better battles (dates) I must go…Tally ho!

Adieu

Your Grey Knight

silver glossyknight

Date #8 – From Russia with hair

Carefully thought-out poses of her skiing, snorkelling, cycling and dancing showed a young, attractive woman actively enjoying life. Curiously she was Russian, a Buddhist and claimed to play rugby. As an ex-South African I think I was taught to pass a rugby ball before I could walk. A stunning rugby-playing, Buddhist Russian I just had to meet.

I had blotted out the previous night’s date with Potty Mouth as I stood waiting for my date outside Covent Garden Tube station on a cool Friday night. As tourists marvelled at the historical sights and Londoners made for the pubs and restaurants, it occurred to me just how business-like our email exchange in the previous week had been. It was refreshing to have a woman agree to a date within three emails. I like decisiveness and detest wasting my time swapping endless emails that ultimately lead to nothing because the other person just can’t bring themselves to meet in person. That had been happening too often in the previous months.

When we spotted each other her face remained deadpan while I smiled. I kissed her politely on the cheek and said hello. She didn’t say anything in response and started walking off, her eyes said “follow me”, so I did. What the fuck?!

She led me to a small quiet pub and confidently she went inside, strode past strangely quiet drinkers at the bar and went up a flight of stairs at the back of the place. Intrepidly I followed this tall, blonde Russian who hadn’t said a word to me. Was I going to walk through a black curtain into a dark, smoky room where a guy with a Russian accent wearing a trench-coat and holding a briefcase was going to ask me if I was Red Bear?

The stairs led to another floor that had a small bar and six tables with chairs. One table was free and we headed for it. The others were occupied by couples that were on dates given their smart clothes and stiff body language.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked.

“A black Russian,” she said, finally speaking and doing so with a sexy, rasping voice.

I returned with our drinks and when I sat down she gave me a very pleasant smile. We began to chat and her English was nearly fluent. She was intelligent but a little dull for me. After an hour I decided that there was no chemistry between us.

Then I spotted something.

If she turned her head away from me and the faint light was strong enough, I noticed that she had blonde facial hair where a man would have side-burns. At first I thought nothing of it, but noticed it more and more and hopefully wasn’t staring at her.

Then I noticed her top lip…it had a very bleached moustache. When I was young enough to want to look older, I grew a moustache. Hers would have rivalled mine.

I subscribe to traditional gender stereotypes, especially the one that says ladies should have little hair on their faces. It just wouldn’t work if my girlfriend reminded me of Chewbacca. How Photoshopped were her photos?

The more I looked at her, the more I realized that she was the hairiest woman I had ever come across. How hairy was she under her clothes? I really didn’t want to find out. All attraction toward her flew out the window quicker than a bad wig flying off on a windy day.

Hirsute woman 2

We had another round of drinks despite me knowing that I didn’t want to see her again. I felt very sorry for her and wondered if her being hirsute was the reason that she was single. Behind the polite smile and clever conversation I got the impression that there was a very active brain whirring away. Undoubtedly she had an agenda of her own, but I didn’t really care what it was.

I walked the hirsute Russian to her Tube station and waited on the platform with her. As her train approached I said to her, “It was a pleasure meeting you. If you would like to see me again, send me a message.”

She smiled and got on the train without saying another word. Hello and goodbye didn’t come easily to her.

Nobody warned me that internet dating could lead to me discovering the missing link or sharing a drink with Yeti’s lovechild.

I’ve never ever heard from her again, but more than a year and half on at the time of writing, revisiting the Happy Humping Ground website, I saw that she had logged on recently and her pictures hadn’t changed

I was starting to believe that dating was a numbers game and after enough dates, I would find Her. I was looking forward to the next date that I had lined up for the following evening…with a German psychologist. Could she be The One?

LESSONS LEARNT: Pretty pictures on dating profiles are deceptive. Don’t go on a date just because you like the pictures.

Hirsute woman 5

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