Matters in hand with Sweet Thing then get out of hand

Every afternoon the next week after our second date Sweet Thing would send me a text message.


Good evening! How was your day? I hope it went well and was productive. Just to say that I’m thinking of you. XX


Hello you. I hope you have had a good day. I’ve just checked the weather forecast and sleet is due for Saturday! Could be fun lol 🙂 x


Just so you know, I’m thinking of you…x


You don’t need to bring anything BUT you might want to bring a change of clothes in case we get snowed in! 🙂 xx

I’m not a great one for texting because no phone is designed with my thumbs in mind. We spoke a few times at night during the week and it became clear that she was very excited about seeing me. My offering to give her a massage may have had something to do with that.

On the Saturday I arrived after lunchtime at Sweet Thing’s home that was in the middle of nowhere. On the drive over I found it surprising how easily I had put the previous night’s bad date out of my mind. As Sweet Thing had suggested, I had brought a change of clothing along, but I wasn’t too sure of the circumstances under which they might be needed. Her words, “…in case we get snowed in!” was ambiguous. It could have been entirely innocent, but a part of me did wonder if there was a naughty thought behind it. I had never got intimate with a woman as early as the third date because it seemed wrong to do so. However, my encounter with Tech Titan was making me question the strength and validity of my morals. For the time being I had no intentions of getting Sweet Thing in to bed, although I had been wondering what it would be like.

Sweet Thing greeted me with a polite kiss on the lips and immediately offered me a guided tour of her home. Her house was a detached double-storey with a large integrated garage, a small garden in front and a larger garden at the back. It was cited in a close with only a few neighbour’s houses adjoining her property. I was impressed by the quality and obvious expense of her furnishings. I also liked her taste in décor. Upstairs were three bedrooms, one of which was her office from where she ran her business. The main bedroom had a large en-suite shower room. She had done well for herself.

I was introduced to her year-old husky dog who took an immediate liking to me, or so it seemed. He started jumping up against me, tried to lick my face and wanted me to play with him. Sweet Thing smiled at this; I think I passed her ‘dog test’. I knew I would because I grew up with dogs, love them as pets and miss having one of my own. Dogs seem to gravitate towards me, often perplexing their owners. Many times I’ve been out walking and a dog would appear out of nowhere and walk with me, ignoring the calls of their owner.

Sweet Thing said that she need to take her husky for a walk because it would be too cold later and might even be snowing. So we got the dog in his girdle and we went for a walk around her hamlet which was no more than two dozen houses and nothing else. The dog was in his element, pulling on his leash like he was designed to do. I offered to take the leash as I could see that she was struggling, expecting her to decline my offer. To my surprise she accepted and gave me the leash, which I took as a sign that she trusted me. Maybe her arms were tired?

Back in the warmth of her house we sat drinking coffee and chatting, side by side on her sofa, with the dog occasionally trying to jump into the small space between us. Sweet Thing made us a curry for an early dinner as the faint sun went away. I appreciate a woman who is a good cook and Sweet Thing was that. More than anything I enjoyed the novelty of having someone cook for me; I had forgotten what that felt like.

Sweet Thing put the dog to bed in his large cage that occupied a corner of the kitchen. I had taken my boots off and she put them on top of his cage. We went to snuggle up on the sofa to watch movies, without being pestered by a jealous interloper. It felt good to be doing that with someone new by my side, even though I still wasn’t sure about my feelings about her.

After a movie had finished I turned to Sweet Thing and said, “Hey, let me know when you’d like that back massage,” not thinking she’d take me up on it.

“Now would be nice,” she said with a naughty little smile that I didn’t know what to make of.

“Okay”, I said, expecting her to want to sit between my feet. Instead she got up and went upstairs. I swallowed hard, got a bottle of massage oil out of my bag and followed Sweet Thing to her bedroom, unsure how this was going to play out.

“Where would you like me?” she asked, standing next to her bed.

“Umm, if you could take your top off and lie on the bed face down, then that would be good,” I said as professionally as I knew how, trying to sound like one of the blushing beauticians who wax my back a few times a year.

Sweet Thing took her top off, but kept her bra on and I stole a glance at her small breasts just as she lay down. She was an a-cup, but so was my ex-wife and I was with her for almost fifteen years. Once she was settled, I unclasped her bra and I got to work giving her as a good a massage as I knew how. We stopped talking.

I took my time and my hands easily worked her small upper body. If I put my wrists together and fanned my hands out, then they almost covered the width of her back. Once she had relaxed I worked the knots out of her muscles and carefully cracked her spine back into place. Sweet Thing played ladies soccer twice a week and she hadn’t been to a physio or chiropractor in a long time. She had relaxed to such an extent that she was on the verge of falling asleep.

I should have left then but the thought of driving home alone in the now softly falling snow was unappealing. All that was waiting for me in my home was cold, dark and lonely. I had a half-naked woman in my hands and I was craving affection, tenderness even. It had been a long time.

Sweet Thing softly murmured as I rolled her on to her back. I started to unbuckle her belt, my intention driven by my body, not my brain.

“Whoa! What are you doing,” she said, suddenly coming to life, propping herself up on her elbows as she looked at me in surprise, her bra falling off to show her nipples erect from the cool air.

“I want to give you pleasure,” is all I said. That was true, but in that moment I also so badly wanted to feel a woman’s body against mine. In that moment I was craving the sensation of a woman’s arms and legs wrapped around me…any woman, even one with bad teeth.

Sweet Thing thought about it for a few seconds, her eyes darting between mine. She was deciding something and I was expecting the evening to come to an abrupt end, with the possibility of never seeing her again.

“Okay,” she said and lay back, closing her eyes.

The time for talking was over…

Date #12 – Local Lady


It was a few days after Christmas and I was befuddled by my recent experiences with Baltic Babe, Irish Eyes and NutSlut. I couldn’t remember what a good first date felt like. Also my faith in womankind was starting to waiver. I had yet to come across Sweet Thing’s profile.

A local lady approached me on OKCupid only having answered a few questions there, thus we weren’t a high match on their algorithm. Nevertheless she was incredibly keen to meet me and her emails were very positive. She was a brunette, so not the look I normally find myself irresistibly drawn to, but the right personality and chemistry could overlook that initial short-term attractor factor. She had only one photo on her profile and in it she was wearing sunglasses. She came across as enigmatic, which I found interesting.

Local Lady and I quickly agreed to meet, but on the appointed day she texted me to say that her father had been rushed to hospital with a suspected heart attack. I wished her well and said for her to contact when and if she wanted to meet again. I didn’t have high hopes, so I wasn’t disappointed. In fact, I didn’t expect to hear from her again.

Now let’s fast forward a few weeks…

I had been on a couple of dates with Sweet Thing when Local Lady reappeared. I was surprised to hear from her and at a quandary about what to do. In my head and heart a silent conflict raged. Going on a date having been on a few dates with Sweet Thing seemed like a dishonourable thing to do. That was my heart speaking. My head said that there was no harm in meeting Local Lady for a quick drink because I had no strong sense of commitment to Sweet Thing in that moment in time; it was early days all round.

It was a cold and dark Friday night in January when I found Local Lady standing at my town’s train station. She had come straight from work and was very well dressed and wearing a fetching white full-length coat. She had pitch-black hair and sparkly green eyes, but not the prettiest face. Quite honestly, if her profile photo was clearer I probably would not have bothered answering her emails.

I had no choice but to see this date through, that was my initial outlook, but then I realized that I should see it as a learning opportunity. If I was skilful in my conversation I could prise out of her all sorts of information about how the female mind works when it comes to dating, relationships and attraction. There was also the possibility that she might have the best personality going and there might be amazing chemistry between us.

I led us to a good pub on the high street where we made ourselves comfortable at a booth. We ordered beers and pizzas and got to making small talk. It didn’t take me long to realize that the lack of physical attraction was compounded by a mismatch in personalities and social standing. That last bit sounds a bit snobbish, but let me explain.

Local Lady seemed to like nothing more than girly weekends with her female friends that involved going away to a different town each time, dressing up in silly costumes, getting drunk as quickly as possible and seeing how many guys would kiss them on the dance floor. At the age of forty that is not age-appropriate behaviour. I can understand a couple of times a year, but not every chance you could get.

The mismatch in personalities stemmed from her being a frivolous, airy-fairy person, which in itself is harmless, but I’m more on the serious side of the spectrum and find such people annoying because they seem detached from the world around them. They don’t take anything seriously and avoid responsibility which comes across as immature to me. In a relationship with such a person I would have to be the serious one and would come across as the bad cop when tough decisions needed to be made.

I steered the conversation towards the obvious thing that we had in common: dating. It turned out that I was her first date after many years of being in a fruitless relationship.

It all suddenly made sense. Her airy-fairy nature latched on to the notion of going dating, hence her enthusiasm when writing to me. It turned out in her grand dating plan I was first up. I had no doubt in my mind that she had many more dates with other guys lined up in her mind, if not in reality.

Idle banter was not hard to come by, but I made sure it centred largely around her and it wasn’t hard to do so, because she seemed to have no interest in asking me questions. Her lack of questions about me confirmed to me that she wasn’t interested in me either.

I did mange to get out of her what she liked most about my profile. Her answer? The photos. Men are supposedly more visually-oriented than woman, but what I was learning that the difference is not as large as people imagine. A woman is as attracted to a good-looking man as vice versa. After all, nobody is attracted to someone else’s personality at first sight.

What Local Lady was very interested in was Californication. She had never seen it but heard people talking about it. The pub was becoming noisy, so I suggested that we go back to my place and watch a few episodes there. She thought about it for a few seconds and agreed.

Don’t get the wrong idea. I had no desire to have sex with her; I didn’t fancy her at all. I just thought watching a couple of episodes of Cali would be more fun than sitting in a crowded noisy bar unable to hear each other.

Back at my place we sat on my sofa and enjoyed the first two episodes of Californication, which she loved. It was getting late, almost midnight and I sensed that she wanted to leave and I was happy for that to happen.

I offered to drive her home, which she gladly accepted. There must be a safe, comfortable vibe that I give off in order for a woman to have agreed to meet me like she did, come back to my place and then jump in a car with me. Or she was a total idiot.

We got in my red sports car and I drove the few miles to her home. As we approached a double-storied house she said, “Oh good, my parents have gone to bed.”

“You live with your parents?” I couldn’t help but blurt out.

“Yes, I always have. They live on the ground floor and I live on the top floor. There are separate entrances and kitchens. My last boyfriend just couldn’t come to terms with that arrangement.”

I probably would have struggled with that living arrangement too and my face must have told Local Lady that because she gave me a wry smile.

I pulled up near her home and in a moment of pure cheekiness I leaned over to her to offer a goodnight kiss. I was expecting just a peck on the cheek or something swiftly on the lips; expecting more when there was no chemistry would have been foolish.

Instead she responded with a full-on, long hard kiss on the lips, which surprised me. She pulled away, looked deeply into my eyes and came back and did it again. She withdrew, smiled at me, giggled like a little schoolgirl and got out of my car.

I drove home laughing to myself about the date; the best part was at the end. Our lack of chemistry must have been reciprocal, so why did she kiss me like that?

The next day I sent her a text message saying that it was great to finally meet her, but that I felt no chemistry and that I wished her well in her search. I had reached the stage whereby doing so over the phone seemed unnecessary hard work. She answered promptly saying that she felt the same way.

I considered it just another pointless date which yielded a few lessons at least.

Lessons learned: 1) Try not to be the first person they have dated as they are almost guaranteed to want to see what else is out there. 2) A low scoring match on OKCupid is likely to result in a low level of chemistry. 3) One bad photo as the only profile photo is a warning sign of unattractiveness.

The next day I was going to visit Sweet Thing at her home. I felt strangely ambivalent about the fact that I had dated someone on the Friday night and wouldn’t be telling the person I was seeing the next day about it.

I couldn’t know then that that was where the slippery slope began.

Now if only I could look past the Sweet Thing teeth issue.

You can’t see teeth in the dark, right?






Sweet Thing comes to visit – Saturday 5th January 2013

I had somewhat mixed feelings about seeing Sweet Thing again. Despite her many other fine qualities, the dominating impression was of her bad teeth. I kept convincing myself that if that was the worst thing wrong with her and we had great chemistry otherwise, then lucky me. Are we all good at deceiving ourselves?

Sweet Thing arrived punctually at noon and had found my front door by herself, which is not an easy thing to do in my apartment block. She got brownie points for initiative. Before coming to me she had dropped her husky dog off at a kennel for the day and then driven for an hour and a quarter to get to me. I found the effort and expense flattering.

Although it was only a few days after New Year’s day 2013 it was warm enough to go for a walk. I gave Sweet Thing a guided tour of my town, through the quaint high street with its shops and boutiques catering to the well-heeled local women and out along the park toward the countryside.

Conversation between us flowed easily and amicably, with us laughing from time to time. Telling each other about our life stories was fun and she was politely curious about mine because we came from such different worlds. I told her of my father dying suddenly of a heart attack on a Sunday morning a week before my fourteenth birthday; how the bank froze my parent’s joint account so that by the Wednesday night I had two Weetabix bricks with hot water from a tap for dinner. I recounted how my mother and I were left destitute and had to move to Cape Town where my mother had family, who I barely knew, who would help us. I recalled how at the age of fourteen I was spending my weekends working in a cousin’s scrap-metal yard to raise my own pocket money. The money was supposed to go to school fees, but I didn’t pay and instead bought books about running my own business. I told her how as a teenager my school holidays were spent working in my cousin’s scrap metal business while other boys my age were playing on the beach with girls. Those boys have memories of catching waves and handling bikinis, while my teenage memories are of catching death threats and handling drunk, smelly vagrants intent on conning me.

Sweet Thing’s business success was borne out of personal motivation, while my successes in life were driven by necessity. I think that we appreciated each other’s life stories and because of this we were quickly very comfortable with each other.

I don’t know why I did this, but after an hour of walking I instinctively took her hand and held it in mine…and it felt good.

She seemed a little surprised and gave me a goofy, toothy smile that made me cringe and laugh inside at the same time.

I like holding hands. She didn’t seem to mind.

Of course I know why I did that. It had been a long time since I had felt loved. I wanted that feeling again. That’s why I had gone internet dating after all and I assumed that that is why so many women were on dating sites – they wanted the same thing as me. Of course, that wasn’t the case, but by my side was someone like me. It felt like I had finally found someone who did want the same things as me…and THAT felt especially good.

Back at my place I cooked a meal from scratch for us. I enjoy cooking because it gives outlet to my creative urges. Cooking de-stresses me, especially after a shit day at work and I believe that it impresses a woman. It’s also a great avenue of conversation, getting to know someone through their culinary skill and food preferences. Paying particular attention to a woman’s attitude towards food was something I would learn to do.

Sweet Thing was suitably impressed with the meal and afterwards we got comfortable on my sofa. In the arcane workings of my bizarre mind I had decided that the woman for me would like Californication as much as me. If a woman I had designs on disapproved of it or was shocked by it, then she was just too much of a prude for me.

Afternoon turned into evening as Sweet Thing loved Californication and she wasn’t afraid to laugh out loud, which gladdened my heart. We watched several episodes together and after months of lonely nights on my sofa, sharing it with someone, anyone, felt…simply wonderful.

I think chemicals of some kind, happy chemicals perhaps, kicked in and I leaned over and kissed her. I was yearning to feel affection and bad teeth or not, I wanted to feel close to someone and Sweet Thing was someone who I trusted, respected and, because of her business success, admired.

I’ve not felt admiration for many people in my life, but I did for her. Feeling that way about her was what made her special to me.

As we kissed, lightly, slowly, carefully, at one point she held her wrists up alongside her shoulders, her palms towards me, a very submissive gesture which made me turn to jelly inside. She was smiling and her big, round, almost turquoise eyes sparkled at me.

Some other men might have taken things further at that point, but I didn’t. It just wasn’t my style. Not yet, at least.

I sat back and we made small-talk, all the while smiling at each other. Sweet Thing’s cheeks were very round and tight, like a baby’s bum, sporting a slightly darker skin-tone. Occasionally her grin would break out into a full-toothed smile…and I would have to look away.

At 8pm she said that she had to go as she needed to collect her dog by 9pm. I thought it was a good juncture to bring our second date to a close. I escorted Sweet Thing to her over-sized 4×4 and I kissed her goodbye on the lips. I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a comfortable hug. She was much skinnier than her photos let on.

When she got home she sent me the following text message:

I had a lovely day today and it was great getting to know you better. I’m looking forward to seeing you again so perhaps we should get something in the diary. 🙂 x

If I could ignore the teeth issue, then Sweet Thing seemed to have the makings of the person I was looking for. I decided to see where things led with her.

The next day I bought a red sports car. It was something I had always wanted. I could hear people say, “Ah! It’s a mid-life crisis car,” and perhaps they were right. A man in his early forties in a red sports car is a bit of a cliché, but as clichés go, it’s one of the best.

It was all in keeping with one of the goals I had set myself in life: to drive over Tower Bridge in London in a red sports car with an attractive blonde by my side. If Sweet Thing didn’t smile, she was attractive.

It’s important to have goals in life.

Date #11 – Sweet Thing had proven a barren wasteland for me, having had no dates off it in six months, but not for a want of trying. As my subscription neared it’s demise I decided to broaden my search area, just to see if there was someone of interest further away than I deemed practical. Perhaps I’d go a few extra miles for true love. One profile stood out and not expecting to hear from her, I nevertheless took the time to write a polite, personalised message.

The following words from her profile told me that we were looking for the same thing:

I’m looking for a companion, a soul mate, a friend, a lover, someone to laugh with, share with, discover with and enjoy time with. Ideally I would like to meet someone who is financially solvent, someone who is honest and has integrity and someone who makes me laugh and will laugh with me!

Bizarrely eHarmony had suggested her as a potential match a few weeks previously but I ignored it because of the distance involved. She also seemed a little too chubby in her photos; we all have a chubby limit.

It was few days after Xmas when we established contact via’s email system and not long after we swapped mobile phone numbers and then quickly agreed to get together for a date. She suggested a pub in a town halfway between where we lived. I liked her decisiveness.

On 29th December I walked in to a surprisingly fancy pub in a small no-horse town in the middle of nowhere. It was a Tudor-style pub with low beams, the type that makes fools out of fully-grown men as they bang their heads. I easily spotted her standing at the bar counter as she was the only tall blonde to be seen. She was wearing a long, black leather coat and her blonde hair sat nicely on her shoulders. I liked what I saw and she wasn’t chubby at all, on the slender side in fact. She didn’t notice me as I approached and when she lifted her head, sensing that someone was in her presence, our eyes locked and hers went like saucers.

I didn’t say a word. I let the moment linger. We were never going to have that moment again, so I wanted our silence to make it memorable. When her eyes returned to normality, I decided that it was time to smile at her. She smiled too…

It was a bit like this:





She had really bad teeth. They were pointing in various directions and some were unusually large. Thankfully they weren’t discoloured. Nevertheless, the shock of this caused me to stand erect and bang my head on one of those fucking silly, low-hanging beams.

Stupid Boy wanted a memorable first meeting moment. He got it.

I don’t think she noticed my reaction. We sat down to a meal and conversation flowed naturally. After a while I had stopped stealing glances at her teeth because I found her personality engaging. She had a very sweet, bubbly, open and honest way about her that I liked and found refreshing after my recent experiences.

In my head I called her ‘Sweet Thing’.

She was English, recently turned forty, had started her own business at a very young age and had made a success of it, which greatly impressed me. I’m something of a serial entrepreneur having started and built a few businesses too, so I knew the magnitude of her achievement.

Hours flew by as we happily chatted away while sharing a meal. I could see that she was becoming increasingly comfortable with me, given that her body language had relaxed, she was not hiding her toothy smile when I made her laugh and she was asking lots of questions. There was good vibe between us.

One of my favourite questions to ask a date is, “Where would you like to travel to and what would you do there?” Her response was, “I’ve always wanted to rent a Winnebago and drive it from Chicago to Los Angeles along Route 66.” I liked the sound of that and told her so.

After more banter, Sweet Thing told me that she had to go home to walk her dog before it became too dark. The date ended with her offering to pay her half, but with me refusing and insisting on paying for it all. I believe that the gentleman should always pay for the meals when out on a date. She thanked me and I walked Sweet Thing to her car, which was a massive black 4×4 (a SUV to my North American cousins) with a personalised number plate. I became very embarrassed by my puny, little Corolla which I did not want her to see. I kissed her goodbye on the cheek and she drove off.

If I ignored the teeth issue, then I sensed something of a future with her. From our chat it was obvious that we did indeed want the same things from the future and we were both intent on sharing it with someone. I drove home with a warm little buzz on the back of my brain. When I got home she had sent me a text message that read:

Thank you for a lovely afternoon – both lunch and your company were great. I hope you got home safely x

My response:

I’m looking forward to seeing you again if you’re keen to repeat the experience too… 😉

Within ten minutes her response was:

Yes, very keen to meet you again. x

I decided to explore further with her. I just had to look past the teeth issue and accept that nobody is perfect.

Easier said than done…

Who am I looking for?


She must be Caucasian with blonde or light brown hair, shorter than me, preferably fitting snugly under my chin, average or slender frame, petite is nice too, but not too short so that we look odd together. A couple of years older but no more than 10 years younger; we wouldn’t have similar tastes in much otherwise methinks.

She should be a non-smoker and abhor drug use. She should have no tattoos. She should preferably have large breasts; c-cup minimum.

She should be physically fit and not a slob. It would be helpful if we had a similar energy level, so that she isn’t hyper-active or manic-depressant compared to me.

I find her physically attractive and the feeling should be mutual. When I look at her I should involuntarily exhale and something inside should go soft.

We should live within an hour’s travelling time from each other. We should have similar dietary requirements, i.e. no vegans, vegetarians, pescatarians or belly-button fluff eaters.

We should ideally be sexually compatible. A low libido can be a problem as can her being a prude. Sex should be important and fun to her, but she shouldn’t have any weird fetish or perversion.



She shouldn’t be submissive or a tyrant, just strong enough to have her own ideas but not selfish in any way and always having to have her way. She should be smart enough to know how to deal with me, but pure of spirit and good in heart not to take advantage of me, deceive me or take me for granted.

She shouldn’t have or want children.

She should be emotionally healthy and not hung up on previous boyfriends or be damaged by failed relationships. She should know what she wants from life and be a finished article.

Somebody sane, not prone to extremes in negative behaviour and should be down-to-earth.

I’m agnostic but wouldn’t have a problem if she observed a faith as long as she didn’t expect me to join in.

She should be intelligent, but not a nerd.

She should be a good cook and be house-proud, but not be OCD.

She should be effortlessly feminine and not a tom-boy who can drink me under the table. She should dress well, but not be a slavish fashionista. She should be refined and elegant; a true lady.

She should have a way about her that I find beguiling.



We should have chemistry and I should secretly be in awe of her. We will always have lots to talk about. We should have similar interests, such as history, reading, sport (hopefully a rugby fan) and travel. Differing tastes in movies and music is not a bad thing so that we broaden each other’s horizons.

She should support me or back me up, no matter what, even if afterwards she privately and tactfully told me that she thought I was in the wrong.

We should want the same things from the future and have the life experience to find a mechanism that works for us when it comes to dealing with inevitable differences.

We should work well together, complimenting each other’s strengths and weaknesses – true partners; infinitely better for being together.

She should have her own money and not be looking to live off of me.

I should feel proud to have her by my side at all times; she should never embarrass me or herself in public.

I should be prepared to die to protect her. She should invoke that strength of passion within me. Having her in my life should give it a greater purpose than the pointless, selfish existence I have led so far. That said, I have an expensively won freedom that I am enjoying, so I won’t be trading it in easily or cheaply – she has to be worth it.

I’m not interested in a short-term relationship. I want to find “Her”, to cherish her, please her, protect her, love her, for the rest of my life. I want her to be able to believe in me in the same way that I believe in her.

A vitally important factor is that we have a similar sense of humour. I believe that a couple that laughs together, stays together.

It is the “not wanting children” bit that is a particularly big challenge for me. Roughly speaking, 90% of women want children and 5% are lesbian. Of the remaining 5%, half are smokers. Of this remaining 2.5%, I’m only interested in the blondes. Then I’m only interested in ladies that I find attractive AND we have chemistry. Then add in all my criteria above.

Too prescriptive and restrictive? Should I give up now?

Of course I know that the likelihood of such a woman existing is small and the chances of finding her even smaller. The beautiful truth is that all these factors are up for negotiation or compromise if that all-important “chemistry” is there.

That hard-to-define feeling, a knowing, that when I look at her and merely think of her, that something inside me stirs and feels at one with her. I want that feeling of knowing that I would happily forsake all other women because I have her in my life. I would be happy to accept that I would spend the remainder of my ever-dwindling days and nights with her.

Luckily I live just outside London, a large city where half the women aged 25 to 45 are single. London is a city of lonely, single people, characterised by hard-working professionals who crave having someone to make life special.

You’ll be surprised by how many dates I’ve been on in my quest to find Her…

The NutSlut – Final Part

Another tweet lead to something called Killing Kittens. The name is a misnomer for something less murderous, but equally deviant. It’s a private club for high-flying women who enjoy the sensual side of life, but with a twist. Men are not allowed to be members, but are instead, in effect, mere playthings for these women. How it works is that men are invited to attend an event, but are not allowed to approach any of the women. Only women approach men. An exchange of ideas or requests ensues and the man then follows his new companion. The venue changes each month and usually involves numerous rooms, some with beds. What then happens between a couple (or more) is amongst consenting adults.

It reminded me of some scenes from Eyes Wide Shut where masked men and women gather in a secluded countryside mansion to fornicate in public, usually being watched by lifeless voyeurs. The difference at a Killing Kittens event is that it’s in central London. My mind boggled at the possibilities of what happens at such a gathering of the sexually aggressive and promiscuous. It must be an incredibly powerful, almost intoxicating experience for a woman to walk up to a man of her choosing and then have him follow her to a private room for them to do as she pleases. Apparently the women pay a membership fee and get regular communication from the club via email. Men are not allowed as members and are sponsored or invited by members, in exchange for a hefty fee each time that they are allowed to attend an event. This was very much a club for modern-day Amazons.

NutSlut also made mention of something called FetLife where she had an account. I had never heard of it and my research told me that it’s a “website for BDSM, fetishes and kink”. I thought BDSM and fetishes were a kink. Goes to show what I knew…then. People with similar interests then contact each other and almost certainly eventually meet to indulge in their mutual “thang”.

One of her photos also revealed her surname, so I Googled her full name and found her LinkedIn profile. She was a very senior manager in a government department. This really surprised me. Her public face and especially her OKCupid profile, which was lengthy and in which she had answered hundreds of questions, gave no hint of the fact that her sexuality was so large and pivotal to who and how she was. Not being able to discern this about her bothered me because how many women would I be meeting who would be like her and I wouldn’t know it.

I wanted to meet this NutSlut, largely out of a desire to know what she was like in real life. I hoped to spot a tell-tale sign that a woman like her gives out, in case I came across more women like her, I knew what I was dealing with. It was all part and parcel of my campaign to learn as much as I could about the so-called “fairer sex”. NutSlut and I had swapped mobile phone numbers and I decided to call her. I got her voicemail and left a polite and straightforward message suggesting that we meet. Silence. No response. No more emails or text massages. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and called her again the next day. Once again I left a short message. Once again stony cold silence. I left matters there. I have never heard from her since.

In May 2014, while writing this piece, I revisited her online presence to see that circumstances had changed for her. Her blog site was closed down, her Twitter account was locked down and her FetLife profile was gone as was her OKCupid profile.

On her Facebook page she had photographs of herself and her new boyfriend. He was nothing like what I expected. He was short i.e. as tall as her, dark hair badly balding, somewhat ugly with a big nose and soft eyes, huge eyebrows, weathered looking, sporting a beer belly. He seemed very ordinary compared to vivacious her. He must have had a fantastic personality, a fat bank balance or he could lick his ugly eyebrows. Perhaps under all that frumpiness he was as kinky as her? I was happy for her, if that was the case. If they hadn’t met at some deviant soiree, had she told him of her sexual life before they met? If she hadn’t, I wonder what will happen when he finds out.

If he doesn’t know and then finds out later…the poor bastard. I know exactly how he’s going to feel. Something similar happened to me, but that’s a story for another day.

My father’s Good Time Girl Rule applied to NutSlut. When I turned thirteen, my father gave me a brilliant piece of advice. He said, “My boy, there are only two types of women in the world. Good Girls and Good-Time Girls. Never try to have a relationship with the latter.”

This might seem crass or humorous, but it is actually brilliant advice. It is subtle in its complexity. Angle one: you need to discern whether a woman is a good girl. Angle two: If you decide that she is not a good girl and she is therefore a good-time girl, don’t get your heart set on her. Angle three: if you want and she’s amenable, just have a good time with her, whatever that might be in your book. Angle four: good-time girls will break your heart. Angle five: fun with a good-time girl will come to an end. The part I’ve struggled with is the first angle; I haven’t mastered how to quickly and accurately determine if a woman is a good girl.

That is why I was disappointed to not meet NutSlut.

How many other women like her are out there? I was going to find out…

Lessons learned: 1) There are highly promiscuous women in the world 2) Behind a dating site profile there lurks a different person compared to the sanitized façade presented. 3) Must remember to use my father’s Good Girl filter when on dates.

The NutSlut

My head was still spinning from my experience with Irish Eyes when shortly before Christmas I got a message on HotorNot. I hadn’t been on that site in a while, largely only having used it in the past to get some photos rated. It was one of the few messages I had ever received from that site, so I was surprised when it arrived. More out of curiosity than anything else I read the short and friendly message. It was from a 37 year-old lady somewhere in London who shared an appreciation for Californication. Visually she wasn’t my type, but her profile certainly had what I was looking for.

We started swapping messages and the intensity of communication became almost instantaneous. We were both furiously writing to each other before the next message came in. We obviously hit it off via email. Knowing that I had to escalate to suggesting a meeting in person, I did so. It turned out that she was sitting in Prague airport, waiting for her flight back to London. I didn’t hold much hope for actually ever meeting her, so in an effort to find out more about the female psyche, I decided to turn the conversation naughty. She responded very well as I gradually increased the volume on the naughtiness factor. We were certainly both having fun, albeit via devices.

Over the next day, Xmas eve, we swapped dozens more messages. It turned out that she was at her parent’s home, which, as luck would have it, was in the same small town I would be spending Xmas day with friends of mine. I suggested just a quick meeting for the next day seeing as we were in such close proximity. Communication faltered and then died. She obviously didn’t like this idea. Nevertheless I put together a Xmas present of chocolate, just in case we did meet on the day.

Xmas Day came and went and on Boxing Day she resumed messaging me. She offered a lame excuse as to why messages ceased. I wasn’t put out at all because I didn’t hold much hope for any kind of future with her. I saw the opportunity to learn about things that I had very little knowledge and experience of, albeit via messaging.

I got to swapping details of sexual experiences with her. She was quite happy to reciprocate. We were turning each other on. I particularly enjoyed her account of being seduced in to a threesome with 2 other guys and what they did to her and made her do for them. It was cock stiffening stuff.

I then dared her to send me a naughty picture of herself. I gave her my mobile phone number and within minutes a text message arrived with an attachment. My phone couldn’t open the attachment (which was her naughty photo) , so I suggested that she email it to me as well. She duly complied. It was a photo of her standing naked in front of a mirror, her legs coyly crossed, one arm draped across her very large breasts, the other hand holding her iPhone which was taking the picture. I found her body moderately attractive.

The waif-like anorexic stick insects of catwalks and Photoshopped magazines do nothing for me. I like a woman’s body to have substance. I like the curves. In our previous discourse of emails she told me that she E-cup breasts – and they were certainly that. They were almost perfect in my eyes. I could almost feel them in my hands. I would be quite happy to see how well her body complimented mine.

So now I had her email address. What to do with it? Out of curiosity, I decided to Google it. I got quite a surprise at what Google told me. It lead me on a trail of websites the likes I which I had never seen or heard of before. It was a labyrinth of Pandora’s boxes…or should that be NutSlut boxes? That’s what I decided to call her because from her messages I got the impression that she was nuts and a slut.

Her email address first led to a Twitter account. This account showed an almost maniacal posting regime. Every few minutes, all day long, day after day she was posting some comment, usually an attention-seeking plea in disguise. Also on her Twitter account were dozens of photographs, covering a plethora of topics, but usually a self-shot pic of her posing in front of her mirror in her bedroom, usually in lingerie. Disturbingly I also saw a couple of photos that were of bruises, cuts and lacerations to various parts of her body.

Other tweets described her sexual adventures, such as sitting in a bar in Spain while not wearing any underwear, getting chatted up by men and letting them put their hands up her skirt. NutSlut seemed to like going away for city breaks on weekends to places in Europe with the intent of having a one-night stand with a stranger or two; then tweeting about it while it was happening or the morning after, occasionally posting photos of the guy involved.

Another notable tweet involved her showing screen-shots of messages that she had swapped with a guy on OKCupid. (Yes, I went and found her profile there.)

He commented on finding her Twitter feed and that he found her posting regimen to be that of an attention-seeking slut. She took umbrage to this and railed about it on Twitter for several hours, posting a tweet almost every minute as any thought entered her head. That showed him, heh?

Another link on Google results led to a website that she owned and periodically posted blogs on. It was all about her being the submissive slave in a loveless threesome with another couple. It was a diary of their encounters, with lurid details of how she was dominated, abused and exploited by this married couple. NutSlut willingly and submissively complied with their every command, no matter how disgusting, degrading or humiliating. She especially enjoyed being made to eat the man’s cum out of the woman’s pussy. It was cock-hardening reading, much more enthralling than 50 Shades of Boredom.

This was not the sort of woman that I wanted to share my life with. For me to love someone, I have to respect them. Nevertheless, her sordid lifestyle was fascinating to me, so I continued my “research” which was starting to feel more like more of an education than what I wanted. I soldiered on…

One of her tweets on Twitter made mention of something called Torture Garden. NutSlut described how once a month people got dressed up in their favourite fetish gear (leathers, collars, anything you care to think of) and would queue to enter a venue somewhere in central London. Inside they would slowly and deliberately end up indulging their private desires in public. She described how she was publicly spanked by total strangers. On one occasion it turned in to something of a beating, which was the post that had the disturbing photos of her bruises. NutSlut was quite content to be surrounded by total strangers, wearing very little and be made to get down on her hands and knees, her milky-white breasts falling out of her corset. A stranger would pull her knickers down around her thighs, her plump white backside exposed for all to see. She was then publicly abused and humiliated by any stranger (male or female) who deigned to lay a hand or paddle or whip on her.

To be continued…