Wild Child and Temptation

Wild Child claims to be house-hunting again the following weekend. I say ‘claims’ because she tells me about everything else in her life in detail, no matter how frivolous or trivial, but never says a word about her home viewings on the weekends. I’m suspicious and it doesn’t sit well with my trust issues that I realize I have inherited from my previous relationships. However, I’m not overly concerned because I’m not sensing a serious relationship with her. I just want to fuck her and feel the weight of her breasts in my hands. Is that too much to ask? Whaaat?! No marks for honesty?!

It’s Friday evening straight after work and I meet Wild Child at my town’s train station. We go to a Chinese takeaway to get some msg-rich food. Then it’s time for my apartment test: where I get to see if a woman is put off by my home and if she is, I then take it that she’s after a man with money. I think Wild Child is because when she phoned me the previous night, it was her idea to visit me. I got the distinct impression that she wanted to see my home. I don’t care what she thinks of my place, but I do want to see if her behaviour towards me changes afterwards.

As we enter my lounge I make an effort to face her so that I can see her reaction. Her face falls; she’s unimpressed. I thought this would happen. Her opinion of me has now taken a turn for the worse. That’s fine, now I know. It just confirms that she’s not right for me. The One would not be phased by my current home.

“It’s kind of basic,” is what she can’t help but blurt out.

“I call it Spartan or minimalist myself,” I retort.

I realize that this might even be the last time we see each other. If she’s a gold-digger then she’s ready to run away. I had better see how far I can progress with my seduction.

We have dinner at my dining table from IKEA, eating with cutlery from there too. (The plates are very expensive though.) As usual she has a lot to say for herself. I try to interject but she talks over me. I don’t think that she means to interrupt people, but she does seem to randomly remember things and get really excited about them.

Afterwards we end up sitting on my sofa watching the first episodes of Californication. Wild Child has never even heard of it and instantly loves it. Mercifully it also causes her to shut up, something I wasn’t counting on. From my previous experiences I’ve learned that by the end of the second episode a woman is slightly turned on. I think it’s the whole sexual overtone of the series that, after an hour, leads to a woman feeling slightly frisky. That’s when it’s time for me to make my move.

I lean over to Wild Child and we start kissing, carrying on from where we had left off on Saturday night. I let this go on for a while because I’m learning that most women enjoy kissing; it’s foreplay to them. It gets them wet if you do it properly. Once turned on enough then I can lead them into temptation and I’ll take all the credit or blame for whatever happens. I think that women want to be seduced, to be ravished, taken advantage of, but they don’t want to initiate it. They want the man to lead so that they can preserve a sense of modesty after having done very immodest things with him.

To this end then I take Wild Child’s hand and place it on my crotch so that she can feel my now raging boner. She lets off one of her little girlish giggles, keeps kissing me and grips my cock a little harder through my work trousers. Her giving it little tugs only makes me hornier. She makes approving sounds as she lets her tongue run wild in my mouth. She certainly likes to use her tongue. If that’s her thing, if that’s what turns her on, I’ll gladly let her indulge herself.

After a minute or so (could be less, it feels like an eternity) I unzip my trousers and pull my cock out. Wild Child stops kissing me, grips it in her hand and takes a good long look at it. She doesn’t say a word and resumes giving a little, gentle tugjob. She didn’t seem uncomfortable or unperturbed at all. This is nothing unusual to her. French kissing is her first love and she resumes doing this. I was kind of hoping, neigh, expecting that she’d make like Krazy Girl and go down on my cock. No, she wants to assault my mouth with her tongue, like Baltic Babe used to.

Okay, I’ll see you your mouth-raping and raise you a bit of fondling. The moment I had been looking forward to had arrived. I put a hand on her waist and start slowly rubbing up and down, just for her to get used to my touch. I slide my hand towards me, crossing her stomach and then back up again. This makes her inhale, making her breasts more prominent. Excellent.

I slide a hand up and over one of her breasts and she giggles. She’s used to this, but I guess all big-breasted girls are. We men are predictable creatures; most of us like boobies and the bigger, the better. Sorry small-boobed ladies, it’s the truth, but please don’t go off getting implants because no man likes the feel of those. Take solace in the fact that in later life your mammaries will still be where they always were and not around your stomach. Also, you won’t have men dating you simply because they want to play with your funbags.

Wild Child’s breast is large and my hand doesn’t fully cup it. Impressive, but surely she suffers from back pain, or do I still have hearing all about that to look forward to? I wonder what size over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder she wears, so I ask.

“What cup size are you?”

“I’m a g-cup,” she replies with a knowing smile.

“G?! Jeezus, now those I have to see,” I say losing control and trying to lift up her top.

She swats my hand away playfully while keeping her other hand firmly on my cock. I’m not so easily dissuaded, so I slide my hand under her top and cup her breast in the bra. She giggles and I feel her boob wobble in my hand. It’s a wonderful sensation. I’m not stopping there though and I quickly slip my hand under her bra, lifting the cups above her boobs, but I can’t see anything because her top’s still in the way. I take the nearest exposed breast into my hand and it feels glorious. It is easily the biggest tit my hand has ever felt. Such a shame I can’t see them yet.

“Right, that’s all you’re getting mister,” Wild Child says, expertly pushing my hand down from her chest with her one hand and letting go of my cock with the other at the same time.

I lie next to her, not having given up hope of going all the way with her, just taking a breather, waiting for her to catch up. I notice her looking at my cock.

“Would you like to say hello to him?” I ask.

To be continued…

My Xmas present to you

I hope that my sharing of my dating experiences, mishaps and insights has provided you with not just entertainment, but also with some food for thought.

That it takes you and I to somewhere only we know.

In the year ahead there will be much more to come from my quest and I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts and wisdom, because through sharing our ideas we are both better for it. It doesn’t cost anything.

Now, for my present to you.

I hope that it makes your heart smile.

Merry Christmas.

The Grey Knight

(You might want to watch this video in fullscreen mode.)

Lily Allen – Somewhere Only We Know

By the way, there’s something about you that I’m dying to know…

Wild Child and the Suicide Blonde

It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m at a shopping mall outside London, waiting for Wild Child. I’m leaning against a railing looking down at a set of escalators below, trying to spot her. I notice a blonde woman with large breasts standing on a step as it ascends. She gets to the top and turns around. It’s Wild Child! She’s gone blonde, a bright yellowy blonde.

The transformation is startling and I swallow hard. I think that our first impressions of someone’s appearance is somehow indelibly etched in our mind’s eye, our lasting memory of them. If you meet a person with a certain hair colour, that’s pretty much how you’ll remember them. (In the same way that I remember the Picky Pole of the previous Sunday, except in her case it was the shabby clothes.) A radical change in appearance causes us to do a double-take and some time is required to make any kind of mental adjustment about how you perceive that person.

“Wow! That’s quite a change,” I say with a smile. It kind of suits her.

“You like?” Wild Child asks.

“Yes, I do,” I say with a degree of honesty. It’s my sense of surprise that might hint at a reservation.

“I’ve been meaning to do it for a while,” she says with a giggle that make her breasts wobble.

We catch a movie and afterwards end up in a Mexican restaurant. We start chatting. Wait, let me correct that; she starts chatting, I start listening. She doesn’t ask any questions about me, what I’ve done or what I think about something. No, Wild Child just keeps going with her vagina monologue. Can I be blamed for being reduced to staring at her tits when she’s not looking?

This woman is verbally incontinent. She prattles on about her shitty job, her shitty bosses, her shitty commute, the shitty place she’s sharing with some shitty guy, her shitty parents, her shitty ex-friends. I get to hear all of that in graphic detail. Deep joy. For entertainment value she starts telling me about all the things she read this week in her favourite celebrity gossip magazines.

Okay, so we’re intellectually mismatched. However, when life hands me lemons, I make lemonade. People like me cause communism. I always try to make the best of any situation. I think it’s a commendable character trait. So, all the time she’s talking, I’m sitting there wondering what her breasts feel like. Would she shut up if I slid my cock between her tits? Probably not. I bet she even talks in her sleep.

It’s getting late and Wild Child tells me that she needs to get to the train station to get a train back to her town. I had anticipated this and have brought my red sports car. She’s thrilled when she sees it; the adrenaline junkie in her is aroused. I’m in a generous mood and ask Wild Child for her postcode. She tells me then thinks about why I had asked that. As the realization dawns on her, I’ve already typed it into my sat-nav and away we go.

We’re speeding along a deserted motorway when she says to me, “Do you see that pub over there?” pointing towards a solitary building with a large car park sited just off the motorway. She does seem to know a lot of desolate places next to motorways.

“That’s not an ordinary pub. That’s a swingers club,” she says.

“And how do you know this?” I ask, excited at the prospect of finding out something naughty.

“Because I’ve been in there,” she says proudly before realizing what she just said.

“Do tell more, “ I coax.

“Well, an ex-boyfriend and I accidentally went in there once, thinking it was a regular pub,” she says. I wonder if the boyfriend was that innocent about that accident.

“What did you see in there?” I ask.

“A lot of old, fat people having sex,” she says with a giggle that makes her chest heave. Yes, I can spot that out of the corner of my eye even as I’m doing a hundred miles an hour.

“Did you join in?” I ask, pushing my luck.

“No. My ex-boyfriend wanted to, but I wasn’t interested,” she answers.

That little titbit reinforces my belief that she’s a reformed Good-Time Girl. What other stories does she have in her? I decide to concentrate on my driving, otherwise I might get too excited and cause an accident. Naughty stories will have to wait for another time. I reckon she has loads of stories.

We arrive at her home nearly an hour later and I decide it’s time for our first kiss. I know that we have no long-term potential and are woefully mismatched on fundamental levels, but I do want to seduce her.

“Thank you for a lovely evening. You’re such a good conversationalist,” she says without a hint of irony. It’s because I didn’t want to interrupt you, I think to myself.

I lean over towards her and look her in the eyes. She seems surprised but gets what I’m suggesting and giggles once, then leans in towards me too. Our lips lock gently and I hear her take a breath in through her nose. A couple of seconds later her little tongue shoots into my mouth. It tastes of guacamole.

There was a time when I would have flinched at having someone else’s tongue in my mouth, but I’ve learned not to, but instead let her do what she wants. Wild Child runs her tongue all over the inside of my mouth. I feel her spine stiffen; she’s enjoying herself. I resist the urge to put my hands on her body because I know I might give into temptation and grab a boob. Not very classy if I did that. One base at a time.

I remember to do my pussy-mouth test and slip my own tongue into her mouth for a few seconds. She thinks I’m teasing her, but the truth is I’m inspecting her. Yep, her mouth doesn’t feel tight or too wide, her pussy is likely to be the same, so she can handle my cock. Time will tell.

I’ve got what I needed to know, so I pull away, knowing that teasing her like that will leave her wanting more. Wild Child exhales, opens her eyes and smiles at me.

Without another word she gets out of my car and I watch her go through her doorway. She doesn’t look back.

The next time we get together, I’m going to try to seduce her.

INXS – Suicide Blonde

Date #20 – The Picky Pole

The blonde Eastern European was Polish, she told me so in the emails we exchanged before agreeing to meet up on Sunday. I’ve never dated a Polish girl before, so I was curious about what that would be like. My experiences with Baltic Babe, Fitness Freak and the Hirsute Russian have shown me that Eastern European women are different compared to their English counterparts. It’s a difference I find alluring.

On the Thursday, while I was slaving away at that awful thing called my job, I get a text message from the Pole. (As part of agreeing to meet for a date, I always provide my phone number so that on the day I can be contacted. I think it also solidifies the fact that things are becoming more real, which is exciting.) I was pleased that she felt confident enough to text me first, it shows a bit of strength of character and a confidence that I like.

She was inviting me to join her that evening at the theatre. I like spontaneity so I say yes. She replies that she will see if she can get an extra ticket for me. I decide to call her and talk, now that I have her number, instead of having text messages flying backwards and forwards. She seemed surprised to speak to me, but we chat amiably. I was concerned that she might be hiding her poor English language skills behind a device, but my fear is misplaced because her English is excellent. She’s polite with a hint of feistiness. Sadly tickets weren’t available and we had to drop the idea, but I appreciated the initiative shown. She seemed different to anyone else I’ve encountered at this stage of dating.

Could she be The One?

It’s a beautiful Sunday at noon and I’m standing at my usual spot outside Tower Hill Tube station. I’m early because I don’t like keeping a lady waiting; it’s not a great start to the date for her. I’m wearing smart blue jeans, white shirt, brownish jacket and brown ankle boots. I look good and feel good. I’m looking forward to this date, something tells me it’s going to be memorable.

I spot the Pole in an approaching crowd and the initial impression is disappointing. She’s wearing old, faded jeans, a scruffy red sweater with a hole in it and white trainers. You only get one chance at making a good first impression and she got it wrong. We were badly mismatched in terms of style.

Nevertheless she has a pretty face, lovely blue eyes, natural blonde hair and a hint of boobage. Fashion isn’t a high priority to me, so I let her faux pas slide and decide to focus on the person inside the shabby clothes. Her profile says that she is 36 years old and five foot five inches tall, which she certainly is. She also describes herself on her profile as ‘easy-going, relaxed and fun’.

I kiss her hello on a cheek to which she smiles politely. I’m so taken aback at her poor dress sense that I don’t notice if she made the look that a woman makes when she fancies a man. I tell her that I’m taking her somewhere special for lunch. As we approach the stairs that go down to the walkway that leads to St Katharine Docks, I slip into my usual routine to test her sense of humour and do another ‘does she fancy me’ test.

“Tell me, do you like chicken?” I asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Then take a wing,” I say and offer her my arm.

“Er, no thanks. I can manage,” she replies, to my amazement.

She was the first woman to decline my gesture and she also didn’t laugh. It appears that she doesn’t like the look of me. The sense of humour might be lost in translation. This could be a long afternoon. I’ll give her time to warm up.

As we approach the road that leads onto Tower Bridge, she says to me, “Hey, why don’t we go this way?”

“Uhm, no the path to where I’m taking you for lunch is this way,” I say with a smile. She doesn’t know where we’re going so is she feeling unsafe? I’ll give it time, she’ll see that she’s safe with me.

We approach the Dickens Inn and I tell her that the middle floor, on the balcony, is where we’ll be having lunch. To which she responds, “Why don’t we go to the top floor. The view will be better.”

“Er, we can’t because you need a reservation and there’s a dress code,” is all I say. I wonder if she understands that the clothes she’s wearing is not acceptable in high-end eateries, but I don’t want to make her feel bad, so I say nothing more.

The menu at the Dickens Inn is generous and varied. It even has vegetarian dishes. The main cuisines are Italian, with pizza being their speciality and Mexican. Who doesn’t like either of those? This Pole didn’t. Eventually she relents and orders a pizza, while voicing displeasure at the fact that they didn’t have any Polish beers in the pub on the ground floor.

I was starting to think of her as the Picky Pole.

And that pretty much was how the afternoon unfolded. She was constantly picky about everything. Every wine on the wine list had to be discussed. The waiter had to go find out what kind of cheese was going to be used on her pizza. We had to move to another table as she found the first one too wobbly for her liking, despite my doing a good improvisation with a napkin to steady it.

I notice something else too. No topic of conversation lasts too long before she abruptly changes it to something totally unrelated. Maybe I was one of her first dates after a bad break-up and she was nervous? No, nervous is not a word I would use to describe her. A better term would be ‘hard work’. She was constantly flitting from one thing to another, never allowing anything to reach its natural ending, always hurrying off to something new and different. Nothing was allowed to mature, to be enjoyed to its full. She seemed driven by an almost insane need to constantly be starting something new.

Was this how she conducted her life? Is this how she came to be in London? How long before she flitted off somewhere else? Is this why she’s single?

After lunch I suggest that we go for a walk along the Southbank. It’s a perfect sunny day in early June, the Thames is majestic, there’s a happy vibe in the air from all the awestruck tourists around us…and I do like the look of her. On a score out of ten I’ll give her one (wink). I’ll give it time for her to calm down and be more comfortable with me.

As we approach the Tate Modern art gallery, she says, “Hey, let’s go in there” to which I agree. Modern art isn’t my thing but I’m keen to see her in a tranquil environment. Let’s see if any of it rubs off on her and her behaviour moderates.

Nope. She seems to want to move from exhibition room to room as quickly as possible. Is there some kind of race going on that I wasn’t aware of? I keep up with her and then there comes a point when she wants to move onto the next room. I decide to entertain myself at her expense and stay put to see what she will do. I feign interest in something that someone had thrown out with the garbage and now someone else is trying pass off as art. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her getting frustrated at waiting for me. Eventually she moves off without me.

I don’t know what her problem is, but I want nothing to do with it. She lied on her profile; she’s not easy-going, not relaxed, nor fun. She’s not for me. I’m wasting my time here; I may as well call this a dead loss and go home. I’m not enjoying this.

I tell her that I have to go and she says that she has to too. I escort her to a nearby bus-stop and wait with her until her bus arrives. Just before she boards it, I say to her “If you’d like to see me again, send me a message.” She says nothing, just smiles and boards the bus. I feel no compulsion to kiss her goodbye.

I’m utterly disappointed in how this date turned out. She’s high-maintenance, picky and slightly pushy. Not feminine or elegant at all. I have no desire to ever see her again.

Then that malicious imp Cupid toys with me.

My train home is crowded and I end up standing near a door. In typical London-commuter fashion I pretend to stare out the window into the gloom outside, but I’m actually looking at a scene reflected in the window. Opposite me is a man in a wheelchair. He’s wearing a white rugby jersey and blue jeans. His hair is greying, wrinkles abound, but he still has a youthful energy about his face. I would say he is in his mid-fifties. His legs from the waist down look lifeless and thin. He seems uncertain about how stable his position is as the train rocks when it hits high speed, but he keeps smiling.

He’s looking up and smiling at the women next to him. She seems the same age, perhaps slightly younger. She’s carrying a plastic shopping bag crammed with what looks like books, magazines and cold-drinks. They’re engaged in a light-hearted conversation, both occasionally laugh. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I notice their wedding rings which look similar. She straightens an errant hair on his head, runs the side of her finger along his jaw and smiles at him; a loving smile.

She takes a magazine out of the bag and sits on his lap, as if she has done it thousands of times before, as if it is the most natural thing in the world to do. He puts a protective arm around her hip. She starts flipping through the magazine and he shows interest. Now and again she stops at a page, points something out and they discuss it. Their eyes twinkle at each other, like lovestruck teenagers. They’re in their own world, a world for two and are oblivious of the voyeur, the silent intruder that is me.

How long had they been together? Did they know each other before he lost the use of his legs? Or did Fate decree that this had to happen before they met? Was this the price he had to pay in exchange for who and what is probably the best thing to ever happen to him?

I felt pleased for him for having someone like her in his life. Another feeling wells up inside me though, a feeling that I’m not comfortable or too familiar with because it’s not in my nature, but I felt a bit jealous of him. Yes, I was jealous of a cripple. Jealous because he had the one thing that I want more than anything else, he has the love of a good woman. A woman who is obviously kind of heart and pure in spirit. A woman who sees him for who he is and not what he lacks.

Would I give my legs in exchange for having a woman like that in my life?

Gladly.

Will Young – Jealousy

Wild Child reveals more

I phone Wild Child to arrange another date and she says to me that the following weekend she is house-hunting in London. I offer to accompany her, but she declines so quickly that it felt like a knee-jerk rejection. I leave it open-ended as to when we next see each other. I’m in no hurry because I’ve agreed to meet the blonde Eastern European on Sunday for lunch. It’s early days, just one date so far and what discomfort I might have felt in the past about double-dating is now gone.

On the Thursday night Wild Child phones to tell me that she has taken the Friday off and is wondering if I wanted to get together for lunch. I instantly agree, not just because I want to see her again, but also because there is another matter that I need to take care on a weekday. On Friday morning I call in sick at work, something I haven’t done in over fifteen years.

By 9am I’m outside the local sexual health clinic, along with some prize flotsam and jetsam of society. It’s a deja vu experience from the previous time I was here. [http://www.meanddating.com/2014/02/an-innocent-man-goes-to-a-std-clinic-thursday-6th-september/] The anal sex experience with Krazy Girl has been playing on my mind and enough time has now passed for a test to be valid. [http://www.meanddating.com/2014/07/that-unforgettable-sunday-morning-with-krazy-girl-final-part/] Given how easy she was to bed and how skilled she was in all matters sexual, especially considering her age, who knows where she has been and what she might have…and I now have. I need clarity and peace of mind. I don’t want to have caught anything nor do I want to infect anybody else. I want to have a clean bill of health at all times and especially so when I meet The One.

It was the same nurse as I had seen the previous time I was here and as she was about to plunge that nasty piece of plastic down my urethra, I said to her, “You know, we really must stop meeting like this.” She didn’t bad an eye-lid, probably totally focussed on getting some job satisfaction. I suspect that a significant percentage of women find delight in doing nasty and naughty things to men’s willies.

By noon I’m standing outside a pub in a hamlet next to a motorway. There’s about a dozen houses and two pubs, that’s all there is to this blight on the landscape. The people who live here must have a serious drinking problem to keep these pubs in business. It isn’t lost on me that once again I’m meeting Wild Child in the middle of nowhere. How does she find these places? Is she a serial dater and her dates suggest all sorts of interesting places?

Again I’m standing at the bar waiting to order a drink when Wild Child taps me on my shoulder. I turn around and again I’m startled by her appearance. This time it’s because of what she’s almost wearing. It is a sunny day, but she’s wearing a flimsy, light-blue strapless Summer dress with floral motifs that looks more suitable for the beach. It hugs her contours and leaves nothing to the imagination. The big surprise is how large her breasts are; they’re at least an e-cup. Because of what she was wearing on the Saturday night I hadn’t taken any notice of her breastage.

I definitely want to get her into bed now.

We order drinks, hers a tonic water and we find a table outside in the sunshine. Polite small-talk ensues until I ask, “So how do you know about this place?” I was curious about what she would say.

“This is where I grew up. This little collection of buildings was home until I was eighteen.”

“Ah, that’s why you have itchy feet and like to travel so much,” I chime in.

“Yes, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here. I haven’t been here in ages. My parents moved shortly after I left home. It feels strange meeting someone here for a date. How about we go for a walk after lunch?”

“Yeah, why not. I guess it won’t take long,” I answer with a cheeky grin. She giggles like a little school-girl. Good, she’s okay with my sense of humour.

“Shall I go get us some menus? I’m starving,” she says and without much ado gets up to go find menus for us.

I watch her walk off, wondering how that dress stays up and what it would look like if it came sliding down. I also enjoy the sight of her bouncing breasts. They are definitely more than a handful and I have big hands. Ah, simple pleasures.

That’s quite a revealing dress to wear on a date, I think to myself. Her first date attire was conservative, but today she’s trying to make an altogether different impression; she’s turned on the sex appeal. You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t fancy the person you were going to see.

Wild Child returns with menus and we make our choice. I decide to be naughty and test her willpower, to see how easily she’s influenced and led astray.

“I’m going to get another drink. Can I tempt you with some fermented grape juice?” I ask.

She thinks about it, purses her lips and says, “Yeah, go on. It’s a beautiful sunny day. It would be wrong to forego a glass of wine on a day like today. I’ll get all this because you paid for everything on Saturday night,” and before I get a chance to say anything, she gets up and heads off into the pub.

I’m still not at ease with letting the woman pay, but my reservations are quickly swallowed as I watch her walk. How does that dress stay up? What are those breasts going to feel like? She’s not petite, so she should be able to accommodate my cock. Then I remember that I haven’t kissed her yet, I haven’t put to the test my new theory about a woman’s mouth being an indicator to what her vagina is like. Patience.

Wild Child returns with our drinks. For a tee-totaller she does like a glass of wine. She’s very chatty by nature, so I let her twitter away as I look at her skin and try to figure out how old she might really be. She’s certainly older than me, her throat and hands tell me so. Does this matter? I can’t make up my mind.

Apparently Sigmund Freud’s last words on his deathbed were: “I never could figure out what women want.” I heard that many years ago and I think I’ve figured it out. Now I could be wrong, but I haven’t come across a better theory or explanation. If I’m right, then I might just have solved an age-old question dealing with the gender divide.

Men want someone to do things FOR them. Women want someone to do things WITH them.

I think it all stems from how we are raised as children, mixed in with a bit of genetic programming. Look at any household that has a boy and a girl. What do you see? More often than not the scene is one of the mother doing something for the boy and the father doing something with the girl. That gets carried forward into adult life, but people don’t understand this or know that it’s even going on. Cross-bonding is normal and necessary. Little girls learn about dealing with men through their fathers. Little boys learn about women through their mothers.

It’s little surprise then to hear of women complain about their men along the lines of, “I’m just a mother to him. I’m always making and doing things for him. Sometimes he’s like a little boy!” Then I hear men complain of their women, “she’s forever wanting me to go to the shops with her, work in the garden with her or do something with her that I’m just not interested in.” Eventually a classic household disagreement sounds like a man saying, “You just don’t do anything for me any more!” The honest response from a woman should be: “Because you don’t do anything with me any more!”

Both points of view are true and correct and my theory explains why this is. It’s all part of Nature’s Grand Conspiracy. Don’t fight it because you will lose. Instead embrace it, take it to heart, understand it and then play your part in making it work for you. So, men, if you want your woman to do more things FOR you, then you better get busy doing more things WITH her.

Now let peace and harmony break out in troubled households all over our beautiful planet.

Why do I bring this up in the midst of a second date? The thing that Wild Child wanted from a man was to have someone to talk with. In fact, it might be to talk at. Good grief, she could talk. She was one of those women who felt an uncontrollable urge to utter every little thought that came into her mind, no matter how random. She obviously didn’t think about anything before she spoke; she wanted to be just as surprised as everyone else about what came out of her mouth.

After lunch we went for our walk around the houses. Wild Child showed me her childhood home, which was a spectacularly ordinary bungalow. We were walking next to a pond that she used to fish in as a little girl when I thought it might be an opportune time and place for our first kiss. However, something in me said not to, that the time wasn’t right yet, so I didn’t.

I walk Wild Child to her car and give her a polite kiss on the cheek. Again there was no indication that she wanted it on the lips. I watch her drive off and realize that I still can’t decide if she’s a Good Girl or a Good Time Girl.

What I do know is that I want to bed her. Her breasts look amazing. They bring to mind lines from a Bob Seger song, ‘Night Moves’ :

She was a black-haired beauty with big dark eyes
And points all her own sitting way up high
Way up firm and high

Bob Seger – Night Moves

Date #19 – Wild Child

I said goodbye to Teacher Gal the previous night and this morning Delicate Flower says goodbye to me. Imagine my surprise when an hour later I open my emails to find a very interesting one waiting for me. It’s from a woman on a dating site who I find mildly attractive, but whose profile captures my imagination. Has Fate dealt me a kind hand?

Her words speak of someone who lives to travel, likes rugby and reading books about history. Her favourite hobby is cycling, so I dub her Cycling Girl. The most interesting thing is that she claims not to drink alcohol. Her message is polite and courteous. All good so far.

I respond and that sets off a flurry of emails between us in the next few hours. It turns out that Cycling Girl lives more than an hour’s drive away from me and wasn’t based in London as her profile said. She claims that she is in the process of moving to London. It mattered not and we agree to meet later in the day. It seems we both like spontaneity.

Could she be The One?

What feels like minutes later I’m standing in the lobby of a fancy hotel in the middle of nowhere next to a motorway. As always I’m on time, but a quick scout around tells me she’s not here yet. I order a drink at the bar and before it arrives I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and it’s Cycling Girl; I barely recognize her. She’s surprisingly tall, almost six foot but is wearing high-heeled boots. I like puss in boots. She has beautiful blue eyes; my favourite. She’s wearing smart jeans and a black jacket with white blouse. Her hair is a mousey brown and nowhere near as blonde as I was expecting. She’s a suicide blonde.

I kiss her hello on her cheek and her perfume smells sweet. I wasn’t fast enough to notice her facial expression when she first saw me, so I don’t know if she fancies me. I’ll have to proceed on the assumption that she does. We order her a mineral water and head off to the adjoining restaurant. I help her with her chair and she laughs a little; she’s not used to being with a gentleman, so she’ll either love me or loath me.

Cycling Girl is very talkative, so I just listen…and observe. On her profile she said she was 41 years old. No fucking way! Her aged throat, neck and hands tell me otherwise; she’s in her late forties, at least. I’m not fooled. I’m somewhat disheartened at her attempt at deceit, but I say nothing. I could be wrong and it could be offensive to her, so I let it slide. How old were those photos on her profile? I have no problem being with a slightly older woman; my Exgf was a year older than me. It’s her lie that collides head-on with my trust issues that I’m becoming more aware of, but can’t seem to overcome.

She tells me of her time teaching English in China, of her travels elsewhere and that’s all good with me because I love to travel. Then, over dinner, we wander into the must-have first date topic of past relationships which she broaches. Her list makes it seems that she has had more than her fair share of men. One guy was a semi-professional racing driver while another raced motorcycles. Her longest relationship lasted just on five years. To my mind that’s never a good sign, it hints at a problem somewhere. How do you get to this stage of life without having had a long-lasting relationship somewhere along the line? Her track record reminds me of my Exgf’s history. I hear alarm bells ringing.

“So why don’t you drink alcohol? Did you used to?” I ask.

“I used to drink like a fish, but it wasn’t doing my body and other things any good. As you get older it takes longer to get over a hangover,” she replies.

Hmm, used to have a drinking problem, perhaps? There’s that age issue again. Could alcohol-abuse be the cause of her litany of failed relationships? I just don’t understand why my friends say that I over-analyze things; I need to think about that.

“So what do you think of my profile photos?” she asks.

It’s a bit of a strange thing to ask, but I’m not sensing long-term potential here, so I go with brutal honesty.

“I was expecting you to be blonde,” I reply, aware that the evening could suddenly take a turn for the worse..

“Oh, I’m always changing my hair colour. For a long time I was Goth-black. I’ll send you a picture if you want,” she says with a giggle.

“Okay,” is all I say. Oddball.

“I’m going to have a glass of wine, care to join me?” I say, testing her tea-totalling outlook.

She thinks about it and says, “Okay, but just the one. I’m driving.”

So I can tempt her, but she is responsible nevertheless. A mixed outcome for my test of her sobriety and willpower.

We spend the rest of the evening immersed in random, mindless banter. She tells me of her liking for fast cars, noisy motorbikes, jetskis, hang-gliders, gliders and anything involving speed; she is an adrenaline junkie. (Get in bed with me and I’ll give you adrenaline.) Cycling Girl has a sweet personality, an upbeat and lively way about her that I find beguiling. I must confess to having a weakness for sweetness; it makes me go all gooey inside and my knees go wobbly. I find her endless stories quite charming. It’s like she has been storing them all up just for me, waiting to share them with me.

It’s getting late and we agree to call it a night. I pick up the bill to which she says a polite thank you. Her manners are not wasted on me. I walk Cycling Girl to her car and give her a friendly kiss good-night on the cheek. It didn’t seem like she wanted it on the lips. Either she doesn’t fancy me or is just being cautious; time will tell.

On my hour-long drive home I can’t decide if she’s a Good Girl or a Good Time Girl. I enjoyed the evening and feel that I want to see her again. You really can’t tell much from a first date. More information required.

The next day, Sunday, she sends me a photo of her, with Goth-black hair. It’s taken from behind and she’s wearing a very see-through black lace one-piece outfit with a corset as the focal point. It’s very provocative and suggestive, I would love to have seen it from the front. She had pitch-black hair in a ponytail down to her bum and was much slimmer, but the corset she was wearing might have had something to do with that. Her backside was clearly visible and was crying out for a playful slap. She didn’t say what the occasion was. I can make out her face from the slight profile visible, so it is her.

What that picture told me was that she had a wild side to herself, that she was perhaps a recovering naughty girl, a Good Time Girl, now intent on staying on the straight and narrow path of a righteous life. I now thought of her as ‘Wild Child’ and that’s how I’ll refer to her from now on.

On the same Sunday evening I get a new email on a dating site from a very cute, blonde Eastern European.

Iggy Pop – Real Wild Child

Nature’s Grand Conspiracy

I’m going to shock you. What I have to say is going to be heresy to you. It might ruin your life or rescue you from a huge mistake. Results may vary…wildly. My words and ideas might make you angry, they might upset you, but they will definitely make you think about things you’ve never thought of before. These are my thoughts, feelings and insights about something that is a personal choice: parenthood.

Why don’t I want children? Too much effort, cost and risk for too little reward. That’s it in a nutshell, but of course there’s more.

Sure, I can be called selfish, but I consider myself a very unselfish person, except when it comes to the big things in life. I perform random acts of unexpected kindness every day, but I have to take care of what is right and good for me. Sacrificing myself for a little person who didn’t ask to exist, who doesn’t appreciate what I’m doing for them, is not going to give me what I want from life. I know this.

When I was younger I wanted six children. My ex-wife was aghast at the idea. The biggest argument we had before we married was when I asked her to have fertility tests. It was that important to me, then. When I hit thirty my mind began to contemplate starting a family. One day at work I asked an older guy I was friendly with, “If you knew then what you know now, would you have had children?” He thought about it, looked me in the eye and said, “My boy, keep it in your pocket.” He had three teenage children and like that he erased them. I was stunned. This was the first time ever I had heard anyone speak negatively of parenthood. The seeds of doubt were sown.

A year later I’m talking to my new boss who was also something of a deep-thinker. He said, “That moment you hold your new-born child in your arms, you will never forget it. Nor will you forget the day when you realize that all you had ever hoped and wished for in life was now not going to happen. Yes, I long for a better way of life, but I won’t give my children back.”

His last remark encapsulates what many studies have shown, that for men parenthood is a neutral event in their lives. However, for women, it’s a massively positive event. Strangely I harbour zero desire to make a woman’s biological imperative the focus of my existence. I must confess that Baltic Babe sorely tested my resolve.

When I have been foolish enough to tell people that I have no desire to have children, the reaction from women is almost always negative. Men’s reactions are usually muted. Most people just can’t understand my point of view because it is just too far-removed from their reality. I think most fathers are given an implicit, if not tacit, ultimatum about starting a family. 90% give in. I did not and divorced a perfectly good woman so that she could pursue her maternal instinct.

But what exactly is this ‘ maternal instinct’? A woman has two ovaries and each has 14 nodes. These nodes produce the egg and they take turns to do so with each ovary being called upon in alternation. When a woman turns thirty, the nodes start to die. The remaining nodes have to work a little bit more often than before which wears them out. Typically by the time she is thirty-five, only half the nodes remain. The dead nodes are absorbed into the body and it’s this absorption that gives a woman that broody feeling. It’s a chemical process. Typically by the time she is forty only two nodes remain. Men don’t experience anything like this, hence the need for an ultimatum perhaps.

I like to observe and analyse the world around me, all in an attempt to truly understand our world. I look around and see happy young couples holding hands, looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. Yes, they’re usually in their twenties. By the time that same couple, if they are still together, are in their late thirties or forties the picture has changed dramatically for the worse. They don’t hold hands and barely make eye contact, usually keeping a watchful eye over the kid or two running around them. Not only are the longing looks and happy vibe gone, but so are other things. Both of them look tired and unhealthy. Often the man’s hair is thinning and nobody will convince me that this is a sign of good health and an abundance of testosterone. What, before the kid he had less testosterone? Yes, I know I’m generalizing, but it’s the norm; the overwhelming majority from what I can see. I’m not a vain person, I’m just pointing out what I see. Guys my age who are fathers all look older than me.

When I’m at my gym, I look out over a park which families often visit so that their kids can pick up and eat dog shit. I look at these couples, looking for signs of happiness and, I’m sorry to say, it’s rare to see a happy couple with kids. The mother is usually fussing over the kid and the father ambles along in a zombie-like state, usually carrying detritus. Very few fathers appear content; their faces sullen, their complexions poor and their shoulders drooping down towards their pot-bellies. I look at them and wonder if they would prefer my life. I’m pretty sure that most would. Do I want their lives? Hell, no.

Parents seem to use up their leave looking after their offspring, taking turns to be home during school holidays, therefore never having time off together. As a child grows older, they want to stay up later, thus there is even less time for a couple to keep their relationship where it needs to be for them both to be happy. To me it’s obvious that this will weigh heavily on the parent’s relationship. A good friend once said to me, “If there’s the slightest crack in the parent’s relationship, that kid will get in there and widen it.”

I have heard many couples say to me before their first child was born that, “the child will fit into our lives and not the other way around”. They all failed in this regard. Parenting is the biggest job and adventure in most people’s lives. I liken it to a grenade going off in a relationship. Once the first kid is born, a whole new relationship needs to be forged. Most couples aren’t consciously aware of this and few succeed.

I want other things from life. Currently I’m fluent in two languages and get by in five others. I’ve lived in three countries, have visited over thirty others and over a hundred famous cities. I’m happiest when travelling; I can’t do that with children because they need schooling and a routine. Children need stability as much as I need a sense of freedom.

Have you ever heard this quote before?

“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.”

The first half of this quotation is a misquotation from Thoreau’s “Walden”. He published it in 1854 and actually wrote:
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.” I think it still rings true today.

Most fathers are, to me, like little birds. They leave the nest every weekday and fly off into the world to bring back what the nest-dwellers require. Day in day out, day after day. What’s in it for the little bird? Not much. What there is to be gained is usually just enough to keep him in the game, enough to convince him that it’s all worthwhile. He dare not for a moment wonder if there is a better way of life, for if he did, he would be hurled into a world of emotional turmoil. If he were to choose to break free from this humdrum life, it would occur at the expense of the nest-dwellers. Is that not proof that their needs are met at the expense of his happiness?

In skyscrapers all around the planet, when it’s dark and most workers have gone home, there are mostly middle-aged men to be found. To a man they are fathers. Why are they still there? Shouldn’t they be rushing home to be with their wife and kids? No. They don’t want to go home…because of the wife and kids. They hide their dissatisfaction behind deadlines, reports and anything plausible. Ignorant people think them committed career professionals, always willing to stay that little bit later, always there to be counted on in the office. As a freelancer I have seen this everywhere that I have worked. These reluctant, fatigued, disillusioned men are part of the landscape that people – society – does not wish to see. I see them and I pity them. I think of them as the grey ghosts that keep humanity going. They are not bad fathers, they’re just unhappy men, spinning their heels in a cocoon of false sanctuary. I do not want to be one of them.

Do you remember a television show from the early nineties called “Married with Children”? The main character was a long-suffering father whose every waking minute involved torment from his wife and children. All the father wanted to do was to sit quietly to watch television. It was immensely popular with middle-aged working fathers. I wonder why.

My best friend sits in front of a television every night and watches his life pass him by. Why? Parenthood. He doesn’t have the freedom, time, energy or money to do anything that he really wants to. Maybe I’m crazy, but that’s not for me. He lives vicariously through me and my dating experiences, as do several of my other male friends, all of whom are fathers too. They yearn for the sense of freedom that I have, that they miss like nothing else. Occasionally, in quiet moments at the end of a night with a few drinks involved, they speak the unspeakable and tell me of their frustrations and suffering. I’ve had to become very careful about regaling my friends with my tales of debauchery for fear of negatively effecting their lives.

Here’s a scene from ‘The Family Man’ which exemplifies what I’m saying:

It does not surprise me to hear of fathers who are having affairs. My anecdotal evidence suggests that this tends to happen from seven years onwards after the first child is born. It’s a different kind of ’7-year itch’. I think it’s part of what I call ‘Nature’s Grand Conspiracy’, that effort to keep the species thriving. If a man succumbs to the delights of another woman, it is not for her firmer fleshy bits; it’s for a feeling that he craves. A feeling that he once knew, cherishes and now misses. I’m not excusing infidelity, but I understand why it happens. (Just for the record: women cheat almost as much as men. Men cheat less than women think.)

So what do I think parenthood is for? Women. Nature’s Grand Conspiracy has decreed that men live shorter lives than their womenfolk. Consequently children fill the gap when daddy’s gone. Yes, I like the idea that there is someone to cherish an old woman once her man is gone, it even seems fair, but that’s just not enough for me to forego having the life I want to live.

When I’ve asked people why they decided to have children, the answers are usually preceded by a sense of surprise, as if they never really thought about it. They say that it was “always on the cards”, that it is a given that everybody will someday. They then stammer and proffer a variety of reasons that sound unconvincing. Not a single person has ever uttered the words that, to me at least, is the single best reason to have a child: so that we have one more person to love. Nobody has ever said that and it saddens me.

There is something else that I’ve noticed. Generally speaking (yes, there are exceptions, but very few), men will die for their woman and child(ren), but a typical woman will only die for her child. Nature’s Grand Conspiracy has decreed this. Ask your female friends if they would die for their man. The answers might surprise you.

All of this bothers me because a loving relationship is what I value most in life; there is no better way of being for me. The duties of parenting and all that is involved seems to occur at the expense of the relationship of the parents. I have seen very little evidence to the contrary.

No, thanks. I shall keep my Icarus wings from the Sun that is fatherhood.

Bruno Mars – Grenade