A new lovely face appeared on PoF that caught my attention. Just from her photos it was obvious to me that she was Russian. Her profile was brief, mentioning her being Russian and an ex-model, letting her photos do the talking for her. They showed a woman with an active life that involved sport, culture and travel, all with a touch of sophistication. She might be out of my league, but what the hell, I had nothing to lose, so I wrote to her and to my surprise she wrote back. I swiftly moved things along to meet for a date, to which she agreed.
Could she be The One?
As I was getting off the train at Tower Hill on Saturday, all the people in front of me were turning and looking at something. Out of curiosity I looked to see what had grabbed their attention. It was a very attractive woman with long blonde hair in a frilled 1950s skirt who moved with elegance and poise; she was quite a stunning sight.
Then it dawned on me: that’s my date! Good god, she’s hot!
She doesn’t notice me and traipses off up the stairs. I follow in hot pursuit, not because I want to start talking to her, but because I want to check her out some more. She’s not as tall as I expected, her long blonde hair in a ponytail almost touches her backside, the latter has a nice firm wiggle as she moves up the stairs. I can smell her perfume wafting towards me as I follow her and I like it. Her obvious femininity is refreshing and her sense of style is impressive. I can’t believe my luck, but what is she going to make of me? It’s a hot Summer’s day and all I’m wearing is blue jeans, a smart black shirt and dark brown ankle boots. Did I put on enough of that cologne that Baltic Babe introduced me to?
I walk up to her as she fumbles for her phone in her small Gucci handbag. She looks up and makes the expression that a woman makes when she likes the look of a man before her. Jackpot! We’re off to a good start. I say her name which I had to Google to find out how to pronounce, to which she smiles and gives a little nod. I must have said it correctly.
Giving her a kiss on each cheek is the polite thing to do in Europe, especially the further East you go, but I use it as a chance to show her that I’m not intimidated by her beauty. My cultural learnings would impress even Borat.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to say your name,” she says with the sexiest purr of a Russian accent. Something between my legs stirs. I tell her my name and she keeps repeating it, like a mantra.
A foreign accent does things for me and the Russian one is my favourite. Her being Russian I find attractive, largely because of my experience with Baltic Babe. We had such chemistry that I can’t help wonder if my destiny lies with a woman from that part of the world, hence my having been on dates with four women from Eastern Europe in the past year. Friends and colleagues have all only had negative things to say about Slavic women, accusing them of being heartless gold-diggers out to exploit men, but I’m keeping an open mind.
As we approach the stairs that lead down from the Tube station, I turn to my date and ask, “Do you like chicken?”
“Yes, why?” she says with a puzzled look in her eye, but no frown.
“Take a wing?” I say with my usual smile and extend an arm towards her to hold onto.
“Ah, thank you. You’re such a gentleman,” she purrs.
The high-heeled Jimmy Choo shoes she’s wearing make for slow going down the stairs and she puts quite a bit of weight on my arm. For a moment I wonder if she’s trying to see how strong I am. If need be I can easily pick her up and carry her down the stairs. She’s not the typical stick-insect model, but I can manage if called upon.
At the bottom of the stairs I relax my arm, expecting her to let go, but in a first, she relaxes her grip but keeps her hand holding onto the underside of my bicep. Like that we walk and it’s as if her body language is making it plain to the world that she is with me.
As we make our way through the crowds towards St Katharine Dock, I become aware that people are staring at us. I know that they’re mostly looking at her and it’s a good feeling. I feel proud having a woman as attractive as this by my side; it strokes my ego.
We get to the Dickens Inn and we’re being served by the same waiter who saw me on Thursday night with Lusty Lass. He gives me a quizzical look and a wry smile as he leads us to what is becoming my favourite table on the balcony overlooking the marina. My date tells me that she is impressed by my choice of locale.
“You’ve not been here before?” I ask.
“No, I’ve only been in London for five years and my ex-husband never wanted to go anywhere or do anything. He was always too busy working,” she says with a touch of sadness.
“What did he do that kept him so busy?” I ask out of curiosity.
“He’s French and works for one of the investment banks,” she says.
Instantly I remembered that Baltic Babe was seeing a French investment banker. There can’t be too many of them in London. Could it be the same guy? Poor bastard if it is.
“How long were you guys married?” I ask, wondering just how much of my friends’ stereotype she is.
“We’ve been married for six years,” she replies, slowly.
I think that most men wouldn’t have picked up on the semantics of her reply, her choosing to say ‘been’ instead of ‘were’, but I pay attention to little things like that. A case could be made for something being lost in translation, but her English is perfect. The way she said it also alerted me to something not being quite right.
“So when did you get divorced?” I ask, not afraid to go for the jugular. Love is too important to me to pussyfoot around.
“The paperwork is under way and should be complete in the next few months,” she replies.
With that my trust demon gets up in the corner of his cage buried deep within me and starts strutting around.
“So do you have a French passport now?” I ask, wondering about the timing of her divorce.
“Yes, I got that last year,” she answers in a way that tells me she’s trying to say that she’s legally in the UK. However, I take it to mean that she put up with him until her passport came through, then asked for a divorce. I guess my face showed displeasure and she figured out what I was thinking.
“I didn’t want to go back to Russia, didn’t have anywhere else to go and a Frenchman tells me he loves me. What would you do?”
I say nothing, smile then change the topic with, “Tell me about your days as a model. What was it like? It must have been fun.”
She enthusiastically launches into recounting her modelling career, which she tells me had come to an end a few years ago. While she talks I take stock of the situation. She married a man she didn’t love – her omitting this tells me so – so that she could have the life she wanted. She used and exploited him; just the type of woman I detest. Yes, there was a trade-off and it was probably her body. That just makes her a glorified whore. Her divorce papers haven’t been finalised and she’s already on the dating scene, with what in mind? I doubt it’s love. Underneath this carefully-crafted veneer of a beautiful woman lurks a monster.
To be continued…