Date #24 – Randy Russian

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…

Date #23 – Lusty Lass – Final part

I reluctantly kiss her hello on a cheek. I say ‘reluctantly’ because I don’t fancy her at all. I’m also in a mild state of shock about how she actually looks in real life, the contrast is jarring. What is she playing at with those old photos? Her grandiose act of deceit clashes with my deep-seated trust issues. She’s not The One, I know this for sure now.

I decide to be the consummate gentleman and see this through. As we approach the stairs down outside the Tube station I can’t help but say, “Do you like chicken? Take a wing,” to which she laughs raucously. I balance the cake in one hand while Lusty Lass grips my other arm with both her hands. The stairs are steep, the cake is heavy and she’s almost pulling me over, so tight is her grip. (You can see those steep stairs here: [ http://www.meanddating.com/gallery/ ])

At the bottom of the stairs I was expecting her to let go of my arm because most of the other women had done so. Not Lusty Lass. No, she wanted to keep holding on, which I found a little weird, a bit creepy and very clingy. I don’t care how much she likes the look of me or has a thing for muscles, I’m not walking around with her holding onto me like that.

“Umm, sorry but I need both my hands because this cake is heavy,” I have to say before she lets go. This might be a long evening.

I lead her to the Dickens Inn at St Katharine Dock, somewhere she has never been. It’s a glorious Summer’s evening and we manage to get a table on the balcony overlooking the marina. I bring my dates here not to impress them, but because I like it here, I’m comfortable here. One day I’m going to live here, I feel so at home. Lusty Lass hardly notices the environment because she literally only has eyes for me.

It dawns on me that I know that I have no romantic interest in her, largely because I don’t fancy her, but also because I now don’t trust her. Her stunt with old photos is bad in that it reeks of desperation, never a good starting point for a relationship. It also has the obvious element of deceit and comes with a slight insult in that does she think men are so stupid that we won’t notice? It also shows a naïvety by way her not realising that a man is expecting the ‘old her’ and is going to react negatively, yet she is surprised when they do. How many more ‘horror dates’ is she going to go on before she wises up?

Another problem now is that she seems quite interested in me. Is she getting her hopes up about us having a relationship? How do I manage her expectations down now? I know, I’ll withdraw and let her do the talking. She’ll eventually figure out that I’m not that interested in her. So I just ask a few questions given that I have almost a year’s worth of email exchanges to draw on, but I resist the urge to ask anything sexual. In fact, the thought of sex with her is not a pleasant thought.

We order pizzas and I notice that she goes for the spiciest one. Celebratory glasses of wine to hand we settle down to conversation. Lusty Lass tells me that she has a new job and she tells me where she now works. It’s on the outskirts of London…less than a mile from where I work. Such is life.

I’ve learned not to be afraid of awkward silences as the woman tends to crack first and whatever she talks about is usually what she has on her mind every day. In Lusty Lass’s case it was her failed marriage and ensuing divorce. She launches into great detail about this relationship that only lasted five years and came to an end five years ago. The way she spoke about it you’d think it came to an end last week.

It occurred to me that Krazy Girl had got divorced two years ago after a turbulent two-year marriage and was still reliving it almost every day. Lusty Lass was reliving her marriage and divorce with me. It seems it takes some women a long time to get over a failed marriage. A hot, rusty knife had slashed open a wound in her soul that was yet to heal, perhaps will never heal.

As she drones on about her last relationship I surreptitiously take in the details of her appearance. Lusty Lass is wearing an inordinate amount of make-up. Does she think it makes her better looking? I don’t think so as she’s bordering on looking like a clown. If she feels the need to hide behind all this make-up, then it isn’t working because all it did was attract attention to herself because it is overdone. If she does this to compensate for something that she feels she lacks, then it’s surely indicative of another problem?

I eat my pizza and drink my wine, occasionally making sounds that she takes to mean something. I think she went on about her marriage for two hours straight. I’d look her in the eye and smile, but in my head I’m wondering how I’m going to tell her that I don’t want to see her again. I’ve never met anyone more clearly on the rebound. Emotionally she’s all mixed up, still working her way through the phases of shock and seemingly stuck at the anger stage. Not once has she mentioned “love” in its classic sense as being something that she is looking for. I think that her head is filled daily with thoughts about her past. She’s not ready for a normal, healthy, loving relationship and won’t be for some time; she’s just too damaged, too fucked up. She’s walking forwards while looking backwards.

For dessert we tuck into the cake that I bought her and I can see how she put on the excess weight that she’s carrying around with her, as she has three slices to my two. She arranges for a small container so that I can take some of the cake home with me. So, she’s a Giver, which probably explains why she gets mixed up with people who are obviously Takers.

I pay for the meal and drinks, which she thanks me for, unsuspecting that I have found the words to let her down gently. Lusty Lass destroys my plan as we walk back to the Tube station by saying, “Thank you for tonight. I had a wonderful time. It’s been the best birthday in many years. My faith in men is restored.”

There is no way that I could now turn to her and say, “That’s nice, but I never want to see you again.” All the goodness of the evening would be destroyed, my efforts would be for nothing and she’d go home in tears again. Why do that? I just have to smile and bide my time. Let her have at least one good date, to feel good for once; she deserves it.

At the Tube station we have to use separate lines, so I try to kiss her goodnight on a cheek, but she lands a heavily lipsticked kiss square on my lips despite my best efforts to avoid it. I then shamefully make vague promises about getting together another time. I know how Donkey felt in Shrek when the Dragon took a liking to him.

Grey Knight & dragon

Grey Knight and dragon

Driving home I take stock of the date. My White Knight Syndrome got the better of me and I went charging off into London. A Tube train was my steed and a birthday cake was my shield. At times it felt like I had to hide behind the cake to keep her off me. My silence was my lance and my small words were my sword. All of that seemed to attract her more. Does the strong silent behaviour turn women on? I shall investigate.

I feel even more sorry for Lusty Lass after meeting her. She has a good heart, but is easily led astray and taken advantage of. Her moral compass got crushed or stolen somewhere along the way. Her life is sad and at times she must feel like everyone is laughing at her, as if she is a clown. An object of ridicule and pity, somebody to make us feel better about ourselves. Then again, we’re all somebody else’s clown.

My thoughts turn to the next date that I’ve lined up for Saturday, with a Russian model…

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) If a woman is reluctant to meet me, just leave it. Take it as a sign of her not being emotionally healthy. 2) Don’t go charging off doing romantic things because it’s likely to backfire. Save it for a relationship, not dating. 3) Never go on a date because I feel sorry for a woman. She’ll take it the wrong way. 4) The road to hell is paved with good intentions…and birthday cakes.

Emeli Sande – Clown

Date #23 – Lusty Lass – Part 2

On Wednesday night my phone rings and it’s Lusty Lass. This is the first time we’ve spoken on the phone and she’s almost in tears, I become concerned that something bad has happened.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, discerning noise in the background that makes me think she’s sitting on a bus.

“I’ve just come from a date. It was awful,” she says, trying to keep it together.

“What happened?”

“He said that I didn’t look like my photos and that I should buy the first round of drinks,” Lusty Lass blurts out and then starts crying.

I don’t like the sound of a woman crying, it reminds me of my childhood too much, but why is she phoning me to tell me this? I make soothing sounds and calm her down. She keeps taking our conversation back to her upsetting date. Then she tells me what really upset her.

“He said that compared to my photos I looked fat,” Lusty Lass says and starts crying.

I try to console her, but she’s entrenched in an emotional state that my words and tone can’t change. Abruptly she hangs up on me. I’m a little shocked by this interaction. We’ve never met nor ever spoken to each other before, but she phones me at a time like this? A little odd but I tell myself that in the morning she’ll feel better, then a sense of embarrassment will set in and she’ll never interact with me again because of this.

I was wrong.

On Sunday night she sends me an email, obviously feeling better about herself. I know where this exchange is going…nowhere. Her loneliness is causing her to reach out to me. After a series of pointless messages I become bored and then naughty; I wait for an opportune moment to turn the conversation sexual.

I ask when last she had sex and Lusty Lass responds that it was in October last year. It’s now end of June. She must be gagging for it.

Tell me your favourite sexual experience,” I coax. How will she respond?

When I had just started work after uni, I met a couple in the pub of a hotel. We drank in the bar, we had a laugh all night. They invited me up to their room to take advantage of the mini-bar.
They introduced me to cocaine. We drank more, we had more coke, we laughed more.
She then started touching my hair and saying how much he loved it.
He started kissing my neck and touching my leg.
He was drinking JD and coke and watching us – she took my dress off.
She was involving him all the time.
She wanted him to tell her what to do – he and I fancied the pants off each other and she used that.
She was like “look what I’m doing to her”.
I kept watching him and couldn’t help but get turned on – I think they had talked about this before.
She insisted that he watch me cum – she was licking me hard and told him to kiss me as I came.
Once she had made me cum she wanted him inside me – she basically choreographed the rest telling him to fuck me hard etc.
I came again while he was inside me with her looking at me.
It was all about them, I know that now.

Your turn, mister.

My brain is spinning from her story. From her profile and what I have learned of her from all these pointless email exchanges I never would have imagined that she would allow herself to get into a situation like that. Instead of feeling repulsed by her, I’m now very curious to meet her, not to fuck her or to have any kind of relationship with her, but to get to see what this person is like in real life.

I start describing to her my first time with Krazy Girl, the time she sexually over-powered me.

http://www.meanddating.com/2014/07/krazy-girl-gets-crazy/

As I write this down for Lusty Lass the idea comes to me of saving all these experiences, perhaps producing a book or a blog out of it. Would other people be interested in reading about my experiences? Only one way to find out.

By the end of my tale I get the impression that Lusty Lass is now turned on. Does she only contact me when she’s lonely and horny, never ever wanting to actually meet me? By now I’m pretty turned on myself from recalling that night with Krazy Girl. I decide to push my luck and ask,

If I was there with you now, what would you want to do? Tell me your favourite sexual thing to do.” I hold my breath.

I love being down on my hands and knees with a mirror propped up in front of me so that I can watch a guy’s face as he slides his cock into my arse,” she replies.

OMG! I wasn’t expecting that. Just when you think you’re getting to know someone you’ve never met…Time to finish this off.

Get your vibrator out. Start using it. Phone me. I want to hear you cum,” I instruct.

Within a minute my phone rings and again I get to hear her in action. Lusty Lass certainly likes being told what to do. A dominant man does things for her. It doesn’t take long before she screams into a pillow again and hangs up on me. I laugh to myself. This woman is crazy.

A few days later it’s her birthday so I send her a birthday greeting text message while I’m at work; I’m just being friendly. I have no agenda in mind other than wondering if she’ll even acknowledge my existence because she’s not feeling lonely. It doesn’t take long before she responds. I ask what she’s doing tonight to which she replies “nothing”. I know that she hasn’t been in London long and has very few friends; I feel sorry for her.

There’s something wrong in the world if you’re doing nothing for your birthday tonight. Meet me outside Tower Hill Tube station at 7pm. I’m taking you to dinner. I’m in meetings the rest of today so I can’t check my phone. See you there.

I’ve had enough of her evasiveness and what I’ve learned is that she can’t say no to an assertive man. Of course I could check my phone after work but I want to create the perception that she had no choice in the matter. Lusty Lass doesn’t respond and after work, in a mindless act of optimism, I head for Tower Hill. I work on the outskirts of London so I have to drive to the last station on a nearby Tube line to catch a train from there. Once in central London, nearing Tower Hill, I go to a bakery and buy her a birthday cake, the biggest one I can find. It’s rush hour and city slickers in their suits stare at me as I carry the cake through the angry crowds of unhappy office workers who are heading home. Block after block I walk, me still in my work clothes, hoping that she’ll actually show up; it still isn’t certain.

As I approach Tower Hill Tube station it’s a few minutes after 7pm so she should be there. I spot a woman from behind who has Lusty Lass’s distinctive frizzy black hair. After balancing the cake on a wall and taking a moment to smarten myself up, I walk up behind this woman, hoping that it is her, aware that I’m finally meeting her and I say her name.

She spins around and I nearly drop the cake. It isn’t her.

This woman is an older, fatter version of her. In her profile photos Lusty Lass is a svelte size ten, has a toned body and a thin face. This woman is at least a size 16, has rolls of fat on her rolls of fat and has a face like a bullfrog with a very puffy throat with bulging eyes. Before I get a chance to make my apology, she speaks.

“Oh, hello! At last, we get to meet,” she says.

Fuck! It is her.

No wonder her last date said the things he did; she doesn’t look anything like her photos. Just how old are those photos?!

To be continued…

Date #23 – Lusty Lass

There’s somebody I haven’t told you about, somebody I haven’t yet met but spent much time with. When I came across Baltic Babe this somebody was on the same dating site, but only when Baltic Babe and I came to an end in September 2012, did I approach this somebody. She wasn’t blonde, but a curly-haired brunette, only 35, but her profile struck a chord with me. It was as if the female version of me had written that profile, so I wanted to meet her. We swapped a few emails and agreed to a date. However, when she mentioned that she worked where Baltic Babe worked, I lost interest. I was scared that she was a stooge for Baltic Babe, one of her cunning little games of deceit. I cancelled the date.

A few months later she contacted me, asking if we could try again and we swapped several emails before I came clean about why I stood her up. She said that she understood and wouldn’t hold it against me. The day before we were supposed to finally meet, she stood me up. I’ve never been stood up before, but I had no grounds for complaint. I think of her as the Abortive Dater.

For months afterwards the Abortive Dater would pop up almost weekly with a message in my inbox, usually moaning about her bad dating experiences, but if I ever suggest that we meet, she wouldn’t answer and would disappear until her next random appearance by email. Just before Christmas 2012 Abortive Dater sent an email saying that she was packing up her life in London and was moving back to her parents in the north of England. I didn’t think I’d ever hear from her again.

Last night I had the infuriating date with Country Girl, leaving me feeling confused and angry. It feels again like all women are playing games with me. It’s late on Sunday night when my inbox shows a message from Abortive Dater. She says she’s back in London and just having horror date after horror date. With nothing better to do I respond and an email conversation ensues instantly. We’re both fending off the Sunday-night blues.

Abortive Dater is venting again and I’m getting fed up with it. We’ve done this email dance in the past and it never leads to us actually meeting, it’s just a waste of time for me so that she can feel better about herself. She’s just using me. We’re probably never going to meet, so fuck it, I’m going to try have some fun for once. I decide to turn the conversation sexual, to see how long it takes before she disappears like she has in the past. In all our interactions so far she seems somewhat prudish; very prim and proper. This will either be a very short exercise or I might learn something about women from it.

ME: Do you like massages? I did a massage course last year…
It’s great foreplay…running my hands all over a woman’s body…relaxing her…pleasing her…body and mind…

(Will she take the bait?)

HER: Oh yes, love massages. What kind do you do?

ME: I like to have a woman lie on her stomach, topless, arms by her side…
I warm some oil up in my hands and then slowly spread it across her back…
Her skin warms up to my touch, her mind clears and her breathing slows…
I have quite big hands and can spread them across most women’s backs…
I don’t use much force, but just enough to feel her skin move before my fingers…

(She’s either getting turned on or getting ready to run away.)

HER: sounds amazing ;-) Don’t know about you, but I get too horny doing the massaging.

ME: Imagine a 6-foot tall guy, ex-rugby player, short dark hair with an adonis build and a few muscles…
Your turn to describe what happens when you give a massage…

(Is she into this? Can I get her to open up?)

HER: I’d have to start with the legs. Work my way up slowly. Lots of oil but me still in my underwear. Harder as I get to the top.

ME: Sounds like a good start, what happens next? Spare no detail…
(I think I’ve got her imagination going. If so, this could get good.)

HER: Well it gets dangerous north of the border. Massaging a nice rounded arse is very horny. Particularly if I start moving north. The further I go the less likely my knickers are to stay on. its not my hands everywhere you would need to worry about

ME: Why? Besides your hands, what else are you doing? What colour were your knickers before you soaked them darker…
(Fuck, she’s really into this! I far can I get her to go?)

HER: Well being on top I probably wouldn’t be able to resist rubbing myself against your lower back as I massage your neck. I get very wet so be prepared for those dark red knickers to come off so I can really feel you against me

ME: Do you like to rub yourself to climax? Or would you like to do something else?
(Have I gone too far? Is she going to click away?)

HER: I would rather be gagging for it and wait

ME: What do you want to have happen next?… What are you waiting for?….What is it you want?…What is it you like?…
(Hook and line. Now for the sinker. What does she like having done to her? Will she tell me?)

HER: I want to be spread out on my back and penetrated really hard as I watch you in the mirror pounding me. Then I want to be flipped over on my knees and have you fuck me hard from behind while you are watching yourself in the mirror. When you are nearly there I want to ride you and come hard all over you while you look me in the eye as I lose it and grind into you. Then you are very welcome to come all over me…

ME: So you want to straddle me, your pussy all swollen…you like grinding your pussy and clit against me until you cum…would you like it if I fondled your breasts on your way to your screaming orgasm?…then you cum so hard your head rocks forward and you’re momentarily blinded by the intensity of your release…
(Holy shit! I’m stunned and getting turned on. My words feel lame. Have I blown it?)

HER: having them fondled at that point would be a must – I would want your mouth all over them sucking on my nipples as I get closer. I can lose all control on top

ME: What cup size are you?
(I just have to know, to complete the mental picture I have going on in my head.)

HER: 36D – am a big girl

ME: Are you playing with yourself?
(Wow, her tits are bigger than her photos let on. Just how turned on is she?)

HER: I’m soaking. I get there too quick so no touching as yet

ME: I’m sporting a massive erection right now…I think you’d love to lower yourself slowly on to it…or would you prefer to lick, kiss and suck it first?
(I’m so ready to fuck right now. Will she tell me anything?)

HER: As much time as possible in my mouth – feeling it throbbing and getting harder – the pre-orgasm juices are amazing

ME: Do you like the taste of cum? I know a way of making it taste so sweet you’ll want more than I can give…you’ll want it tasting that way all the time…
(Why the hell did I type that? I’m losing control of this.)

HER: I find swallowing hot cum knowing you have produced it is the horniest thing – surely its the same when you go down on a woman and she cums in your mouth? Amazing

ME: I’ve never had a woman cum or squirt in to my mouth…yes, lick and suck her to orgasm…I love the sounds a woman makes. Do you squirt?
(Shit, I’ll tell her anything now too.)

HER: I get ridiculously wet. Squirting is more of a manual thing and rarely achieved. I find it difficult to orgasm through oral but I love it

ME: What colour is your vibe? Take a picture of it and send it to me…
(I’m seriously pushing my luck now. Fuck she sent me a pic of her vibe. It looks big, but smaller than my now perfect hardon that I have one hand on.)

HER: I have a purple rabbit but find this more effective – it packs a punch

ME: Have you used used both at the same time? One on your clit, the other in your pussy? Or if really naughty, one in your elsewhere and one in your arse?
(WTF?! Let’s keep pushing the limits. Surely she’s about to click away?)

HER: I’ve only ever used them alone and one at a time. Maybe tonight’s the night to use them both at the same time…

ME: I’d love to see that sight…but I probably couldn’t help myself and would, while you’re using both vibes on yourself, feed you my big fat cock…Would you like that?
(I would so love to be there with her and do that.)

HER: I am sooooooo horny right now. I need to get into bed and sort myself out. It will take less than a minute I am soaking

ME: Here’s something to help you over the edge…
When you’re on your hands and knees and I’m deep inside you, fucking you doggy style…
Would you like it if I were to collect your hair in to bundle…and gently pull it back, lifting your chin…hold you like that with one hand…
Then wet one of my thumbs…and start rubbing your anus…in slow circles…and when you want it in you tell me so…

(Is she into anal? Let’s find out.)

HER: I’m going to come

ME: Phone me. I want to hear you cum. Don’t say a word. When you’ve cum, you can hang up.
(I give her my number. Is there where it ends? She won’t do this, surely?)

My phone rings and I answer without saying a word. I hear a rustling of bedding, some heavy breathing, the buzz of a vibrator and less than a minute later, a stifled scream that sounded like it went into the pillow that her phone was resting on. For a few seconds I hear slow, heavy breathing, then some fumbling and the line goes dead.

I now think of her as Lusty Lass.

To be continued…

Country Girl turns Schizo

It’s noon on Saturday and Country Girl is about to arrive at my place. I’m so excited about today and seeing her, spending it with her, having good, clean fun with her, enjoying a great day together. This is what I want my life to be like. This could the start of everything I’ve been hoping for.

The Killers concert is later tonight, but I’ve got a whole day of running wild in London with Country Girl planned. At the back of my mind is the idea that we might end up spending the night together, but I’m not counting on it as I feel it’s too soon for us. That’s also balanced out by the Apartment Test, where I get to see if she’s interested in me or after a man with money, but I’m not focussing on that. A day of fun beckons!

Her town doesn’t have a train service into London, while mine has a fast service, so she agrees to drive to my town and we’ll catch a train into London. At the appointed time my doorbell goes and I’m pleased to see her. She gives me an angelic smile as I open my door for her. My heart skips a beat at the sight of her.

“Your place isn’t easy to find,” she says cursorily.

“Yes, perhaps I should have said for you to text me when you get here and I’ll come fetch you,” I say, giving her a polite kiss on the lips and gesturing for her to enter my apartment.

“I just need to put my shoes on and then we can get going,” I tell her.

I fiddle with my shoes in the hallway and watch with interest as she walks into my lounge. I see her facial complexion change, she bites down and I see her jaw clench. She’s unimpressed by what she sees. I notice her shoulders drop a little too.

She doesn’t say another word and I can see on her face that she’s not happy. I’m a little surprised and disappointed at her reaction to my home. I wonder what she was expecting? A millionaire’s penthouse?

I just smile, knowing what I’m capable of and that this place is just a temporary stepping stone. I’m used to far better and I’ll get there again, but until then it’s serving a surprise purpose of pointing out gold-diggers to me.

Is Country Girl a gold-digger? Is she a Taker?

We walk to my train station where I buy us tickets that allow us unlimited train travel around London. Country Girl doesn’t say a word, no “thank you” I note. We sit next to each other on the train and conversation is scarce. She’s more interested in looking out the window. I tell myself she’s taking in more countryside, it’s her thing after all.

Once in London we make our way to the first destination that I have lined up. It’s at a newly-opened Hilton hotel next the Thames in central London. While walking I try to make small-talk but Country girl isn’t interested. In fact, she’s starting to seem a little withdrawn.

At the reception to the restaurant where we’ll be having lunch, the manager finds the booking I had made during the week and mentions that it’s “for the Groupon deal”. I notice Country Girl clench her jaw. I really didn’t need him mentioning that but now the cat’s out the bag. Maybe he’s done me a favour?

Once seated I try to strike up conversation but Country Girl only answers with short sentences. It seems words are expensive today. As we make our way through a truly sumptuous, luxurious seafood platter and a bottle of Italian wine, I sit there thinking what I might have said or done, or not said or not done to have upset her. I cannot think of a single thing that might have caused her umbrage.

Lunch over and I say to her with a smile, “Right, now onto the next stop on our magical mystery tour.”

Her response? Silence.

As I lead her along the South Bank to our next experience, it occurs to me that she didn’t say thank you for lunch either. We walk in silence and I tell myself that she’s just taking it all in. Maybe she’s forgotten what London’s like, she’s spending so much time with the birds, bees and trees. I make excuses for her behaviour.

We sit down a while later in a quaint, quirky, brightly-coloured coffee and tea shop hidden away on the South Bank. We didn’t have dessert in the Hilton and I thought this a nice way of killing time until the Killers concert at Wembley Stadium. In my mind’s eye earlier in the week when I was planning all this, I envisaged us sitting and chatting away merrily, getting to know one another, having a good time.

Instead we sit in stony silence, hardly making eye contact, pretending to be people-watching. I’m racking my brain, trying to figure out what to do here. Should I politely ask if something is the matter? Should I tackle the crisis head-on or should I uncharacteristically be patient and wait for her to warm up, to become the person I was so excited about meeting that first night? I decide to play it cool and be patient.

Perhaps something bad has happened and she’s still processing it? Perhaps I have indeed said or done something wrong and eventually she’ll talk to me about it? Perhaps she’s on her period and this is how she is when it’s that time of the month? My ex-girlfriend became a total bitch for three days a month, so much so that I would make a concerted effort to keep out of her way. On and on I go, making excuses for her.

The time arrives when we have to start making our way to Wembley Stadium. We leave the coffee and tea shop and again I notice that Country Girl doesn’t say thank you for my having bought everything there. She seems to have left her manners at home today.

On the train to Wembley we hardly say a word. She’s in her trench and I’m in no-man’s land, feeling slightly shell-shocked at her behaviour. Who is this person? I’m not feeling angry, just confused. What the hell is going on here?

Inside the stadium she says that she’s feeling cold, so I buy her a coffee…and she doesn’t say thank you.

My father was a great one for sayings. One of his favourites was, “The more you do for people, the less they appreciate it.” I had always disliked that saying of his, finding it rather cynical and distasteful. However, today I’m starting to agree with him.

We find our seats and the opening act is already under way. There’s a great atmosphere in the stadium and it’s an impressive sight, all those people thronging together, looking at an elaborate stage. Ever the optimist I try to make more small talk with Country Girl but still her answers comprise single words.

Now I’m starting to get fed up. I don’t know what her problem is, but I don’t like it. I don’t deserve this. I should be here with someone who is crazy about me and not silently crazy at me. Then I remember that I had bought these tickets in the belief that I would be here with Krazy Girl. I would so much more have preferred to be here with her, instead of with this sulky cow.

Another couple take up their seats next to us and the woman is sitting next to Country Girl. The opening act leaves the stage and an expectant hush fills the massive venue; everyone is ready to see The Killers. Country Girl turns to the woman next to her and starts a conversation with her. She’s animated and friendly towards this stranger, her normal self again, totally ignoring me.

The Killers come on stage in a blaze of lights, fireworks and special effects…Country Girl and the other woman continue with their excited little conversation. I can’t believe it. What have I done wrong to be experiencing this? As the concert gets going, their chat continues and I’m overcome by a strange feeling. I’m all alone and now feeling lonely, surrounded by 80 000 people…and a weirdo next to me.

All attraction I had felt for her is now gone. All the good feelings I had been feeling are now stone cold dead. All the things I have been hoping for from the future feel further away than ever before. Halfway through the concert and they’re still chatting, pausing occasionally to listen to a popular tune. Still she ignores me. I make up my mind that I won’t be seeing her again after tonight.

I look down amongst the crowd, looking to see if there’s anything to lift my now deflated mood. All I can see is happy couples, holding hands or bopping along together. I want to be like them. I want to be with someone that wants to do that with me, someone who wants to be with me. I don’t want to be with this horror-show by my side. Despite my best efforts, despite my plans, bookings and money spent, I feel like a failure because it was all for nothing.

The Killers start playing ‘Smile Like You Mean It’ and for some reason Country Girl turns to me and gives me a smile, a fake smile. Her eyes weren’t smiling. She turns away and strikes up a conversation with her new friend again. What the fuck was that about? Am I seeing the real her now? Am I finding out why she’s single? Is she schizo? Is this why she works in nature conservation, because she can’t get along with people? Is this why she was an accountant, she’s more comfortable with numbers?

After the concert we’re queuing to get on the train that would take us back to my town. We stand side by side and we don’t say a word to each other. She only speaks to complain about how long it’s all taking. There’s ample time and opportunity for her to thank me for taking her to the concert, but it isn’t forthcoming. I’ve had enough of her and I never want to see her again.

We sit in silence on the train back to my town. I can’t wait to get the hell away from her. I have no interest in even speaking to her. Her behaviour has been disgusting and appalling. I’m starting to feel angry. I can do much better than her; I deserve better than her. She’s a Taker and possibly a gold-digger too. Her attitude changed once she had seen my apartment, that’s the only thing I can say for sure.

Eventually we’re standing next to her car parked outside my place. She just stares at me blankly. I guess she must be all talked-out from the concert and her throat must be sore.

“Tell me, do you think we’re right for each other?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” she says.

“I don’t think we are. Goodbye,” I say and walk off.

She seems to think that cold, aloof behaviour is acceptable, so how does she like it now?

What I really wanted to say is, “Fuck off, you ungrateful fucking little bitch!” but I have more class than that.

The next day I’m telling my best friend of my bitter disappointment. He laughs and trots out his mantra, “These bitches be crazy. Give it time. They’ll show you the crazy.” I’m starting to think he’s right.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Don’t get my hopes up until she’s passed the Apartment Test 2) Find a way of figuring out quickly if she’s a Giver or a Taker 3) By a third date the real person starts to come through.

The Killers – Smile Like You Mean It

Country Girl under the stars

It’s Tuesday and while I’m at work Country Girl texts me that it’s a beautiful Summer’s day. I’ve been wondering what to do for a second date and here’s my chance. I text her back, “Fancy a drink under the stars tonight?

What feels like a blink of an eye and by 7pm I’m sitting in the beer garden of one of the pubs in my town. Country Girl suggested meeting me there as there’s nowhere suitable in her town. I notice her car arrive and watch her park. She gets out and I take a long good look at her. She’s wearing brown three-quarter length trousers, a white blouse with a plunging neckline and high-heeled cork sandals. Our eyes meet and she smiles, a pretty smile.

I watch her make her way over the stony car park, her ankle occasionally almost twisting. It makes her breasts wobble. She’s quite fuckable. I’d love to pick her up, slide my hands under her buttocks, lift her onto a table, pull her trousers and knickers up to her knees that I’ll hold in the air as I fuck her. Appearance-wise she’s just right. Finally, I might have who I’ve been looking for.

Eventually she makes it over to my table and I stand to kiss her hello on a cheek. A waitress comes over and we order drinks. Country Girl’s even prettier than the other night which now feels like ages ago. Time stood still with the Deranged Dater.

Country Girl and I instantly re-engage in stimulating conversation, as if we had only stopped chatting a couple of hours ago. It all feels so easy and natural with her. Being with someone you consider your intellectual equal is a pleasant thing, especially when your last date was a thicko nightmare.

We talk about everything and anything, we seem to disagree on very little. The atmosphere between us varies from light-hearted to electric, the latter is perhaps lust, fuelled by touches of flirting. I’m learning that physical desire is a component of that elusive thing called ‘chemistry’.

As the sun slides away and the shadows claim the light, we order plates of finger food that we share. It seems we have very similar taste in food, which I think is a good thing as it makes going out together easier. It’s a cloudless sky and the stars come out to play as Country Girl and I chat away, getting to know one another.

She doesn’t appear to have had many relationships, but the few she spoke of lasted for several years at a time. I’ve learned to take a woman’s relationship history with a bucket of salt. Flings of a few months and the occasional one-night stand are rarely counted in a woman’s book as a relationship. Bit of a grey area that. Does it really matter? I still can’t decide.

Her relationship with her parents seems healthy and normal. Dutifully she visits them for Christmas and their birthdays, but she also seems to like her parents. In my dating experiences so far this seems rare, so I’m pleased for her. It also tells me that she might be emotionally healthy, not plagued by a variety of hangups acquired in childhood.

There’s something that I’ve been thinking about. It involves the nature of participants in a relationship and I’ve boiled it down to just two types: Givers and Takers. A ‘Giver’ is someone whose inherent personality lacks selfishness compared to a ‘Taker’. I’ve based my insights on my own relationship history and those of close friends whose relationships I know perhaps too much about. I ascribe no gender bias to either role.

It seems to me that every person is either a Giver or a Taker and that doesn’t change much in however many or what kind of relationship they are in i.e. friends, colleagues, family or spouse. I’m not saying that everyone is either extreme, but that where we fall between those extremes we do not move much from. In my life experience so far it seems that the vast majority of people gravitate towards the ‘Giver’ side of the spectrum, with a small minority being constantly utterly selfish pricks. It is rare to find someone who is half of each. This realization surprises and pleases me because, to my mind at least, it answers that age-old question: are humans inherently good or bad.

So how does this effect romantic relationships? With the case of two Takers getting together, their relationship can’t last long because everything between them gets consumed, because that’s what Takers do, they consume, destroy…just take. They usually only give enough back to keep the other person giving; that’s how Takers operate, out of enlightened self-interest. A Giver and a Taker getting together lasts until the Giver has nothing left to give. The best relationship has to be between two Givers. Nothing gets consumed or destroyed, only shared. Neither has reason to feel aggrieved or exploited because they come to realize that their partner has their best interests at heart too. With time two Givers grow stronger and better, together. I think that that must be the best kind of relationship to be in. Look around at the relationships in your social circle that you consider to be a success and see if they are both Givers. What you see might surprise you.

I’m a Giver, so much so that I consider my lack of selfishness a character flaw. My ex-wife was a Giver too, it’s perhaps why we were together for almost 15 years. My Exgf is a Taker and I think it is why we had such a turbulent relationship that only lasted 5 years. Nothing I did was good enough and she always wanted more. Only when I said “no more” through my actions did she relent and start giving things in return. Looking back on it now I realize that she is very transactional.

I’m mentioning this here because I’ve decided to include it as a criteria for finding The One. She has to be a ‘Giver’ too, otherwise we are both wasting our time. I want something that’s going to last. I realize that finding this out about someone takes time. I’m prepared to give the woman sitting before me, Country Girl, much more of my time. I sense serious potential with her and I’m excited by it.

I struggle inwardly to contain my excitement about her. It’s a determined effort on my part to maintain a cool, calm and unruffled exterior that is going counter to what I’m feeling inside. I feel like going everywhere and anywhere, doing everything and anything with her because I just know that the outcome will be good.

A few months ago I had bought tickets to see The Killers in concert at Wembley Stadium. It was going to be a surprise for Krazy Girl as it’s her favourite group. That’s not going to happen now and in a strange twist of fate I finally have someone who might be right for me, so her and I can go instead. Life’s looking up!

“I don’t know if you’re free this coming Saturday, but I don’t suppose you’d like to see The Killers at Wembley with me?” I ask Country Girl.

“I’d love to,” she instantly shoots back with delight in her eyes.

Fantastic! Saturday can’t come soon enough.

A warm Summer breeze caresses our necks as we drink chilled white wine and chat amiably under the stars. Suddenly I see that we’re the only people left outside and I can hear the staff clearing up inside the pub. Again we’re the last to leave, oblivious of everyone around us. I love it when that happens because it means I’m having a good time. I tell Country Girl that I need the gents and go off to settle our bill.

I walk Country Girl to her car and we stand next to it, kissing like lovestruck teenagers. Over the course of the evening the sexual tension between us has been building. Perpetual light flirting got us to the point where, when our lips meet again, there’s a passion between us that finds its way out through our kissing. She uses her tongue after about a minute and it’s a probing little one, not a hammer-drill like Baltic Babe or Wild Child that goes inspecting my fillings.

Seizing my chance to feel her body better I let my hands slide down her sides and around her back. She’s carrying a few extra pounds but I’d rather that than risk my crushing a stick insect of a woman. I feel her body tensing up, not from fright or discomfort, but from anticipation of what it wants to feel next.

Before things get out of hand and I’m tempted to have my way with her on the bonnet of her car – not that I ever would – I decide to end the evening there. I’m learning that a little bit of teasing is not a bad thing.

“I think it’s time to say goodnight, “ I say with a smile.

“Phew. Yes, I think you’re right,” she says and smiles back.

Was she thinking what I was thinking?

Country Girl gets in her car and I watch her drive off.

From what I’ve learned of her I’m convinced that she’s a Good Girl.

Is she a Giver or a Taker?

Time will tell.

Date #22 – Deranged Dater

My subscription to Match.com was coming to an end and it had been a waste of money really. They have a mechanism whereby you get loads of attention once your subscription runs out, all in an attempt to get you to spend more money with them. I swore to never again use that site, so as my time was running out I had a good look through all the most relevant profiles and came across one that was of interest.

She is blonde, 39 years old, lives in a nearby town, has a great smile in her two photos and, despite a short written profile, exudes a positive vibe with her words. I think I’ve got nothing to lose, expecting that she won’t even write back. I’m finding that only one in four write back and then one in four of those responders leads to a date.

I contact her and she responds that night and in the space of a few brief emails we agree to meet on Friday night which is only a few days away. I like her decisiveness. One date scheduled for Thursday night and now this one the next night. My friends are surprised at my ability to always have such an active dating life. They just don’t know how much time and effort goes into making it all happen.

My mind is still fresh with memories of the previous night’s date when, after work on Friday night, I drive straight to the pub where we agreed to meet. It’s on my way home and only a slight detour. A practical convenient venue is a good start, I tell myself, but I’m not too sure about what to expect from the night. This could be heaven or this could be hell, those words from ‘Hotel California’ come to mind.

My date texts me that she’ll be a few minutes late, but arrives half an hour late. I’m not impressed, but excuse it away with it being a long, tiring working week for her too. She probably wants to make an effort to look good for our first date as you never know what it might lead to.

I’m sitting at a table with a drink to hand when she arrives with a bustle at the door. She doesn’t look much like her photos and if it wasn’t for her hair I probably wouldn’t have recognised her. I feel a little let down. She recognizes me and comes over to me. Just how old were those photos, I ask myself as I stand to kiss her hello on a cheek. She’s dressed in all black clothing and I realize it’s to hide just how overweight she is. Many women believe that black is a slimming colour; it’s the same kind of thinking that leads the same women to think that all men are stupid. She’s chewing gum and that makes her look tacky. This is going to be a long night, however brief this might be.

I go get her a drink at the bar while she sits and fusses over her clothing. As I’m waiting I take a good look at her. She’s definitely not 39, at least 45. Her neck looks quite weathered and her hair is thinning. On the plus side she does have unusually large breasts, at least a g-cup. I wasn’t expecting that, but nevertheless she’s not the look I like. Hopefully her personality makes up for everything else.

“I’m sorry if meeting so early was inconvenient for you,” I say to her as I return with her glass of wine.

“It’s not a problem. I’m not working at the minute anyway,” she says.

“Oh?” is all I say, in a neutral tone, not intimating any kind of opinion.

Then it starts.

“Yes, I’ve been suspended from work. I’m an accountant and I’ve detected a fraud at my work, so I went to the finance director about it and have been suspended for it. I now think that he’s in on it,” she says.

“Oh,” is all I can say again. What can you say to that? As opening first-date chit-chat, this is strong stuff.

“I’m pretty sure that today I saw him drive past my home, park a few doors down and sit there watching my home,” she says angrily.

“Do you live near your work then?” I ask calmly, trying to change the topic slightly.

“No, I live three blocks from here and my work is also three blocks away, but in the opposite direction,” she replies.

She lives three blocks away, has been off work all day, part of it spent staring down her boss who might or might not be parked outside her house and she’s still half an hour late?!

I soldier on and try to change the topic to something more normal and familiar as opening small-talk for a first date.

“So, what do your parents think of this situation?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t talk to them. My parents live in the North and I haven’t spoken to my mum in over fifteen years,” she says.

“Oh,” is all I can say, yet again. Fuck, this isn’t going well.

“Well, my dad I speak to but only secretly. My mum won’t let him speak to me on the phone, so every couple of months I drive to a town near them and my dad comes to meet me,” she continues.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask meekly, hoping for a glimmer of some positivity.

“I have a brother, but he’s an arsehole. We haven’t spoken since we were teenagers,” she says huffily with a frown.

A glutton for punishment, I keep going.

“So does your best friend live around here?” Anything, give me anything good, please.

“Yes, my best friend lives in my street. She’s Jamaican and has four kids by four different men. She keeps asking me to baby-sit. She also keeps borrowing money off me and never paying it back. The other day it dawned on me that I might be needing that money if I lose me job, so I’ve asked her to start repaying it. Now she doesn’t answer my calls and is never home when I go round to visit,” she says.

I look around the pub, seeing if I can spot hidden cameras. Have my friends clubbed together and hired an actress as some sort of prank on me? I don’t spot any. This is really happening to me. This woman is a misery. Should I leave now? It’s only been a couple of minutes.

Everybody who knows her is at odds with her. Her own family want nothing to do with her. There must be a reason why. Not having anything else better to do, I decide to stay, to try and have fun with this nutcase. I’ll treat it as an opportunity to learn more about womankind.

Is she a Good Girl or a Good Time girl? I don’t really care, I’m just honing my skills. From the state of her appearance and the things she has said, I’m inclined to believe that she’s the latter. Maybe I can get to play with her giant tits? The truth is that I’m not attracted to her at all; I find her rather repugnant.

“So where’s your favourite place that you’ve travelled to?” I ask, leaning on what is almost everybody’s favourite topic of conversation. Who doesn’t like to travel, right?

“I don’t really like travelling. The food’s always funny and not everybody speaks English,” she begins to answer.

There’s always one, isn’t there? I found her. She’s not even halfway through her glass of wine. What will happen if I get her drunk?

“I would say that my favourite place has been Amsterdam. Me and a bunch of girls went there for my fortieth a few years back now. We went into one of those brown cafes and got totally stoned,” she says with a laugh.

Aha! I’m right about so many things. First, she’s definitely over forty. Second, the photos on her profile are quite old because I can see now that they were taken in Amsterdam. Thirdly and most importantly, she is a Good Time Girl. Also, so much for being a non-smoker; might be why she’s furiously chewing gum. Worse still in my book, she’s a bit of a druggie. I definitely don’t want to fuck her now; she’s gross.

“Excuse me, but I need to go visit the ladies,” she says and heads off.

Do I do a runner? It’s my best chance to get away. She seems to have nothing but problems to talk about and below the surface probably has loads of emotional baggage. However, she’s not a bad person, just a deranged one. I think of her as the Deranged Dater.

Maybe the night will get better and I can learn a few more things from this experience. She hasn’t asked me a single question so far. I think it’s always telling what’s on a woman’s mind about a man if you look at the questions she asks of him. I’ll treat this as dating practise. Last night’s date is definitely heavenly by comparison; the contrast is startling.

The Deranged Dater returns and we order a meal. I eat while she talks and I struggle not to choke on my food from laughing at the shit that comes out of her mouth. If I gave this woman another brain-cell the two would fight. As she becomes tipsy her language begins to slip, which is funny, but I note that all she wants to talk about is how other people have done her wrong. Her list of exes is lengthy and she spews venom about each one of them. Her longest relationship lasted only two years.

It starts getting noisy around us and I suggest that we go sit in a quieter part of the pub. She agrees and we end up sitting next to each other on a bench. Then she starts doing something that I find odd. While she talks at me, she keeps looking down towards my chest, occasionally moving her head in an attempt to peek through any gap in my shirt. Does she have a thing for men’s chests? Probably, but I couldn’t care less. I have a 48-inch chest, reasonably solid from hours in the gym every week and medium hairy, but she’s never going to touch it.

Again I notice that even now she has not asked me a single question about myself or anything to do with me. Any man getting involved with the Deranged Dater would become a small satellite around the black hole of relationship problems that is her.

It starts getting late, that’s what I tell her when I decide I’ve had enough of this insanity. It is barely 8pm. I walk Deranged Dater to her car and give her a kiss goodbye on a cheek.

I was right, this could be heaven or this could be hell. It was the latter.

This was the worst date of my life…so far.

The next day I send her a polite text message: “It was great to meet you. Sadly I don’t feel that we’re right for each other. I wish you all the best in your search for Mr Right.”

Footnote: A few months later I came across her profile on MatchAffinity. There she said that her age is 45, that she’s trying to quit smoking, that her relationship status is ‘separated’ and that she is unemployed. It gave us a rating of 78, which just proves conclusively that MatchAffinity’s matching system is total crap.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Beware profiles with few words and photos 2) Some daters are nothing like what their profiles portray themselves to be 3) Everyone is single for a reason 4) If their longest relationship is only a few years, that’s a big red warning sign. 5) I’m never using Match.com again and MatchAffinity is suspect too.

Eagles – Hotel California