Cat Lady capers

It’s a drizzly Sunday morning as I meet Cat Lady at my station and walk her back to my apartment. I have no plan and no idea how today will turn out. If it wasn’t rainy we could go for a lengthy walk in the countryside but it looks like today is going to be an indoor day. Oh dear, how shall we spend the time? Cat Lady is chatty and all that she says of my place is, “It’s a typical bachelor’s pad. It needs a woman’s touch.”

I set about making a barbecue on my balcony and she keeps me company as I tend to the kangaroo, zebra and ostrich meat. As compatriot South Africans we like our meat exotic and perfectly cooked. I start sweating from not just the heat of the fire but also from a self-induced pressure to get the meat just right. Once we sit down to eat she starts telling me all about her love of cats. It’s clearly her favourite topic and she goes on and on about cats. I become bored of this and become naughty in my mind.

“I just love cats. They’re such good company and very low-maintenance,” she says.

Good company, huh? I wonder what your cat would say about you if it could talk?


“How many cats do you have?” I ask.

“Just, the one for now, but I want another one soon” she answers.

“So how many cats would like to have if money and space wasn’t a factor?” I ask, trying to sound interested.

“Oh, I’d have as many as my home could allow,” she answers.


“Don’t you think that you run the risk of becoming a crazy cat lady then?” I jest.

“No, not at all,” she says with a smile.

Cat lady

“Do you let your cat sleep on your bed?” I ask, thinking that I already know the answer.

“Of course I do!” she exclaims.

Bingo. I can just see what sleeping in her bed would be like.


“So, do you talk to your cat?”

“Of course,” she says indignantly.


I’ve always been a ‘dog person’ because as a kid we had dogs; bull mastiffs and fox terriers. The latter dug holes and the former filled them with drool. I’ve not spent much time with cats and they don’t really appeal to me. I could see that if Cat Lady and I were to have a relationship that things would become, er, complicated.


There’s nothing wrong with her being a fan of cats, that’s her ‘thing’. There’s nothing wrong with someone being a cat-lover. A lot of famous people have had cats.


It’s just that I’m pretty clueless when it comes to cats.


Then I remember that a couple of other women whom I’ve dated were also fans of cats. Teacher Gal had two cats, the Wild Animal Tickler had three and the best pussy of them all, Krazy Girl, had one.

What is it about single woman with cats being eccentric characters?

give up

Well, at least I know what to get Cat Lady for Christmas or her next birthday…

kat kit

Before I say something to offend her, I switch on my television and start showing her ‘Californication’. We sit side by side on my sofa, transfixed by the shenanigans on the screen. Cat Lady laughs out loud at the funny bits and doesn’t seem phased by the naughty bits. By the end of the second episode other women have found themselves juicy and open to persuasion of the sexy kind. I’m somewhat aroused. I wonder if she’s getting turned on by all this; only one way to find out.

“I did a massage course last year. Would you like a massage?” is all I have to say for her eyes to light up.

“Ooh, I love massages,” she gasps.

I have yet to meet a woman who doesn’t.

“We need to go to the bedroom. There isn’t enough space here,” I say, trying to sound as professional as possible.

She’s almost as tall as me and this sofa isn’t conducive to a decent massage. Without a word Cat Lady gets up and starts walking to my bedroom; I follow her.

Why am I doing this? Do I want to have sex with her? I wouldn’t mind. Would that complicate things between us? Hell, yeah. Do I want to have a relationship with her? I’m not sure.

I stand in the doorway behind her as Cat Lady takes her top off and then, to my surprise, she takes her bra off too before lying face down on my bed. I catch a side glance view of a boobicle and it’s of a respectable size. I guesstimate that they’re at least C-cups. She’s certainly no prude; this could get interesting.

Once my hands are lathered up in massage oil I get to work on Cat Lady’s back which is riddled with knots. It’s obviously been a long time since she was last massaged. I wonder if she’s tried to train her cat to walk on her back? After almost half an hour I finish and lie down next to her. I’m happy for her to lie there, enjoying whatever she’s feeling, not having to talk to me.

Cat Lady comes to life almost instantly and rolls onto her side, deliberately fully exposing her breasts to me, which are indeed of a decent size, but I try not to stare and just give a polite peek that makes her smile.

“Did you enjoy that?” I ask.

“Yes, very much. Thank you,” she answers.

“What do you feel like doing now?” I ask, trying to see if she’s interested in sex or wants to retreat to safer ground. My ambivalence towards sex surprises me. Pretty much any other guy on the planet would be trying to push his luck with her, perhaps her mind works in different ways. Mine certainly is at the moment.

We lie facing each other, making small talk, the entire time she’s still topless and her nipples remain very erect. They’re of more a redder tinge than most woman’s, but it might be because she’s quite turned on now, I start to realize. If I don’t try something with her she might be offended and I’ll never see her again because she now equates that negative emotion with me.

I slowly raise a hand and gently cup her breast, which is cold and she hunches her shoulders from what must be the pleasurable warmth of my hand. She smiles broadly which I take to mean that she wants to go all the way with me. It would be rude not to at this point; no turning back now.

Her breast fills my hand and I squeeze it gently. For a woman in her mid-forties her breasts are remarkably firm. They’re not fake because I know what those look and feel like from my nights in strip clubs in Prague little more than a year ago.

Cat Lady says nothing, keeping a straight face that gives nothing away, except for a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. Words often lie but actions never do, so her actions, or rather her inaction, tell me it’s permissible to continue. I’m not entirely sure where this is going as I lower my mouth towards her breast. She closes her eyes and tilts her head slightly back, all in anticipation of my mouth making contact with her smooth, flawless skin.

I slowly tease around her areola with the tip of my tongue, to which she exhales audibly. What I have learned over the last year is that taking my time with a woman reduces her almost literally to putty in my hands. Cat Lady is probably still relaxed from my massage, perhaps in need of a catnap after the heavy lunch I’d made, so a little physical pleasure is irresistible to her.

Sucking her entire breast into my mouth causes her to let out an “ugh” sound of satisfaction. My little trick of running my tongue around the nipple in a circular motion leads to more sounds of pleasure. I wonder if she’s amongst the small percentage of women who can an orgasms from nipple stimulation?

Cat Lady rolls away from me, a popping sound is heard as her breast detaches from my mouth, which makes us both laugh. Her other breast is now closer to me, so I make a move to repeat my trick there too.

“I think we should stop there,” she says unexpectedly.

“Oh, okay,” is all I say. I’ve learned not to force it when a woman says “stop”. That stop might just be a pause for a reason, such as her wanting to talk about something in particular or to just talk some more in general because she’s not totally comfortable yet. Some women like the foreplay so much that they break the mood so that it can begin all over again until they feel turned on enough to see it through to Nature’s desired outcome…or is that ‘out cum’?

“There’s something you need to know,” she says.

Oh jeez, now what?

“I have a rare condition in which my period lasts for two weeks at a time,” she says.

“Oh, I see,” are the lame words that fall from my surprised lips, but I quickly follow up with, “So are you on your period now?”

“Yes, I am. I’m sorry,” she replies with plaintive eyes.

“Oh, sweetie, no need to apologize. It’s just one of those things. Not the end of the world,” I say to console her. I appreciate her candour about such a sensitive topic.

To make her feel better I tell her about someone I knew who was permanently emitting light period discharges. It ruined this woman’s life in terms of physical stamina, relationship status, daily mood and obviously sexual life. Cat Lady starts to relax her face again, which pleases me. Inwardly I’ve accepted that nothing sexual is going to happen between us today and I’m okay with that.

“Tell me something, what kind of relationship are you looking for?” she asks.

“I want the works. I want to be with The One, to love her and for her to love me back. I want to share my life with someone I’m crazy about, someone I can’t imagine living without and having her feel the same about me. Stupid, huh?” I answer.

“No, not stupid. Lovely and sweet,” she says and leans over to me and kisses me on a cheek.

Her gesture is affectionate, but I’m not too sure what to make of it. Before I can ask Cat Lady gets up and starts getting dressed. Our fun is over and I’m a little disappointed because I was quite turned on. My instincts tell me that her and I would make each other feel good, very good.

Once dressed she turns and smiles at me, so I get up and we go back to the lounge to watch more episodes of Californication. It’s a strangely comfortable feeling I have sitting next to her on my sofa, like we’ve done exactly this many times before. It feels natural and good, like words aren’t necessary, like we’re the only occupants of our own private universe.

Like that we sit for hours, transfixed by the screen showing a well-intentioned man being undone by an unspoken conspiracy of cruel fate and scheming women, that which is the life of the lead character in the series I feel an affinity for. I’m starting to think that I’m living my own version of the Hank Moody reality.

As Cat Lady and I sit there, with her especially entranced by the greatest relationship crutch going, I silently gather my thoughts about her. She has a good heart and also has been let down. I feel that I can trust her and I now know just how rare that is. I respect her because she has a strength of character that is equally rare. She says what she means and means what she says, the same as me. Do I think I could love her and she me? Far too soon to know the answer to that one.

“Right, it’s getting dark and my fluffball will need feeding soon,” she says as an episode ends.

I snap out of my spell and help her get her coat on. In her haste I forget to give her a little lunch-box of leftover meats that I had made for her earlier. We walk to the station in the persistent drizzle and I keep her company on the lonely platform until her train arrives. We kiss goodbye on the lips, just a perfunctory kiss, nothing passionate.

Minutes later I’m sitting back on my sofa, thinking about what just happened. My phone lights up with a message from Cat Lady and we start swapping messages. It seems she had something on her mind too:

Cat Lady: I was quite comfortable which is nice
Grey Knight: It felt like we are a good fit, natural almost…which is more than nice.
Cat Lady: 🙂
Cat Lady: We have a good connection & great understanding, on most levels it seems
Cat Lady: But I have to warn you – I have a lot of unfinished business emotionally that I am sorting through slowly
Cat Lady: That is why I am not ready for any serious relations
Cat Lady: You look ready for a serious relationship, & I not the right partner for that
Cat Lady: That is why I ask, if you’re ok to enjoy & have some fun, all good,  but if you want more than that you need to know I am not your girl right now xxxx
Cat Lady: You should please think on that – I do not want to cause any hurt xxxx

I sit staring at her message, now painfully aware that she’s definitely not The One. Yes, there is scope for a friends-with-benefits scene, but I want true love, not it’s poor in-bred cousin that might have a mystery disease. I think her to be a case of ‘Right Person at the Wrong Time’. Her previous boyfriend had done much emotional damage, had wronged her.

My brain injects thoughts of The Irish Cougar and my feelings change to ones of revenge for a sense of being misled, being wronged myself. I start to feel angry.

Just then a text message from my Exgf arrives:

What’s a horny girl all alone at home to do?

Your place or mine?” I ask.


I’ll be there in 20 mins.

Crowded House – Private Universe

Cougar confessions

It’s a rainy Saturday morning in October as I drive for an hour to where The Irish Cougar is living with friends. My head and heart are filled with conflicting ideas of revenge and decency. I’m fundamentally angry with her deceit about her age, have now made my own plan of deceit but deep down I’m uneasy about it all. This isn’t what I want or how things should be when looking for love, but my growing sense of frustration with dishonest women is driving me to do something outside of my normal realms of reality.

At the same time I’ve been swapping messages with Cat Lady about getting together tomorrow, which I feel much more positive about. She’s more fun than The Irish Cougar but I’ve put that down to our mutual heritage. Can there be something more between us? I’ll decide after our next date.

To compound matters I’ve had a message from my Exgf asking if I’m free this weekend, which I’ve impolitely ignored. I suspect that she’s still hoping for a reconciliation, but there’s more likelihood of me falling pregnant with Jonny Depp’s baby. I would have thought that by now she would have figured this out, but she was always a slow learner.

I arrive at the front door of Irish Cougar’s friend’s house and her friend opens the door. This woman is clearly pushing fifty; she has several crows feet and her skin has lost it’s elasticity. There are two teenage daughters having breakfast in the kitchen whom I’m introduced to just as The Irish Cougar makes her appearance. It’s a bit of an awkward moemt as I greet her with me deciding at the last second to kiss her once on a cheek. The mother and daughters freeze to observe this.

Polite small-talk ensues in which the mother tells me that the eldest child, a son, is off at university. Irish Cougar told me that she and this woman were friends since high school. Do you all think that I’m some kind of idiot who can’t do maths? Does this friend really think I’m fooled about Irish Cougar’s big lie? Or did she suggest this?

The rain lets up, so Irish cougar and I go for a drive in my car, touring around small towns, villages and hamlets in the county. We stop into a coffee shop for pastries and coffee on what feels like the first day of Autumn. Conversation has flowed easily between us, largely because she’s very talkative today.

“Oh, good news! Friends of mine are letting me stay in a spare apartment of theirs in London from next week! I’m so excited,” she squeaks, almost spilling her coffee.

“That sounds like good news. How long for?” I retort.

“They said I can have it until Christmas. I can’t wait to unpack all my stuff,” she says shrilly.

“How is it that they have a spare apartment? Not many people just happen to have one of those lying around,” I ask.

“Oh, he’s a phenomenally wealthy guy who used to be a client of a company I worked for. They only use it when they come to London,” she replies.

“May I ask where it is?” I ask, trying to hide my curiosity but immediately calculating that this development comes with opportunity for me and my plan.

“It’s smack-bang in the centre of London. The lounge overlooks Hyde Park,” she answers.

Property in that part of London start at the million Pound mark. The Irish Cougar keeps interesting company. I go for the gap.

“Would you like some help moving?” I ask.

“Oh, that would be lovely. All my stuff should just fit in your car,” she says in a way that makes me think she was eyeing up my car as she got in it and we drove around.

“So when are planning on moving?” I ask, now wondering what I’ve got myself into.

“This coming Wednesday. Does that suit you?” she says with a serious look in her eyes.

Was she counting on having me help her move?

“Yeah, I’m free that day,” I say.

“We’ll have the whole place to ourselves. You’ll probably be tired at the end of the day, so you’re welcome to spend the night,” she says with a naughty smile.

Game on! Yes, she wants to get physical with me! This will be interesting. I was contemplating ending up at my place tonight but seducing her in a multi-millionaire’s pad seems suddenly much more appealing. I’ll cool my loins for a few days yet.

I say nothing in response to her subtle offer of fuckery, but just smile at her with my eyes. I think we understand the arrangement, words will only defuse the escalating sexual tension between us. I want to keep her hungry for me.

We walk around a few more quaint villages on the banks of the Thames and at dusk we’re holding hands as we walk along a high street of a town.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she begins.

“Oh, that sounds serious,” I respond, having an inkling about what might be coming.

“Please don’t be angry or upset, but I’m not really thirty-nine,” she says.

“How old are you then?” I say, trying to sound surprised, deciding on the spur of the moment to make as much of this as I can.

“I’m forty-nine,” she says meekly.

“What?!” I exclaim, trying my best to sound surprised and shocked. Amateur dramatics was never my thing.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you on our first date,” she continues.

“I don’t know what to say,” I proffer, averting my gaze.

“I hope you’re not upset with me?” she asks.

“What would you do or feel if you were in my position?”

“I don’t know,” is all she says, looking down.

“Why did you lie?” I ask.

“Well, I don’t look or feel my age, so why not? I’m very proud of how good I look for my age and I don’t see why a number should be used to penalise me,” she replies.

“I agree, you look fantastic for your age, but it’s the dishonesty that irks me,” I say truthfully.

“I understand. All I’ve been getting on dating sites is messages from old men who I just don’t find attractive,” she explains, as if that makes it all better.

I feign indignation and realize that at some point I had let go of her hand. We walk side by side in silence for a few minutes, browsing and window shopping as a way of avoiding interacting. I feel a little bit guilty for misleading her but I think that she deserves a dose of her own medicine. It’s part of my plan, which also involves seeing if there are any more truths to be wrung out of her while she’s in a contrite frame of mind.

We find a pub just before the dinner-time rush, put in our orders and get comfortable near an open fireplace, drinks in hand. We’re sitting in a two-seater sofa, facing away from the gathering masses of hungry patrons.

“Is there anything else that needs updating or correcting?” I ask, throwing the conversation open again that we haven’t properly dealt with. I can see that she’s thinking. Time slows down. What else don’t I know?

“Uhm, yes,” she begins, a sheepish expression coming over her face. I keep quiet.

“Well, you know I said I’ve been living with my friends since I’ve moved over?…” she continues but then stops abruptly.

“Yes,” I coax with a neutral face.

“That’s not totally correct. I did have a place of my own for a few weeks but the live-in landlady was a total nightmare, so I moved out,” she says.

“That’s no biggie,” I say, but notice that her expression doesn’t change.

“Well, there’s a little more to it. I was desperate to have a place of my own, but I had also met someone online. Him and I couldn’t go back to where I’m staying now and his living arrangements were complicated too,” she says.

“Ah,” is all I say, remembering that on our first date she had professed to not having had much luck dating. Still her expression doesn’t change.

“He was thirty-five,” she says softly, biting her lower lip.

“Ooh, you naughty minx,” I say sarcastically, “So what happened?” I pry.

“Well, when I told him my real age, he went ballistic,” she says.

“Yeah, I can imagine. Guys don’t like being misled,” I say with a wry smile that makes her blink twice.

“That’s why I hoped you won’t be as upset as him,” she adds.

“So what happened with him?” I ask.

“He stormed out the night I told him and I haven’t seen him since,” she answers.

I decide to leave it there and a quiet descends on us in that now noisy pub. Why add more misery to her story? Nevertheless, The Irish Cougar experiences this reaction from one guy and then persists with her ruse about her age?! Is she as slow a learner as my Exgf? She should have learned her lesson there and then.

I can only a total bastard for so long. I can see that she’s feeling bad about all this and I realize that it took a bit of courage on her part to confess this to me. I decide that it’s time to end this little game, but my feelings for and about her haven’t changed. Once my trust is betrayed I don’t go back asking for more of the same. ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, then shame on me.’

“I have something to tell you too,” I start.

“Oh, yes? What?” she says with wide eyes.

“I found out last weekend how old you are,” I say with a smile. How’s she going to react to this?

“Oh my god!” is all she says as she slumps back in her seat, almost spilling her drink.

I just sit in silence, savouring my own little deceit, smiling to myself, searching her eyes for a hint of emotion. Eventually her eyes sparkle again and she starts to slowly shake her head in disbelief.

“You funny fecker,” she says and starts laughing. I join in.

We enjoy our meal, the mood between us lightens, we joke about Googling people and it feels like the air between us is cleared. Not once, however, did I say that I forgive her or understand why she did what she did. In fact I still think her choice of action to have been foolish, but what good will come from telling her that?

It isn’t long before we’re parked up in an approach road near her friend’s home. Like horny teenagers we start making out in the front seat of my car. My kisses turn her on and after minutes of this I brazenly slide a hand between her legs. The Irish Cougar is so wet that I can feel it through her jeans. Her kisses became passionate to the point of frenzy while the windows have totally misted up. A younger me would have tried to fuck her in my car, but I’m getting too old for that shit. Besides, a little patience goes along way; I have Wednesday to look forward to.

Before things get out of hand, or we get out of clothes, I cool things down. She steadies herself and we kiss each other good night before she gets out the car and heads for her friend’s house.

It’s after midnight as I get on the motorway while my head is swimming with memories of the day and mixed emotions from her confessions. The fact remains that her words were as useful as a forgotten dirge sung on the dark side of the moon. Her words to me are all lies. She’s just too flighty and perhaps something of a fantasist for me to trust her judgement.

She probably tells herself that men keep dumping her because of her age, but the simple truth is that men treat her as they do because she’s a liar, a straight-faced, stone-cold liar. Her admitting to more lies has only angered me further. By the time I get home I’ve decided to see through my plan with The Irish Cougar.

I need to get some sleep because a few hours after I awake I’ll be meeting Cat Lady who is coming to me for lunch. I haven’t decided how this date should be approached.

Of course my Exgf has sent me another text message tonight that I’m going to ignore…for now.

My last thoughts of the day as I fall asleep are of The Irish Cougar…wicked, naughty thoughts.

Simon & Garfunkel – Mrs. Robinson

Seduction scene set

I’m going to seduce The Irish Cougar, then I’m going to dump her. When the day arrives that she fully realizes this, she’ll go cold inside then start wondering why I did this to her. With more thought she’ll realize it is because she tricked me from the outset and now I’ve done the same to her. She’ll complain to her closest friends to help her make sense of it all, but as they huddle in their oestrogen bubble like haggard witches of old around a simmering cauldron, deep down they’ll know that playing games with men can backfire.

The Irish Cougar and I have fallen into the habit of calling each other every night. I suppose it’s normal practise for a dating couple, but to me it’s just part of wreaking my revenge on a woman trying to deceive me. I keep the conversation light and it almost always centres around her working day. From having lived with two other women for almost twenty years I have come to accept that part of life as a couple involves the woman talking or complaining about her working day for about an hour to her man. They claim it’s called ‘venting’, while I call it a waste of time.

Women seem to have a need to unburden themselves emotionally and once having done so they feel better for it. Not so for men. Men do a far better job of compartmentalizing or suppressing their feelings about their working lives from their home-life. We spend enough time at work, why squander free time by talking about it? I guess it’s just a gender difference that nobody tells us about. I think that most men find this aspect of a relationship a nuisance while women think their men insensitive.

I use The Irish Cougar’s need to vent as opportunity to draw her closer to me. Like a motionless spider on the edge of a web, her talking is like a fly moving closer to the centre of my web. When the time is right, the spider that is me will make its move. She’s not the only one who can play games.

We agree to get together on the coming Saturday, but that’s not when I’ll strike. I’m going to have to be a little bit more patient. Besides, I’m seeing Cat Lady on Sunday; who knows what will happen then.

On the Thursday I start swapping emails with The Irish Cougar while she’s bored at work. I use it as an opportunity to raise the temperature of the cauldron that the witches will pontificate over later. Is that ‘witches’ or ‘bitches’? I’m not quite sure.

I say this because I’ve been thinking about her motives and actions. From talking to my other dates I’ve learned that the typical woman on a dating site has a small team of confidants/cheerleaders/advisors behind her, helping their friend along, guiding her away from danger, passing judgement on men they’ve never seen, living vicariously through their friend’s experiences. It’s a rare woman who is dating all on her own without anybody else’s input. Did one or more of The Irish Cougar’s circle convince that trying to pass herself off as being ten years younger was the way to go?

My experience with Lusty Lass and naughty emails gives me the confidence and skills to indulge in a naughty exchange of messages. I turn the conversation sexual because I want The Irish Cougar fixated with me.

Grey Knight: Food can be fun, we agreed the other day…. 🙂

If it’s Summer, I like to squirt some whipped cream along the contours of a woman’s body…watch and feel her recoil from the cold sensation…then slowly lick it all off with my warm tongue…

If it’s winter, I do the same with maple syrup…

Would you like that?

Irish Cougar: Why not cream in summer and winter 🙂

I would like that …….

Grey Knight: I’m not set on anything in the bedroom…everybody has their likes and dislikes, that much I know.

I’m a giver, not a taker. Giving my woman pleasure IS my pleasure.

What do you like?

Irish Cougar: I love penetration, I also love being watched while I make myself come….love to have my back kissed, my hair pulled….

Grey Knight: I LOVE watching a woman making herself cum…one of my joys in life!

There is something delicious, from a man’s point of view, of having a woman on her knees before you ready for doggy style, then slowly penetrating her, listening to the sounds she makes as I slide in to her, feeling her body react, hearing her catch her breath, rocking slowly then… ever quicker…deeper…then bunching her hair in my hand and slowly pulling her head back…

What else do you like?

Irish Cougar: Foreplay is vital…sometimes a quick ‘tear each others clothes off’ and make each other come is good too……:)

kissing, licking, sucking works for me……

Sitting astride you, very sexy, riding you……

Grey Knight: Are you getting turned on?

Irish Cougar: most definitely, while trying to look professional here at the office 🙂


Grey Knight: I’m aroused, but I’m like that most days, most of the day. I have a very high sex drive…but I have never cheated nor will I.

Are you wet right now?

If I were in the office now, what would you like to have happen?

Tell me…

Irish Cougar: I am wet too….

Take me the other other office, remove my dress keeping my stockings and high shoes on and fuck me hard…….

Grey Knight: Have you ever gone to the restroom at work and played with yourself?

Irish Cougar: no….enjoying the feeling of being turned on 🙂

Grey Knight: Would you like to go to your restroom and play with yourself?

Irish Cougar: I would like to lay down and make myself come…..

Grey Knight: Have you ever photographed or videod yourself doing that?

Would you like to?

Irish Cougar: no I have not, mmmm…no not sure I would want to…..

Grey Knight: It’s a life-enhancing experience…you should try it sometime…

Tell me how you make yourself cum…

Irish Cougar: I would rather show you……….. when the time is right 🙂

what kind of things have you been daydreaming about……

Grey Knight: I’m daydreaming about discovering what gets your blood flowing, what you love, how you’re going to react to the things that I can do to you and for you…the sounds you make, how you smell…I’m especially dying to know how you taste…I reckon you taste sweeter than you realize…

Irish Cougar: very turned on here….I love sex, have a high sex drive, ‘frisky’ time, I love morning sex and would say night time and spontaneous sex …

Grey Knight: What have you been daydreaming?

Tell me…in detail…

Irish Cougar: non…I already talk too much….. 🙂

Grey Knight: Would you like to be turned on some more?

Irish Cougar: yes …I would…..

Grey Knight: Do you like being massaged?

Imagine lying on your stomach…


I straddle you…

I have warm oil in my hands and spread it slowly across your back…

Irish Cougar: I love to be massaged…….go on…more …….

Grey Knight: I stretch my hands over your back, starting at the base of the spine and gently push up towards your shoulders…

My hands sliding over the oil, your skin cresting like waves before my hands…

I glide my hands back down to your spine, and repeat…

Increasing the pressure gradually every time…

I can feel your body relaxing under me…

Irish Cougar: More

Grey Knight: I massage your muscles, finding the knots and releasing them…

Your body is warming up to my touch…

The force in my hands is strong, but your body doesn’t mind…

Once I feel your body is totally relaxed, limp even…

I lean forward and start kissing your back…

Starting at the base of the spine, kissing either side of it…

Kissing upwards, slowly, surely…

Tasting the oil on my lips…

Irish Cougar: hmmm…

Grey Knight: I reach the top of the spine…

Brushing your hair to one side…

I kiss the nape of your neck…your ear…your cheek…

You make interesting sounds…approving sounds…that start to turn me on…

I lick your neck and ear…

My hands are near your shoulders…

reach the top of the spine…

Brushing your hair to one side…

I kiss the nape of your neck…your ear…your cheek…

You make interesting sounds…approving sounds…that start to turn me on…

I lick your neck and ear…

My hands are near your shoulders…

Irish Cougar: More

Grey Knight: I turn you over…

Exposing all your femininity to me…

With barely pausing to enjoy the sight of you…

I kiss your throat…then neckline…then shoulders…

Irish Cougar: Hmm

Grey Knight: Are you wet?

Irish Cougar: very…..

Grey Knight: I kiss down the side of your shoulder, along the top of your arm…

Occasionally giving a little lick…just for variety…

Arriving at your breast…I don’t do what every amateur lover does…

Instead, I kiss the side of the breast…ignoring the nipple…

Kissing in a big concentric motion all around the breast…

Slowly drawing the circle smaller…

Eventually my lips arrive at the nipple… 

Irish Cougar: Hmm

Grey Knight: Do you feel like playing with yourself?

Irish Cougar: I so feel like playing with myself…..

Grey Knight: I want to watch you playing with yourself…I want to video it so that you can see how sexy you look when doing that for me…

I ignore that nipple…and kiss across your chest to the other breast…

Kissing in a big circle all around it, once again closing the circle…towards the nipple…

I ignore this nipple too…kissing along your side…down toward your hips…

Kissing over the pelvic bone..ever downwards…

Down towards where you want to feel my lips and tongue…

Irish Cougar: I do……

Grey Knight: I kiss the top of your thigh…in a straight line down to your knee…

Down towards the inside of the knee…

You can ‘t help but spread your legs wide for me…

Inviting me…

I keep kissing the inside of your thigh…slowly…gradually…

Up to your groin…

I lick your groin…

Irish Cougar: I feel I want to spread my legs here at my desk……..

Grey Knight :And do what…

Irish Cougar: for you to lick and kiss and suck me……

Grey Knight: I’m looking forward to doing that…and a whole lot more.

What other people call fantasies…I call plans…

Do you have fantasies/plans you want to make come true?

Irish Cougar: oh I do and I am not talking about them with you in email, face to face……

Grey Knight: We have lots to look forward to… 🙂

Hungry and horny now…

Gotta get some lunch…

Irish Cougar: It is mental here so much going on…that was fun and has me feeling flushed 🙂

I’ve now set the scene to seduce The Irish Cougar. All through this exchange I’m very aware of the fact that I’m dealing with a woman who is significantly older than me, but who is still trying to have me think that she’s younger than me. She wants to play games with men; fine, let’s play.

Shakespeare taught me that all is fair in love and war. I’ve always found that statement ambiguous because it hints at sinister and dark deeds. That’s a side of life that holds no fascination for me. I even fear it somewhat because I am naïve to it, but I am learning, whether I want to or not.

Machiavelli’s ‘The Prince’ has long fuelled a debate on the back of his assertion that “It is better to be feared than loved”. Of course he was writing about early sixteenth-century political and military machinations between small Italian republics. As a young man when introduced to this debate I took it to heart as gospel and it has served me well in the workplace. I also apply it to personal relationships. I let people choose to trust, respect and even love me, but if they choose not to, then I reciprocate in kind.

I have found that this approach to life has been most sound in that I have surrounded myself with people whom I can rely on. In return they get the same and the best of me at all times. Life has been pretty black and white for me as I have found that keeping things simple is glorious. However, as I progress on my quest through the Kingdom of Dating, I find my world becoming increasingly grey. I’m encountering people whose methods and motives are questionable and I fear that some of it is starting to rub off on me.

Depeche Mode – Policy of Truth

More riverside revelations

It’s a warm Sunday morning and I’m standing at the exact same spot I was yesterday at the Embankment next to the Thames in central London. This time I’m waiting for Cat Lady; it’s our second date but first proper one and today I’m going to do exactly the same things as yesterday. I believe that doing something very similar with another date gives me the opportunity to compare and contrast each person more clearly if the environment is the same. I know that makes my dates sound like rodents in a science experiment, but my track record with women dictates that I take as few chances as possible.

I’m aware that I’m getting older and that my marketability will be diminished if I’m ever single again, so I want to make the effort to get it right. If I was a twenty-something neophyte I’d have the luxury of time on my side, that there’s always time to recover from a failed relationship but the reality is that I’m running out of time. I don’t want to keep dating endlessly, it’s becoming hard work, but I won’t rush into a relationship either. The cost of doing so is too high, what with missing opportunities to be with someone who is The One, wasting my time and money, squandering my emotional capital and ending up with a broken heart again that takes more time to heal. If I don’t have the time to get it right, where am I going to find the time to do it over?

Cat Lady texts me that she’s on a bus and will be late. I’m unimpressed because travelling by bus in London, even on a Sunday, is only marginally faster than walking. I know that she has a train and Tube station equidistant from where she lives, but she chooses to take a bus. Humph, but what can I do?

I stand waiting, watching tourists, my eye occasionally catching a pretty blonde. I think it’s because of my colour-blindness that I find blondes so alluring. Perhaps my predilection for blondes has been my undoing across all my dates? Almost all of them have been blondes, so maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong? Today I’m spending with a brunette, so I’m looking to see if there’s any great discernible difference. Yes, a tad unfair to place so much responsibility on one brunette head, but let’s have fun with this idea.

Eventually Cat Lady arrives, more than half an hour late, but I say nothing. Why make things worse? We join the back of the now lengthy queue for tickets to catch a river cruiser. I put her rudeness to one side and opt to make the best of the day.

We stand on the pontoon making small-talk and I’m again surprised by her high-pitched girly voice that really doesn’t suit a woman of almost six foot tall. With time, if anything happens between us, I’ll probably become oblivious to it. She hasn’t been in the UK as long as me and her guttural accent is much more pronounced than mine. Nevertheless, our common upbringing takes centre-stage and it isn’t long before we’re laughing heartily every couple of minutes.

Once on board the boat I quickly get us what I now know to be the prize seats at the bow so that we have an unobstructed view. The Irish Cougar sat by my side, feminine to the point of being regal, her knees together and her hands clasped together in her lap, just like Baltic Babe did. Not Cat Lady. Oh no, she was up on her feet, walking around, Iphone in hand, taking pictures of everything, clumsily getting in the crew’s way even after they had repeatedly asked her to remain seated like everyone else.

Cat Lady was ensconced in her own little world, doing a credible version of the gaudy foreign tourist. People were looking at her and then at me. I don’t appreciate that. It brought back memories of times when my Exgf would embarrass me in public and I was made to feel like the pitiable fool by other people’s looks directed at me. I don’t think anybody appreciates being embarrassed in public by their other half. It’s the sort of thing that I call a ‘relationship paper-cut’. A human can die from enough paper-cuts, a slow bleeding to death of the recipient entity.

This date is not off to a good start. She’s late and then makes a spectacle of us. Charming not. I say nothing and just let her be herself. It’s just a date after all.

We don’t lack for conversation once we’re back on dry land, but I’m fully aware that it is just our mutual memories of endless days of Summer in our youth that is being exercised to the full. I find this refreshing, speaking to someone who knows the same things I know, watched the same television shows that I did, did the same things growing up as I did. I can’t help but wonder if this lack of mutual heritage has been a problem with all my other dates and I just wasn’t aware of it until now. My former dates have been exclusively with either English or Eastern European women.

Cat Lady and I are easy company for each other as we catch the cableway over the Thames, stroll around the O2 centre and enjoy a meal at the South African steakhouse there. In a spontaneous departure from yesterday’s agenda we make a detour to Canary Wharf, London’s new financial district, which Cat Lady has never been to. She’s suitably impressed by the new cathedrals of capitalism and then we catch a driverless train on the Dockland Light Railway back to central London. I think it’s safe to say that we’re both having fun.

It’s beautiful day and I suggest that we walk a little, knowing in my mind where I’d be leading her to. At one point the pavement becomes uneven and she almost loses her balance. I quickly grab her hips to steady her and we giggle like schoolgirls. It’s the first time I’ve really put my hands on her and she feels good to touch. The moment serves as an innocent ice-breaker for physical intimacy between us. On the back of that, I don’t know why, but I hold her hand as we walk. She smiles and doesn’t recoil or show any kind of displeasure.

We arrive at St Katharine Docks which surprises and delights Cat Lady.

“I didn’t know that something like this is right here in the centre of London,” she gushes.

I get a kick out of showing someone something that once took my breath away too. Their reaction takes me back to my first time. Cat Lady being new to London might have many benefits for me in this regard.

Dickens Inn
Dickens Inn at St Katharine Docks

Luckily we find a free table on the middle floor balcony of the Dickens Inn and get comfortable with cold drinks and fattening desserts. The conversation meanders like it has all day until we arrive at the inevitable hot topic for singletons: our previous relationships. I tell her my sordid tale of woe, keeping it as brief as possible, then she starts.

“I was sitting pretty in South Africa. I had my dream job, my own house and two cars. Then one day a guy I’ve been friends with since primary school tells me on Facebook that he’s been in love with me all his life. I was shocked because I never suspected,” she says.

My thoughts sprint over to my knowledge about men being secret admirers of a woman in their lives. Then one day they snap, not being able to take it any more and in a last-ditch attempt to make something out of it profess their feelings which, if not positively received, they will then disappear from that woman’s life.

“We started an online romance, Skypeing every night, he came to visit me once and to cut a long story short, after about a year of this, he asked me to come to the UK to live with him. I gave up everything and moved to the other side of the world to be with him. After a year of living together the picture had changed completely. I saw that he was a control-freak and that he wasn’t living up to the financial plan that we had agreed to,” she continues before falling silent for a few moments in which I say nothing, preferring to let her keep talking.

“So I moved out and went to stay with a friend for a few months until I got the place I’m in now,” she says more cheerily, but not convincing me.

“When did you move into your own place?” I ask.

“At the beginning of June,” she replies.

It was now early October, so she’s been on her own for four months, plus two months with a friend, thus having left her previous boyfriend about six months ago. Oh dear. It’s highly likely that she’s on the rebound, not emotionally healthy, not ready yet for a loving relationship. I feel deflated by this realization, just as I did yesterday with The Irish Cougar. Cat Lady is fresh out of a relationship, it is therefore unlikely that any relationship soon – irrespective of whether I’m involved or not – will last long. She needs time for emotional healing; I don’t want to be anybody’s rebound fling.

From all the dates that I’ve been on and from all the conversations I’ve had with women, it is obvious to me that women take far longer than men to get over a failed relationship. Sometimes the rebound phase or mindset can last years. Krazy Girl and Lusty Lass are years past their respective divorces but in their heads they’re still reliving it to some extent daily. I think it’s a shame for both of them because at heart they are both sweet and lovely and deserve to be in a good relationship.

I realize on the spot that Cat Lady and I have very little more to offer each other than friendship at this stage. Luckily I didn’t have high hopes for her, but it has been an interesting experience so far by merely interacting with her. Perhaps dating more within my cultural realm is something I should look into? I guess that old adage must be true, that if you are born in Africa you will never shake off the ancient dust of Africa.

At my behest we go for a walk along the Southbank. It’s never the same walking along there and something or somebody – a busker, street performer, pop-up gallery – will always delight any passers-by. At dusk we end up sharing a coffee at a coffee shop next to the river. Conversation is flowing easily, about anything and everything, but I’m not paying rapt attention any more because I know that it won’t matter in the long-run. I go Passive-Disinterested on her and it doesn’t matter, to my mind at least.

Bright sunlight gives way to softer lighting as we stand at a bus-stop from where she wants to catch a bus home. Again I don’t know why I did this but I lean toward her and we kiss. Her lips are soft and welcoming. Without a word we kiss slowly and gently, she keeps her eyes closed. I don’t use my tongue and neither does she; doing so would have felt inappropriate. We unlock our embrace that took hold naturally and just smile at each other. Words are superfluous.

Cat Lady’s bus arrives as if on cue and she traipses off, smiling and waving at me as she boards. I make my way across London, walking through shadows, unperturbed by the thronging crowds as I take stock of the day I’ve just had. She is a good person and largely on the basis of her massive sacrifice in the pursuit of love, I’m inclined to say that she’s a Giver. Her being a brunette has made no difference in any regard.

On the train home I figure out why I do these things that I don’t know why I’m doing them. I’m desperate to be in a loving relationship and that desperation mixed with a pervasive sense of frustration bubbles over occasionally. This is not a good thing, but I can’t help it. Contrary to a common belief held by the majority of women I’ve met, men do have feelings. I do and I think I’m a regular guy, it’s just that I can articulate my feelings. Most men don’t like to talk about their feelings because it makes them feel vulnerable and nobody likes to feel vulnerable.

Vulnerability is an impression I have of Cat Lady; it’s in the vibe that she gives off. She projects a friendly, affable facade but behind it I know there’s a world of hurt. What kind of hurt is it? Am I being premature in my assessment of her being on the rebound? If I’m wrong then is there cause for optimism? I need another date to know for sure.

What I am sure of is that the next date with The Irish Cougar is going to be interesting…

Toto – Africa

River day revelations

It’s Saturday morning and I’m standing on the Embankment next to the Thames in central London. For an Autumnal day it’s remarkably warm and windless. I’m waiting for Irish Rose and I’ve got quite a fun date planned for us. This great weather might be the last of its kind for this year so I have to make the most of it. Only a few minutes late Irish Rose makes her appearance next to me and we kiss each other hello on the lips to which she gives off a girlish little snigger. So cute.

“So mister, what’s the plan for today?” she asks in a way that makes me think that she’s incredibly curious. Have I set a high benchmark with our first date?

“First we’re hopping on a river cruiser and heading down to the O2 centre, then we’re catching the cableway across the Thames followed by lunch in the O2,” I tell her.

“Wow! You’ve really got this all worked out, haven’t you?” she responds.

I just smile to myself, remembering having done this exact date with Baltic Babe. Hopefully this woman doesn’t turn out like her, I muse to myself.

We make small talk as we wait for our boat and she tells me about the friends whom she’s staying with. It’s an Irish family and the woman and her have been friends since high school. I like long friendships, there’s something inherently good about them. Irish Rose has been staying with them for several months since she arrived in the UK and is afraid that she’s overstaying her welcome.

“I can’t wait to have a place of my own. It’s not fun living out of boxes,” she squeaks.

Her words make me wonder if she’s hinting that if things work out between us that we can live together? Silly nonsense response in my head but it’s the way she said this and looked at me that makes me wonder. She’s got a long way to go with me before I contemplate living with someone again. I’ve been enjoying living by myself for the past year; I’m in no hurry to give that up.

As Irish Rose tells me more about her friends, I start to think about this issue of living with someone again. My gut reaction is a negative one and I ask myself why this is. I realize that it is because of how living with my Exgf was: unpleasant. Her and I had very different ways of doing things and she always wanted everything done her way, even if we both knew that my way was better. I was constantly butting heads with her over the smallest of things and it wore down our relationship. My Exgf was not easy to live with and I guess I’m carrying a little bit of emotional baggage from that experience. Standing on that pontoon on the Thames I swear to myself to only consider living with another woman if I am convinced that she is The One.

The boat arrives and we end up sitting near the bow, thus having unobstructed views of the scenery along the river. We sit in silence as Irish Rose takes in the luxury riverside apartments, historic buildings, modern skyscrapers, other pleasure boats and old warships. She sits on the edge of her seat, spine erect and her eyes darting about. We don’t speak much. Her posture is good and I can imagine what her body feels like to run my hands up and down.

River cruiser on the Thames.
River cruiser on the Thames.

We alight at what was called the Millennium Dome but now called the O2 Centre, in dubious honour of a corporate sponsor. Irish Rose is wearing high-heeled cork-soled wedges and the going is slow. I did mention in my phonecall on Thursday night when we were arranging getting together today that a lot of walking would be involved. I guess she’s not as practical as I had first thought. Even in her four-inch heels she’s still shorter than me.

From all the dates I’ve been on and messages that I’ve swapped with other women, it has become clear to me that the number one physical trait the vast majority of women desire or hope for is that their man is much taller than them. Women commonly tell me they want this because they like to wear high-heeled shoes and don’t want to tower over their man because it makes them feel huge, which is never a good thing in any woman’s mind. A couple of women have also said that they prefer a tall man because it makes them feel safe.

My best friend has this height issue as his favourite excuse for his dating failure. He’s only five foot five inches tall, but he’s the second funniest guy I’ve ever known. I keep telling him to play to his strengths because there’s nothing he can do about his height. Instead he chooses to tell himself that he has no future on the dating scene because he’s simply too short. I think his negative self-perception is what he focuses on, projects this negativity on dates and women, being far more sensitive creatures than men, pick up on this, but don’t know what it is and nevertheless are put off by it. His lack of self-belief is his biggest problem, not his lack of spinal vertebrae, but how do you tell someone this when you know that they won’t listen?

I remember him standing in front of me one day, waving a hand up and down in front of me and saying, “Yes, it’s easy for you to say things like that, but look at all this shit!” He moved his hand up and down in front of my body as if he was holding a paintbrush, applying a coat of paint. Of course I didn’t believe or understand what he was trying to tell me because I have my own ingrained, long-held, cherished view of myself.

I’m over six foot tall, dark haired and have been told by a few women that I’m handsome, but I don’t put much stock in the latter comment. I have a good build for my age, work out enough to keep in shape and am in sound health. I have had high-paying jobs in a prestigious industry and have a strong resume littered with famous company’s names. I have no baggage, no children, no crazy ex-wife, etc. I even have 2 cars, one of which is a sexy red sports car. I could join Mensa if I wished (but choose not to) and can have a conversation with anybody who is an expert in anything about their field. I have my ego firmly under control, am not arrogant, but am confident. You’d think I would have it made, wouldn’t you? Women would swoon over me and they would fall over, legs apart whenever I wished. Not so.

I’ve realized that my aforementioned attributes are nothing but short-term attractors. It’s what has been coming out of my mouth that has been the problem. It is what a woman hears that is the long-term attractor. When I realized this I knew that I had much work to do. We’ve all seen it in real life and in the media: a short, fat, ugly guy with a stunner who could suck the chrome off a towbar. How does this happen? It’s what he says that makes all the difference that obviously more than offsets his negative points.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my knowledge of how women operate emotionally and psychologically is poor. Women are something of mystery to me. In the last month I’ve made a concerted effort to read as much on the subject as I could. It became my bedtime reading. I found so-called ‘pick-up artists’ websites and forums the most illuminating. There are aspects of what they spout that I find disagreeable, largely because their intent is evil, but there have been elements that have made me go ‘a-ha!’ The plethora of ‘dating gurus’ is testimony to how widespread the problem is, this disconnect between men and women. However, their advice is likely to work on a drunk, horny college girl, not a thirty-something, street-savvy professional woman, the latter being the type of women I’m meeting. I’ve made an effort to educate myself and one of the things I’ve learned is to let a woman talk about herself. I do so with Irish Rose.

As we sit in the gondola as it swings over the Thames she tells me about her childhood in Ireland with her being brought up in a strict Catholic household.

“As a teenager I rebelled and turned my back on religion. I find it all narrow-minded and hypocritical. Anybody claiming to be religious causes a negative reaction in my tummy,” she says with a mock smile.

“Ah. Is that why you stipulate on your profile that you want your man to be an atheist?” I ask.

“Spot on,” she replies.

So, she can’t tolerate intolerant people.

She keeps talking and I keep asking open-ended questions. I think she’s been a little bit lonely of late and seems to be happy to tell me anything I ask about and in great detail. I introduce her to a South African steakhouse in the O2 centre. She eats like a little bird and the meal doesn’t cost me much.

“I take it that you haven’t been to this part of London before?” I ask.

“No, never before. This part of London is new to me, even though I’ve lived here before,” she answers.

“Oh, I didn’t know when you lived her before,” I add innocently.

“Working in London in the nineteen-eighties was a very different experience to now. Then things were slower-paced and people dressed more smartly,” she says.

Wait. What?! You worked in London in the 1980s?! I quickly do the numbers in my head. Just how old is she?! I shout this out loud in my head, in disbelief and shock. I didn’t Google her because my friends say that I’m sabotaging my dates and must stop doing that. Now I wish I had.

Inside my trust demon grips the bars of his cage and he’s going berserk, rattling them as if he had his hands around her throat. It’s getting hot down there and he’s perspiring in frustration, his exertions fruitless.

Somehow I maintain a calm exterior, say nothing about her inadvertent admission and move the conversation along before she realizes what she’s just said. Irish Rose natters on about something while I calm myself down. After a while I’ve gone to the other extreme internally; I go cold. An icy cold wrapped up in disappointment.

I suggest that we catch a Jubilee Line Tube train to the Southbank where we stroll along the river. I’m feeling distracted now while she’s as chatty as ever. I take a good long, hard look at her skin. On our first date I did think her throat a little weathered for her age, but made excuses for it. Now I see it differently. It is indeed quite wrinkly, as are her hands. I am now convinced that she is older than she claims, but just how old is anyone’s guess at this stage.

It’s been a long day for her and her speed of walking is slowing down. I know that she still needs to get back to where she’s living for now and that could take almost two hours. I escort her to a suitable Tube station where we kiss like teenagers for a little while. I must confess that I find the thought of kissing a much older woman a little bit awkward and naughty at the same time. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done, but I don’t feel too comfortable about it.

I go home and Google Irish Rose. Her LinkedIn profile reveals that she is in fact ten years older than she has had me believe. She’s forty-nine, not thirty-nine!

In less than six months time she turns fifty. I’ve just turned forty two.

I am stunned. Stunned by her audacity to tell such a big lie, stunned by her almost looking the age she lied about.

That emotion is replaced by a profound sense of disappointment. She’s just another woman trying to deceive men. I follow more Google entries and do a search for her profile pictures. She turns up on two other dating sites where she also states that she’s thirty-nine.

What is her game? Is she out to have fun with younger men? Is she looking to have her ego flattered by attention from younger men, or just being fucked by them? Whatever she’s playing at, I don’t like it.

I’m now getting sick of this nonsense of women pretending to be something that they’re not. Why do women think it’s okay to lie about their age? Why do women not understand that men react very badly to this shit?

Do I want to see her again? Do I want to tell her to fuck off right now? Do I want to understand why she has done this? This last question appeals to me, but deep down I know that we have no future and that weighs more. Once someone has broken trust with me, it’s broken…for good. I tried to practise forgiveness with my Exgf and all I got was more heartbreak. My life experience has taught me that forgiving one sin is commissioning hundreds more.

She’s no longer Irish Rose, she’s now The Irish Cougar.

A sense of anger takes hold and it drives me to come up with a devious plan.

I’m going to teach The Irish Cougar a lesson that she’ll never forget.

First, however, I’m meeting Cat Lady tomorrow.

Thompson Twins – Lies

Date #36 – The Irish Rose

On the national newspaper’s dating site I feel like a kid in a playground. There are so many attractive and interesting women on there that I don’t really know where to start. A profile that piqued my interest is of a 39 year-old Irish woman who has recently arrived in London. She is quite attractive and her profile is witty and no-nonsense in tone. Half her narrative describes the man she is looking for and I fit it exactly, well, to my mind at least. She stipulates that her man must not have any children and that stands out for me. At this stage of life most men have children, so her pool of potential suitors is small.

There were two things on her profile that do make me pause. One was her stipulating that her ideal man had to be financially comfortable and that he had to be an atheist. I’m agnostic so that is close enough, but it was the money thing that bothered me. Is she a gold-digger?

Everything else in her profile checks out in my mind, including her being divorced. That doesn’t bother me at all, not only because I’ve also been through a divorce, but it shows that she still believes in love even after a big disappointment. Of course I’m assuming that love is what she’s after.

I send off a carefully thought-out approach email that makes mention of something specific in her profile to show that I’ve read her profile and that we have something in common. A couple of hours later she responds and we start swapping humourous messages before I suggest that we meet up. I craftily suggest the coming Wednesday evening because I’ve already arranged to meet the Cat Lady at lunchtime. She agrees to meet on the same night that we first started exchanging messages; I like her decisiveness.

Could she be The One?

It’s now that Wednesday evening and I’m standing on Oxford Street in central London waiting for the women I’m thinking of as the Irish Rose. It’s rush-hour and unfulfilled office workers are pouring out of their daytime prisons and are scurrying about like chickens released from captivity, occasionally bumping into each other, such is their frenzied haste. My thoughts are dominated by my lunchtime meeting with Cat Lady, which was a pleasant and positive encounter. As I’m learning first dates are not of much value because people are on their best behaviour. I’m now of mind that first dates are only really good for is ascertaining physical attraction. Second dates you find out if you have anything in common and can sustain a conversation. By the end of the third date you decide whether you want to keep the conversation going. I force myself to stop thinking of the previous date and focus on the next one.

Irish Rose arrives and I’m immediately struck by how tall and slender she is, bordering on too skinny for me. I like a woman’s body to have something for me to hold onto, not being so delicate that I might break her when I’m on top of her. Nevertheless she has a cheery smile and despite being in work clothes, she’s tastefully dressed in a light blue suit under a light brown raincoat. Autumn is approaching and it might get cooler later, so the raincoat tells me that she thinks ahead. This is also London after all, you can have all four seasons in one day.

We smile at each other and her eyes go wide momentarily; she fancies me. I like the look of her too; her blonde hair rests effortlessly on her shoulders. I kiss her hello on each cheek, French style and she almost blushes. We exchange pleasantries and she too has a squeaky high-pitched voice, just like Cat Lady of earlier today. That’s going to take a bit of getting used to.

There aren’t the stairs of Tower Hill tube station to use as an excuse to offer her my arm, so I don’t do so. Instead I gesture with a hand the direction in which we need to walk and she follows my lead as we engage in light-hearted conversation.

I think that women on dating sites are incredibly brave meeting a total stranger, especially a man who can overpower them. I can only guess that this aspect of modern dating puts some women off so they avoid online dating. Perhaps for some women it’s an exciting adventure, complete with a frisson of sexual adventure. Perhaps for some women it is a painful but necessary evil that they tolerate and they come into their own after a couple of hours once they feel safe in a man’s company? I don’t know but I always assume that it’s the latter so from the outset of my dating days (as I now think of these times), I’ve made a concerted effort to keep in mind a woman’s sense of personal safety. Letting a lady know at the outset of the date where we’re going and what we’ll be doing sets their mind at ease, which also allows them then to focus on me instead of being plagued by a nagging sense of personal security that needs addressing.

“Tonight we’re going to a casino, but first we’ll be having dinner there. Is that alright with you?” I say to Irish Rose.

“Yes, that sounds grand,” she says in the most Irish of accents and expressions.

What I wasn’t telling her was that this was all on a Groupon voucher and it had been a battle to get a reservation for a table for tonight. My dates don’t need to know that kind of detail, but I do wonder if any of them think how much effort I put into a date.

Casinos in Britain are not like their American counterparts. Here they are small, intimate, quieter and classier. Jeans are forbidden and being under the influence of anything results in polite expulsion. It’s the sort of place James Bond could feel comfortable in, martini in hand. The casino that Irish Rose and I are visiting has a quaint, dimly-lit almost romantically quiet restaurant on a floor away from the noise of machines and punters.

At our table I take her raincoat and hang it over the back of her chair which I slide in for her. I sneak a peak at her chest and she’s flat-chested. No matter, not the most important thing; chemistry is. She makes no mention of my taking care of her raincoat nor pushing in her chair for her. That tells me that she’s used to being treated like a lady and/or has the class not to talk about something so mundane.

We settle into polite small-talk and after a while I don’t notice her squeaky, mouse-like little voice. Conversation between us flows easily and smoothly. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at me, which is nice. However, I’ve spotted something which makes me raise an eyebrow. Her throat seems a bit too weathered for a woman her age, but I put that down to the copious amounts of sunshine she has had in her travels around the world. It could also just be the dim lighting in the restaurant.

Dinner is better than expected and the night is going well. We go to the main hall of the casino, taking in the buzz, sights and sounds of this spectacle. Irish Rose seems unimpressed or even moved by it all. I suggest we find a quiet table in a corner and I go get us drinks. I see her fiddling with her handbag as I leave; reaching for her phone to send off a safety call to a good friend I tell myself.

Over drinks we make idle chit-chat, getting to know each other better and providing entertainment for each other. Her laugh is short but hearty; she gets my sense of humour. We get carried away and only have eyes for each other; we could be anywhere in the world, we are so oblivious of our surroundings. As the evening approaches its end I realize that I can’t make up my mind about her, which is unusual for me. Yes, she’s quite attractive and I can see myself sleeping with her. Yes, we match intellectually and conversationally. Yes, we have a similar moral and religious outlook (some serious topics have been discussed).

What’s bothering me or the piece of the puzzle that is missing is whether she’s a Giver or a Taker. Normally after a couple of hours of banter I have an idea about someone, what they’re about, just how selfish they are, but Irish Rose is a closed book in this regard. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not been sitting only answering when spoken to, quite the contrary. She’s been confident and comfortable enough to raise new topics of conversation on her own and asked innocuous questions in diplomatic ways, such as about my previous marriage and its demise. I just don’t have an idea about that side of her. On the basis of that I decide that another date is required.

She’s currently living with friends in a country town outside of London whilst trying to find a place of her own in London. Irish Rose tells me at 10pm exactly that she needs to get going to catch her last train home.

“May I escort you to your preferred Tube station, ma’am?” I say in a fake Southern drawl that makes her smile, drawing on her telling me earlier about her desire to want to visit that part of America.

“I’d like that,” she says with a smile and a mock gesture of fanning herself like a Southern belle.

As we leave the casino I see my opportunity for my cheesy test.

“Do you like chicken?” I ask.

“Yes, why?” she says with a little frown.

“Take a wing then,” I say with a grin to which she guffaws and couples her arm with mine that I’ve extended her way.

As we walk along Oxford Street to Bond Street Tube station, we have to wait at a pedestrian crossing for a light to change. It’s dark and only a few people are wandering around. I turn and smile at her; she smiles back.

I don’t know why I did this but I leaned towards her for a kiss. Before I got a change to stop just short of her face to see if she would reciprocate she leans towards me and our lips lock. I put a hand on her hip and she lets off a little breath. She feels delicate and feminine; I like that.

Her lips are soft and small, her head shudders for a split second and she lets off a sound of satisfaction as we kiss. I sense that she wants to keep going, but as I’ve learned, it’s best to leave a woman wanting more. I pull away and after a couple of seconds she opens her eyes. I say nothing and just smile slightly at her.

“Well, I guess that’s the first kiss out of the way,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.

I escort her to the platform she needs in the Tube station and while we wait the few minutes for the next train we stand kissing like teenagers.

“I don’t suppose you’re free this Saturday?” I ask.

“Yes, I am,” she replies as her train approaches.

“Would you like to get together again?” I ask, pretty much knowing her answer.

“That would be grand,” she says in that innate Irish way and she boards her train.

That was an interesting date because she was enigmatic to me. Then I remember that Irish Eyes and The Wanderer are Irish too. I’ll ignore that fact for now.

So I’m seeing Irish Rose on Saturday and Cat Lady on Sunday.

I’m starting to think that there is nothing as exciting as the promise of a new relationship, but perhaps two relationships even more so…

Date #35 – The Cat Lady

A male friend of mine has been nudging me into meeting a female friend of his. We’re all ex-South Africans so there’s an immediate connection that can not be easily ignored. I’ve checked out her Facebook page and she’s attractive enough but a brunette, which isn’t really a show-stopper. I’ve come to accept that my ideal women is unlikely to exist and if she does then the likelihood of finding her is slim. Thus I must be willing to make allowances in exchange for higher order needs being met.

What does bother me slightly about her is her obvious obsession with cats. At least twice an hour all day, every day she posts a picture on Facebook to do with cats. On weekends the tempo escalates to dozens of pictures an hour. All she seems to do is sit on Facebook posting photos, videos and cartoons about cats. A typical example is a of a kitten sitting with it’s back turned to the camera, it is gazing off into the distance and a caption reads, “Solitude enlivens the soul”.

Now this might surprise you, but I decide to call her ‘Cat Lady’ and all before we’ve even met. Is she a stereotypical ‘crazy cat lady’? I owe it to myself to find out.

The disappointment of Musician Gal and Career Girl of last week still rankles, but I have to put that aside and get back on the horse that keeps throwing me off. I am kind of grateful for being able to ‘get back in the saddle’ with my Exgf whenever it suits us both, but I know that our fuckbuddy scene is nearing its use-by date. Besides ultimately a loving relationship is what I want. I am tired of going off to meet women who don’t look like their pictures. I am tired of meeting women whose heads are all messed up. I’m tired of meeting women who don’t have love as their highest priority.

Could Cat Lady be The One?

Well, not likely. I’m starting to wise up about the viability of anyone new I’m meeting. I’ve learned that having a couple of women on the go at the same time has benefits, primarily by way of my demeanour being different than when I have no other woman on the scene. Let me explain.

When I was married I was surprised the first few times when women suggested having an affair with me. As a younger man I was genuinely shocked and disgusted by the proposition. As I aged and my marriage went to sleep from the dangerous cocktail of security and routine, my ego would be flattered when a younger women made her interest clear. I’m proud of never having succumbed to temptation; I’m just not the cheating type. Most women seem to think that all men are cheats, whilst the reality is that one in four do, depending on the culture. Just as many women cheat. In my lifetime (now forty-something years) I have only known four men who cheated; one was my father. I think it was the pain that I saw in my mother’s eyes that made me swear to myself to never cheat.

I got to thinking about why women wanted to have an affair with me, a married man. At first I thought that it was because they were just being naughty. Then I realized that these women all seemed to be of a type, a type that felt like a powerful woman if they were able to woo a man off of another woman. They wanted to derive a false sense of security by being so powerful that they could seduce any man they wanted, while also being a superior woman compared to another. This is a fool’s paradise. Did they not realize that if a man was cheating with them that it was only a matter of time before he cheated on them too?

I also realized that my sporting a wedding ring sent out a message to womankind. It said that I was the committing type – a lot of women find that an attractive character trait in a man. To most women it said that I was spoken for and off-limits, but to a small section of womankind this made me a target, because I was what they wanted.

Within myself I was at peace in my relationship and never intentionally flirted with another woman; there would be no point. My behaviour was such that I now realize just how different it was now that I’m single again…and therein lies one of Life’s Truths as far as I’m concerned: women want what they can’t have.

When married and unavailable, women wanted me. Now single and available, women don’t want me.

Now why is that? Women can’t really discern a change in my circumstance, so what has changed? My behaviour. I see myself differently and therefore behave differently. My behaviour, my aura, my vibe as a singleton is not attracting the kind of woman that I want. I’ve seen this on a micro-scale when I go Passive-Disinterested in a woman during a date. It’s my becoming unavailable that makes them increase their interest and even desire for me. The subliminal message I’m sending out is that I’m the one doing the choosing, I’m the one who needs to be won over. If I have it in my mind that there’s another date, another woman, waiting in the wings, then my behaviour becomes how I was when I was married…and women like it.

I think that I must also come across as non-needy, not creepy, not desperate, not just wanting to bed her, not in a hurry about anything. I must seem ‘solid’, safe, sane and stable, all of which are things that I am, but I’m coming across with this in a better way than if I had no other woman on the horizon.

To this end I’m keeping women moving through my Pipeline, until the day I meet The One. Until then I’ll have the fun that I didn’t have when I was a younger man because I had got too serious at too young an age. I’ve got some living to do.

I friended Cat Lady on Facebook, making mention of our mutual friend whom I surmised had told her about me. We get to swapping messages and the exchanges are positive and friendly. Not one for wanting to engage in what I call email ping-pong I suggest that we meet one lunchtime for a coffee and she agrees.

It’s a sunny Wednesday as I make for the opposite end of London. It’s Krazy Girl’s birthday and I sent her a brief email wishing her a great day, not expecting any kind of response. I’m sitting on a Tube train watching dormitory suburbs go by and people of all types joining and leaving the train. Only one in four Londoners was born in London and more than half are immigrants to this island; it shows on the Tube. London is the diversity of our planet in one city. That diversity has also been reflected in my dating life and so it continues. In a few minutes’ time I’m meeting a South African then in the evening I’m meeting an Irishwoman.

As we had agreed I wait for Cat Lady in a Starbucks at noon; she’s something of a coffee addict and her office where she works as an accountant is just around the corner. I order myself a bad cup of over-priced coffee and make myself comfortable once I’ve texted her that I’ve arrived. It’s not long before she appears in the doorway and spots me.

“Oh good, you’re tall,” she blurts out as she approaches me while I stand up.

“Wow, you’re tall!” is what I say to myself in my head as I see her and realize that she’s almost six foot tall. I am a couple of inches over six foot and today I appreciate every single one of them. The few times in my life that I’ve had a woman tower over me I have found most disconcerting.

Cat Lady’s in proportion and quite shapely with a pleasant, pretty face. Her boobicles are surprisingly large and a good size for my hands I guesstimate. I fancy her and can imagine myself on top of her. Yes, it’s that instinctive and that quick.

We get down to making the usual polite small-talk and from the get-go I’m struck by how girly-ish her voice is. It’s too high-pitched for a woman of her size, but after a while I don’t notice it. I expect her to want to talk about cats, but not a word of it gets said, to my relief.

It’s refreshing to meet someone with a very similar background and what I am struck by most is that I can indulge in a sense of humour with a woman that I haven’t been able to whilst online dating until now. We always have one more sense of humour than the number of languages in which we are fluent and so it is with Cat Lady because I can mix up our mutual languages and play on words. She seems to appreciate this and because of that I decide that she is my intellectual equal.

Lunchtime flies by amid us laughing and swapping anecdotes about our early days in London, cultural nuances, cultural faux pas and obviously our former lives in South Africa. It feels like we can talk all day long and I easily make her laugh. We’re off to a good start in the conversation stakes, but with a sudden jolt she realizes that an hour has passed by. I walk her to her office building, stopping near the front door.

“Would you like to get together another time?” I ask.

“Ja, I’d like that,” she squeaks.

“How about this Sunday?”

“Ja, works for me,” Cat Lady says with a broad smile.

“I’ll text you the details,” I say and give her a polite kiss on a cheek, to which she spins around and walks off into her office. I catch her reflection in a window and I can see that she’s smiling, a happy naughty smile that make her cheeks round and rosy.

As first encounters go, this was a fun experience. There is definitely a little buzz between us, but I think it’s largely because of our mutual heritage. Perhaps there is more to it than that and I’m prepared to find out.

However, before then, in a couple of hours time I’m meeting someone new.

Got to keep that Pipeline moving…