Date #38 – Pretty Teacher

Her’s was one of the first profiles that caught my attention on the national newspaper’s dating site because she was so pretty in her photographs; a quintessential English Rose. I sent off an approach email and she responded within hours, which is always a good sign as my dating experiences have proven to me so far. She was a primary school teacher and lived in the same county as me, but we were on opposite ends of it. We couldn’t agree on a mutually convenient date to meet because she was going away on holiday. In that time I became embroiled with Musician Gal, The Irish Cougar and a couple of other minor dates, the most recent of which, Make-up Madam, was not ticking all my proverbial boxes. Optimistically I resurrected contact with Pretty Teacher and again she was quick to respond and this time we had time for each other.

Could she be The One?

It’s a dreary Saturday morning in October as I arrive at the Pretty Teacher’s apartment complex. Until now all women have been happy to meet somewhere public and I put that down to being a safe thing to do, but today’s date was insistent that we first meet at her place and then go somewhere. The ‘somewhere’ I found interesting because there isn’t much around her dormitory town to see and do.

I ring her entry-phone and within a minute she comes down. Wow, she is as pretty as her photos! For once a woman who not only looks like her profile pictures but might also be better looking in real life. She’s slender, comes up under my chin, has clear unblemished milky white skin and shoulder-length golden-blonde hair. Her eyes are a bright sky-blue. Just the look I like! I smile my approval and she reciprocates.

Before we’ve even said a word and there is a connection between us. It’s obviously a mutual physical attraction that we have and it confirms to me that this is what was missing with Make-up Madam. Lust is indeed part of chemistry. It sets a positive base on which to build further, if that’s possible.

“How about we jump in my car and go to the next town over for lunch?” she suggests.

“That sounds good to me,” I retort, taken aback by her confidence and brazenness. This date is off to an unusual start because no woman I’ve met would be happy to have a strange man get in her car with her like this.

We chatter away seamlessly as if we’ve known each other for a long time while Pretty Teacher speeds recklessly through country lanes that I hope she knows well. She’s well-dressed in smart jeans and white blouse covered in a long grey coat. Her car is new and funky; this is a classy woman. I might be onto something here.

We end up having lunch in a coffee shop in a historic market town that I’ve never been to. Pretty Teacher is 35 and I’m 42, but that age-gap is invisible and irrelevant because we get along so well. As time ticks on I’m filled with a sense of relief that stems from feeling an affinity with her. We’d pretty much covered basic requirements in our email exchanges and it’s pleasant to have that exaggerated and brought home in real life. As we talk and laugh it becomes evident that we like and dislike the same things and to a similar degree. This feels good, it feels right.

Then I catch myself remembering a couple of things from her profile that don’t sit well with me. She stated a preference for a wealthy man, which is not that unusual because no woman wants to be with a poor man, but it featured heavily as a ‘non-negotiable’. She also hasn’t made up her mind about whether she wants children or not. I decide not to broach these topics because it’s only the first date. My instincts tell me that we’ll be having more dates.

We go for a walk around a local park as a cold Autumn wind nips at our cheeks. I think we both want to keep the date going as we’re enjoying ourselves but it’s getting too cold outside. Before I can suggest something Pretty Teacher speaks.

“It’s getting chilly. How about we go find a cosy fireplace in a pub? I know just the place,” she says.

I just smile at her directness, which I find refreshing. Some people are just too scared to say what they’re feeling and thinking, but not Pretty Teacher. I’m really starting to like her and it’s only been a matter of hours.

Once back in her car she speeds like a crazed maniac through residential streets. Her car must be very new and she’s putting it through it’s paces, I tell myself. We arrive at a sleepy pub on a busy road. Inside there is the obligatory barfly and a roaring fireplace waiting for us.

We sit side by side on a large leather sofa and conversation flows like sweet nectar. I was only expecting a quick lunchtime coffee and cake, perhaps she was too, but neither of us seem to want today to end.

Then it started.

“I’m sorry, but I hope you don’t mind, but I just have to check my phone,” she says, getting her phone out and almost feverishly investing her attention into that.

It has been almost six hours together, she hasn’t had the chance to do the safety-call to a friend that most women on dates do, otherwise this might be a little rude. I give her the benefit of the doubt because there is probably other things going on in her life like a family emergency that I’m not aware of.

We resume talking after a few minutes, but the phone has been left on because it’s making noises in her handbag. About ten minutes later she breaks away from our conversation again to check her phone. She stares at it intently, obviously reading something serious, so I don’t interrupt. She quickly fingers her phone and puts it away.

I continue with our conversation while being aware that I’m very interested in her but am trying not to show it. I force myself to become Passive-Disinterested in her. After all I’ve had loads of practise doing it naturally. On cue her body language becomes more focussed on me which confirms to me that she is very interested in me too. This is going well.

Her phone chortles in her bag and without making an apology she gets it out to read whatever it is that someone has sent her. She eagerly types a short reply while smiling. I’m now interested in what’s going on. I also don’t want this date to go on all night; I want to woo her. Yes, I fancy her and would love to take her to bed, but I’m willing to wait for the right time. However, I need to make sure that the way forward is not a highway littered with strewn baggage from her past.

“Is there some kind of emergency? Do you need to be somewhere else?” I ask, more out of consideration than anything else.

“No, no, it’s all fine,” she says and our conversation resumes.

It’s now dark and hunger has arrived, so we order a meal each. Over dessert she grabs her phone again and stares at it intently. She makes a seething sound, sucking in air through her pearly-white teeth. This is getting annoying now.

“So what is it that is distracting you from your dessert?” I ask.

“Oh, you may as well know now,” she begins.

I don’t like the way she said that. Oh shit, what now? She’s married, in the midst of a messy divorce, has a stalker or is supposed to be meeting another guy for a date right now?! From all these dozens of dates that I’ve been on I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories about what other people get up to in their messy private lives.

“I’m addicted to playing online scrabble with my friends,” she says with a guilty look on her face.

What the fuck?! Seriously?! Online scrabble via a phone. Every ten minutes you just have to?

“Addicted? That’s a strong word,” is the best I can come up with.

“Yes, it’s silly, I know, but I just can’t help it,” she answers.

I don’t expect my other half to be perfect, I only expect that when we”re together that it feels perfect. With time I might prove more of a distraction for her and this scrabble is just a passing fad. I decide to not make a fuss over something so small. It’s just a date after all, albeit a very promising one.

We sit and talk and laugh some more next to that fire which slowly burns down, almost at the same speed as our fondness for each other grows. My stunt with Career Girl comes to mind and I decide to go for it.

“I can’t make out what colour your eyes are. Can you come closer?” I begin.

Pretty Teacher shuffles closer.

“I still can’t see. The lighting’s bad. Come closer,” I say.

She smiles and leans in close to me. I can clearly see the colour of her eyes, but we both know that that’s not what’s going on here. I only need to move my head forward a few inches and we can kiss, but I’m not going to.

“Closer,” I whisper.

Pretty Teacher comes full into my face, closes her eyes and kisses me. I kiss back and it feels perfect.

I like to think that’s how I hooked her, but the truth is I might be the one who was hooked. Which one of us was going to become addicted first?

Avicii – Addicted To You

Decider date

I decide that I have nothing to lose by seeing Make-up Madam again, but in the same breath I also have nothing to lose by meeting someone else too. A month ago I had been swapping messages with somebody on the national newspaper’s dating site, but although we had made noises about meeting it didn’t happen. I arrange to meet her this coming Saturday.

First I have some unfinished business with Make-up Madam. She’s gone away on another ‘girly weekend’ and is getting back on Monday morning. We arrange to meet late on Monday afternoon at a pub near where she lives. I drive for an hour into the wilds of the English countryside. It reminds me of the time I met Miss Indecisive in a lonely pub on a stormy night; internet dating was certainly broadening my geographic knowledge.

As usual I get to the venue first and it isn’t long before Make-up Madam arrives in her car with her pug strapped into the seat next to her. Is that curious chappy a safety blanket of sorts for her? We meet in the middle of the car park and politely kiss each other hello. Again my gut reaction is one of disapproval at the sight of all that unnecessary make-up. Does she use a shovel to plaster it on?

It’s a pleasant Autumnal dusk as we sit chatting in the beer-garden of the pub. There’s nobody else in the pub except the staff but that will soon change. I have no idea how this date will turn out or when it might even end up. Sex is not on my agenda; I want to know if this person and I can have a loving relationship.

“So you live nearby?” I ask.

“Yes, only a five minute drive away. I must tell you that I have a lodger,” she replies with an inquisitive look in her eyes.

Why is she choosing to tell me this? Is she trying to tell me that we can’t go back to her place? If so, does she think I’m only interested in sex? Well she’s wrong. Perhaps she’s letting me know that her living arrangements are complicated and planning is required if things go down that route. My brain sprints about and my silence makes her tell me more.

“It’s a guy, but nothing has ever happened between us. The money I make from that spare room pays for my horse,” she says.

I’m still not entirely sure why she’s telling me this, I’ll have to figure it out later. Men and women communicate in such different ways. Women prefer to be subtle and graceful, but unfortunately it often leads to ambiguity and then confusion on the man’s part.

“So what happened on this weekend away?” I ask as a way of changing the subject and fishing for information about what she gets up to with her friends in her free time.

“Well, it was a friend’s birthday so we went to the coast and boogied the nights away,” she says with a hint of defensiveness.

I decide to go on the offensive. Is she the type to sleep around?

“Oh c’mon, I know what happens on these girly weekends. Did you get lucky?” I ask calmly with my best naughty smile.

“No, I didn’t but my best friend did, but if you ever meet her please don’t say anything,” she replies.

“I won’t say anything. So what happened? I’m curious,” I proceed, pushing my luck. Hmm, she’s already picturing me meeting her social circle.

“Well, we had our Disney costumes again which the fellas really like. I think it’s the short skirts. My mate went home with a different fella each night. I went back to my hotel room alone,” she answers, giving me far more information than I was expecting.

A red flag goes up and I now start to feel somewhat uncomfortable about Make-up Madam. Birds of a feather flock and fuck together. If this is what goes on with her best friend then it’s not too far-fetched to think that Make-up Madam has also indulged in this kind of loose behaviour.

I’ve always been wary of promiscuous women. As a younger man my outlook was driven by a concern about sexual health. As a teenager I worked in a scrap-metal yard as a foreman and one day a labourer came to me about a health problem he had. An enormous growth the size of my fist was perched next to his genitals. This was quite shocking to me at the age of sixteen. I had this guy taken off to a clinic immediately. That sight caused me to be sexually conservative, something that I am grateful for. Now as an older man I see promiscuous women in a different light. In my experience their behaviour is driven by an emotion, an issue or a self-perception about themselves. They are using sex – and men – as a way of getting something that they feel they are lacking. They have an emotional issue or two that is not just sabotaging their relationships with men, but it is also hobbling their lives. I want and need to be with someone who is emotionally healthy.

lock n key

It gets dark and cold so we go inside the pub and share a meal. No topic of conversation seems to be off-limits with Make-up Madam. As we talk I’m charmed by her sweetness and willingness to be honest with me. Those are two things that I value in a woman, largely because each is rare and together in one person is even rarer still.

Despite my misgivings about how she chooses to socialize, from everything else that she has shared with me, I sense that I can trust and respect her. Yes, I can have a relationship with her I conclude, but there are a few red flags that just can’t be ignored. First, that ghastly make-up is always going to bother me. Second, she doesn’t seem to go anywhere without her dog; that’s just not practical in my world. Third, she has a back problem from her riding accident that might never heal, so our sex-life might never be what it might have been. Lastly, she has a lodger; we can forget about baptising every room and lazing about as we please in her place. Memories of that time with Krazy Girl having a lodger come to mind. Yes, all of those things are temporary and can be changed, but I don’t want to go changing anybody, in the same way that I don’t want anybody trying to change me.

On the plus-side, I do enjoy her company. A major bonus is that she loves my dry, twisted sense of humour and doesn’t mind the occasional pun. She has a positive outlook on life and has her shit sorted; she doesn’t need a man in her life, she only wants one to share things with. Those things matter to me.

The evening ends with her starting to fade and even the pug has fallen asleep. A brief bout of sweet kisses ensues before I walk Make-up Madam to her car. She speeds off into the dark and I drive home feeling conflicted.

The next evening we chat on the phone and I invite her to my home for the Friday night. I offer to cook for her, which excites her. Then she asks if she can bring her dog, to which I agree. I realize that there is a very real prospect of things getting physical between us on Friday night; I think that if I wanted to she’d be easy to seduce. The thought of that does not fill me with the feelings that it should.

The next day I rethink things and conclude that she’s not The One. On a purely logical level there is cause for optimism for us having a relationship. The problem is that love is a matter of the heart. My heart does not crave her. I’m learning about myself that I need to feel besotted with a woman, like I did with Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl.

I don’t want to hurt Make-up Madam in any way. She’s a good decent person who does not deserve to be used or misled. The kind of love that her and I would share can only be a sympathetic love, which is never the best kind. I want another love: the best kind.

I want to share my life with someone whom I cannot imagine being without. A woman who I cherish, treasure and will never fail. She has a way about her that I find mesmerising, an effortless femininity that I find alluring and reassuring. She has a heart untouched by the strife of life. She completes my world and I am prepared to die defending her. When I look at her, I must be stirred. When I touch her I must feel something inside me react. When I kiss her my body must rise to the pleasure. When I hold her hand it must feel just right. When we look at each other, words are unnecessary, we just know and can’t help but smile at each other. When we make love, every part of who we are is involved and satisfied. We must feel like we’re made for each other.

From what I have experienced with her, I do not for a moment believe that Make-up Madam fits that description, so I send her my standard goodbye text message.

She responds with:

I have to just say that I am feeling sad today as you are the first guy in a very long time whose company and conversation I have really enjoyed. I fear that you have got me wrong and have me down as a party girl which I’m not at all. I haven’t had the joy of a good relationship in a long time. I miss having a lover who is my best friend and giving each other support. Either way I am pleased that I met you and do wish you every happiness. X

I find her words touching so I respond with soothing thoughts and a suggestion that she join my Happy Humping Ground dating site which, I believe, has a better type of person on there.

I’m looking forward to meeting someone new on Saturday and that in itself tells me that my decision is the correct one.

Tom Odell – Another love

Date #37 – Make-up Madam

The exchange of emails died abruptly just before Xmas and now, ten months later, she re-appears. I instantly assume that she’s been seeing someone. She catches my suspicions off-guard by telling me that she had been involved in a bad horse-riding accident and has been in rehabilitation which involved three months in traction. This story is too outrageous not to be true, so I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I had come across her profile on Plenty of Fish, being instantly struck by her beauty in her profile picture. The usual opening messages flew about quickly, so I suggested we meet. Until that point the banter had been good. I was a little disappointed by her suddenly disappearing, but it’s not unusual for women to indulge in endless messages then baulk at the first mention of meeting face-to-face.

Now it’s a perfect, sunny Sunday afternoon as I loiter in the car park of a nature reserve on the outskirts of London. I’m cautiously optimistic about this date; it could be heaven or it could be hell. The banter via email and text message has again been quick and positive, which is always a good sign, but it’s that personal magic that makes or breaks matters.

Could she be The One?

I notice her car arriving because it has her prize dog sitting in the front seat next to her. The dog is one of those pugs with wild, googly eyes and a sideways-dangling tongue. An appearance like that can only garner attention from other dogs and humans alike.

Rude dog

It’s quite a sight and I almost burst out laughing but manage to turn it into a smile as our eyes meet. Her facial expression doesn’t change much except for a reciprocating smile.

She parks her car and I walk over to greet her. As she gets out she stands upright and we get a good look at each other. I’m underwhelmed. From a distance she looks like her photos which, given my experiences of late, is something of a relief. The issue is that up close it’s all fake.

She’s got hair extensions, somewhat dyed natural hair, heaps of make-up on her face (her foundation might have foundation), freakishly long false eyelashes and fake nails. There’s even unseasonal bronze suntan lotion slathered on her exposed bits. Almost everything about her appearance is carefully thought-out and presented…and it’s almost all fake. I feel disappointed.

I instantly think of her as ‘Make-up Madam’.

Memories of The Russian Model come to mind. Have I arrived at a point in my dating life that I am now going to start seeing the same types of women? Is there a finite cast of types of women on dating sites? The thought of that fills me with dread. Am I now going to embark on a series of Groundhog Day-like experiences? If so, then I will be better able to make the most of what’s on offer a second time around, if that’s what’s coming. Just like Bill Murray’s character started having fun with his predicament I think that I should too.

We make pleasant small-talk about her dog, which I don’t mind because I love dogs. You always know where you stand with a dog; you can’t with a human.


The obvious thing to do is to walk around the reserve just like the dozens of other people intent on enjoying the last of the sunshine before another dour Winter arrives. We set off on our walk of discovery being lead by a pugnacious little creature on the end of a leash.

Make-up Madam seems a little nervous and apprehensive at first, which isn’t unusual for a first date. She smiles unconvincingly a few times and lets ofl ill-timed laughs. I feel that I’m becoming such an old hand at this that I hardly ever feel any kind of butterflies any more. I’ll just be me and within a couple of hours she’ll be relaxed enough to just be her.

It’s a pretty setting where we are. Leaves are changing character, a stream trickles by and people are smiley. My soul longs for the day when I walk somewhere like this, holding hands with The One. Right now that feels further away than ever before. I just haven’t had that thunderbolt moment that makes me suspect that this is the person for me.

About an hour later Make-up Madam is much more relaxed and natural around me. Her laugh has become genuine and her eyes twinkle at me from behind the facade. She’s even comfortable enough to let her pooch off his leash and let him roam free, defecating on foliage that children will play in later.


We end up having tea and cake at a quaint tea-house in the grounds of the reserve. Conversation is easy to come by and I ask about something that is intriguing me: star signs. I’ve noticed in my dating escapades that there are some star signs that I seem to get along with best, such as Taurus and Libra. It’s also a topic of conversation that most women enjoy.

“So what’s your star sign?” I ask.

“I’m a Libra,” she answers.

“Oh, so your birthday has been or is close by,” I reply.

“It was yesterday.,” she says with a smile.

“Congratulations. I hope that you had a great day,” I respond.

“Thanks. Yes, I was away with my friends for a girly weekend. We went to Brighton on Friday night and came home this morning, which is why I could only meet you after lunch today,” she replies.

Make-up Madam takes her phone out and starts showing me photos from her weekend away. She and her friends made an effort to dress up in Disney character costumes…and then hit the night-clubs.

Remembering her profile details more clearly now I realize that she’s now the same age as me, with me being a month older. I find it a bit odd that a woman in her early forties still goes off for “girly weekends”. That’s behaviour more for a woman in her twenties. Is she a Good-time Girl? I can’t help but wonder.

We stroll back toward our cars but being careful to take the long route back. I’m enjoying her company and she gets my sense of humour. She seems to be warming to me too. There’s a steep hill and her shoes struggle with the grass, so I see the chance for an old favourite.

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

“Yes, why?” she answers, just like so many other women before her.

“Take a wing,” I say extending an arm towards her.

Make-up madam lets off an almighty laugh, as if it is the funniest thing she’s heard in ages. The dog turns and looks at her as if she’s just gone insane. She then couples up with me and I help her up the hill. The physical barrier between us has been broken. As we get to the top of the hill I let go of her.

“Hmm, you’ve got muscles. I like that in a man,” she says with a naughty smile.

That was the first unprovoked comment about me that she’s made all date. So far she has been all politeness and civility. I’m learning that if I make no mention of anything sexual during a date, if a woman is the first to do so, then it’s a sign that she’s thought of doing it with me. Do I want to bed her? Maybe. It could be interesting. Then I remember her bad back.

At the car park we decide to sit down for a coffee at a thronging cafe. She doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave and I’m enjoying spending time with her. As I stand waiting for our drinks, Make-up Madam plus doggy go off to find us a table. My thoughts take flight to assessing her. Is she The One? I don’t think so, there’s no reason to believe so. Do I fancy her enough to want to shag her? I’m not sure; there’s just too much make-up. Is she a good, decent person? I’m inclined to say so. Do I know what to do next? Nope; haven’t a clue. I hate indecision.

We sit talking amidst the noisy crowd and to make each other heard I move to sit next to her. She smiles at my doing so and doesn’t lurch away in horror. As she tells me about her job as a civil servant I get a chance to have a good look at her. Underneath all that gunk is a naturally pretty woman. She doesn’t need all that stuff on her face. I guess she’s a fashion slave and all her friends are too. She strikes me as being the sort of woman who buys a fashion magazine or two every week and knows all the celebrity gossip. She must just be vain.

I don’t know why I did this, but at an opportune moment I leaned in to kiss her. She came forward to meet my lips and as first kisses go it was good. I pull away before she does and her heavy eyelids flutter and she smiles at me.

“Tell me about your back situation,” I ask before she gets to say anything.

“Oh, it’s getting better. I’m still on meds, but the days of endless niggly pains are over,” she replies.

Hmm, so getting rough in bed is out of the question. I’m not actually keen to bed her but it’s good to know what her situation is in case matters head in that direction.

“Do that again,” she says with that naughty smile of hers.

I think quickly and realize that she wants me to kiss her again. It’s not every day that I get a woman asking me to kiss her. I take it as a compliment. I think of it as adult fun, but I also know that you can tell a lot from a kiss. Our lips match, there’s a little magic to it for us…and no teeth or tongue getting in the way like it has with some other dates.

This time I stray a little further and kiss her neck too. I’ve learned that that can really turn a woman on. I stop before matters go too far and resume my composure. Make-up Madam stares at me blankly for a few seconds before speaking.

“I was expecting this to be another pointless date,” she says.

I find her honesty refreshing and astounding at the same time. She’s just told me that she thinks I’m some kind of special, which is always nice to hear. While I smile in surprise and think of what to say next, it seems that when I was getting us coffee earlier Make-up Madam was hatching a plan.

“I’m getting really hungry. I don’t suppose you fancy a bite to eat at a nearby pub?” she asks.

Now she’s inviting me out for dinner? That’s a first. Wow, she’s very keen to keep spending time with me. This is most unexpected and flattering. I’ve got nothing better to do, so what the hell, why not? We end up driving for what seems like an eternity to a pub in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully my satnav will get me home, or does somebody else have ideas about where tonight will end?

Make-up Madam and I spend several pleasant hours sitting chatting in that pub…with her dog on a stool by her side. Several times patrons would come over to make a fuss over the dog, which at first was charming but by the third time it became intrusive. Memories of Sweet Thing come back to me, focussing on how having a pet is much like having a child. It requires consideration, planning and often inconvenience when dating. I’m not sure that I want a repeat of that experience, having to arrange my plans around the needs of a pet.

pug ugg

We talk about anything and everything; we get along very well. I am Passive-Disinterested for most of the date which slowly leads to her pursuing me by way of asking more and more questions about me. I have a weakness for sweetness and Make-up Madam was starting to show a genuine sweetness to her. Saying goodnight involved being wrapped around each other in the car park of the pub at closing time. Our kisses were sweet, tender and endless. We certainly kissed well together. I take that as a sign that we’ll fuck well together too.

Maybe with it being a first date she’s gone overboard with the make-up. Maybe next time she’ll be more natural-looking. Maybe I should give her – and us – more time.

“Are you free next weekend?” I ask.

“No, sorry. I’m going away with my girlfriends,” she says.

Another ‘girly weekend’? So soon? Hmm, maybe she’s a bit of a party animal who hasn’t outgrown it yet. Is that why she’s single? I say nothing and leave it at that, not entirely sure what to make of her answer. By the time I get home she’s sent me a text message.

Make-up Madam: Thank you again for such a lovely afternoon. Would really like to see you again :0) xx

I give it some thought, decide to proceed with cautious optimism and reply as follows:

Grey Knight: I want to spend more time with you too. We could have talked all night – that is rare. I’m not going to wait 2 weeks – are you free any night this week?

After swapping many messages it turned out we could only see each other again the following Monday. I decided to leave matters there, thinking I’d make contact later in the week; I didn’t want to seem too keen. She had other ideas though. I woke up the next morning to a text message from her.

Make-up Madam: Morning. Hope you slept well? Have a great day xx

I responded and she then launches into a series of messages about her dog having a seizure in the morning and how she’s now having to go off to the vet. All of this at 8am? It feels like I’m being instantly jammed into a relationship in which I have to give emotional support and input on every trivial little matter. It all feels so clingy and desperate; very off-putting. Later in the day she texts me a lengthy report on what happened at the vets.

What am I going to do?

Carly Simon – You’re So Vain

Grenade – Final part

I get a little kick out of seeing some of my cum splatter on her chin and see my Exgf turn her face away in disapproval. “Take it bitch!” I say to myself as I give the last few tugs on the end of my cock, making sure that all my cum has landed on her. Almost all of it is on her breasts and this pearl necklace makes for quite a sight. She comes back to life and without saying a word to me she starts smearing the semen into her breasts. To me that will always be a titillating scene because on a subliminal level it speaks to me of approving of my sperm.

As I look at my Exgf my mind wanders over to something I have recently become aware of: microchimerism. In essence it is a phenomenon in which women carry in their bodies samples of the DNA of the men that they have had unprotected sex with. The material even collects in a woman’s heart and brain. Reading up on this has proven scary and disturbing, but it does explain several things.

The research so far has given credence to the practice of using a condom, but it also hints at our forefather’s belief that women should not be promiscuous. I think I am guilty of carrying that belief within me too, but science is now finally starting to provide physical evidence to what has largely been an ethical and moral debate.

Instead of something strange having come over my Exgf, can it be that too many strangers have cum in her? Has my Exgf now become so addled with the DNA of all her former lovers that she is now this dysfunctional person, incapable of a normal, meaningful relationship?

We fall asleep in my bed like two strangers forced to spend the night together. I like to cuddle and this fuckbuddy scene will never be entirely to my liking because it is a cut-down version of what I really want. However, until I find The One, then this will have to do…and I get to even the score with my Exgf.

I’m awoken the next morning by the sensation of my Exgf sucking my morning-glory. She’s only ever once before woken me up like this and it was in the early days of our relationship. As she became more secure in our relationship her initiating sex died, but today she wants something and is prepared to make an effort. She’s such a manipulative Taker; she can put on quite an act.

Her acting triggers a memory of a funny incident recently. I was on a date with The Wanderer and it was a perfect English Summer’s day. We were walking past a parade of shops along a high street when I distinctly heard my Exgf’s voice. My eyes turned to catch her greeting a guy I had never seen before. They were standing on the pavement where a coffee shop had tables and chairs. From her body language and his movements it was clear to me that this was a first date for them. They awkwardly shook hands and he fumbled an attempt to kiss her cheek. As she turned her head to present her cheek, her eyes caught mine; they went wide in surprise. We both smiled at each other and then resumed our individual conversations.

After a few minutes I told The Wanderer what I had just seen and she insisted that we walk back and pass them on the other side of the road. I guess she wanted to have a good look at my Exgf while I was curious as to what might be happening. The guy, who looked quite a few years younger than my ex, was leaning back in his seat, looking very casual and comfortable. My Exgf was sitting forward on the edge of her seat, her hands and feet together, leaning forward slightly, no doubt in a deliberate attempt to tease him with her ample cleavage. Their body language told me that she was more into him than he was interested in her. I was glad that she was out dating because it meant that soon she was going to be someone else’s problem. Hopefully though she wasn’t sleeping with anybody else. Later that day we swapped a few messages about this incident and we saw the funny side of it. The date led to nothing more between them, at least that’s what she told me.

I’m more awake now and our eyes make contact. It looks like she’s been awake for a while, her eyes are clear and bright.

“You’re not just using me for sex, are you?” she asks, then resumes sucking my cock while maintaining eye-contact.

“Oh no, I’m using you for all sorts of other things too,” I answer with a smile.

She lets off a laugh and resumes sucking away, while I muse to myself that I was being totally honest. I had revenge on my mind. You used me, now I’m using you. Suck it, bitch!

Those are her first words to me this morning? Hmm, it seems that she’s starting to realize what my game is and that there might be no hope of a reconciliation between us. Why else would she ask that question? Suddenly an invisible clock starts ticking above us. The end is approaching for our little arrangement. I have to make the most of this.

An idea comes to me and I get my phone out. I start taking photos of her giving me a blowjob. In our past such activity would have come to an abrupt halt if I did anything like this, but now the dynamic between us has changed unrecognisably. I do what I want and she goes along with it, largely because she wants something and until now thinks acquiescence will lead to reward.

I wonder how many other guys photographed or filmed her sucking them off? How many filmed themselves fucking her? Does she know? Would she even tell me? The thoughts of other guys fucking her fill me with a strange sense of rage. It’s not that I have positive feelings for her, but more her cheapening herself is what disappoints me and that coupled with her deceit that angers me because I was so taken in by her. I totally loved this person who I now think of as so unsuitable for me. I’m angry with myself for letting myself feel what I did for her, but her carefully-crafted version of herself had a lot to do with it. My judgemental streak merging with a need for revenge leads me to think and say crazy things sometimes, such as now.

“Show me how you sucked off all those other guys,” I say to her.

Her eyes close slightly and her eyebrows try to meet as she hears my words. I expect an aggressive response, but she says nothing and keeps sucking away on me.

“Show me how you swallowed so many other guy’s cum,” I add, almost goading her and riding my luck.

My Exgf looks me in the eye, trying to make sense of my utterances but all the while rhythmically moving her head around my phallus. I feel my words and feelings have an effect on my scrotum and I feel my sperm starting their stampede.

“I’m going to cum. I want you to keep going. I want you to suck me dry and swallow my cum,” I instruct.

Without flinching or blinking she keeps going, just like a good whore would. There are probably high-class whores – courtesans – who have sucked off fewer cocks than her.

My back arches as my butt-cheeks clamp tight. Fresh sperm, devoid of pollutant flavourings, shoots forth into her mouth. I can’t see what is pouring out of my cock because my Exgf is keeping her mouth firmly locked around my bell-end, still attentively sucking away on it, seemingly intent on swallowing every little drop of my cum, just like I instructed her to do. She keeps her eyes closed as she does what she does best.

If she ever decided to become a professional whore I reckon she would be popular for her blowjobs alone. She takes her time, seems to enjoy it, is happy to swallow…and she can suck the chrome off a towbar.

“Right, I need to shower and then I’m meeting Sally for brunch,” she says as my cock pops out of her mouth.

As she showers I start to remember her best friend Sally. For reasons unknown to me that bitch never liked me. I think it was because I wouldn’t kowtow to her silly whims and mood-swings. Her and my Exgf became friends in primary school and have been a feature of each other’s lives ever since. Neither of them makes a major decision about anything without consulting the other one first. As independent and strong-willed as my Exgf might be, she will consult with her best friend over anything serious, especially her love-life. I have yet to meet a woman who doesn’t. I guess I’ll be a topic of conversation at today’s get-together, but I really don’t care.

My ambivalence is quite liberating. Truth be told though, it’s largely because online dating sites are starting to feel like my own personal conveyor belt of pussy. I’m learning more about the hearts and minds of women by the week and seduction is no longer a mystery to me. I can replace my Exgf; I was always going to.

I walk my Exgf to her car, feeling hidden, inquisitive eyes in the cross-hairs on my back. I think my neighbours must consider me something of a gigolo because almost every time they see me I’m with a different women. I give my free-whore a cursory kiss goodbye on the cheek, just like I would somebody’s grandmother. As she drives off I can’t help but wonder if that was the last time that she would service me.

So on Wednesday night I fuck the Irish Cougar, then dump her the next night just before my Exgf calls to arrange booty duty. I fuck her on the Friday night and have more fun on Saturday morning. Now it’s Sunday morning and I’m getting ready to meet someone new.

Is this really my life?

Bruno Mars – Grenade


“I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I’m horny as hell,” my Exgf says to me on the phone. Was it because I had put her “on the hook”? I know that this call is about a booty call and that is exactly how it turns out. The following night, a Friday, she’s at my front door. We go to a local pub for a quick drink and a light snack…which she pays for. I can count on my one hand the times that she paid for something during our five years together. Now that she wants me back she’s going out of her way to do anything and everything she can for me.

As I sit listening to her moaning about her work situation it occurs to me that she is just as selfish as a some of the women that I have lately had the dis-pleasure of dealing with: Country Girl, Musician Gal and The Irish Cougar. It seems that we all have a type that we are attracted to and often they are the type that is wrong for us. If I came across my Exgf’s dating profile today I wouldn’t even click on it, but if we were to meet for a date, I probably wouldn’t think much of her. I’m thinking that a stronger selection criteria will keep me away from someone like her who took me for granted and didn’t appreciate what I did for her. Funny how things change; there was a time I’d have caught a grenade for her.

I have two regrets in my life. The first is that my father and I quarrelled the night before he died. I stormed off in a huff (I was a week away from turning fourteen) and the next time I saw him I had to hold the drip-bags as the paramedics tried to revive him from his heart attack, but they couldn’t. I had to watch my father die at my feet. I can still hear his death rattle. Because of that I don’t go to bed angry with anyone who matters to me. What was our big argument about? He was trying to get me to believe that the more you do for people, the less they appreciate it. My naivety caused me to dismiss his assertion as bitter and cynical. If I could have just one minute with him again, just one minute, the first thing I would tell him is that he was right.

Should I tell her about The Irish Cougar? No. She’d freak out and our play-dates would be over. I was lucky to get away with telling her about the Wanderer, better not push my luck. Besides, the scene with the cougar is history now anyway. Even though we had promised to tell each other if we were shagging someone else, I’m going to explore unfamiliar territory and just keep quiet. My Exgf’s all about deceit, so she can have a dose of it.

“I need to have a shower first,” my Exgf says as we get back to my place. She heads off to the bathroom as if she lives here.

I’ve realized something about her: she likes to be the centre of attention. So often in a social setting she embarrassed herself and me because she wanted the spotlight on her. So often she would do things in other settings that made no sense to me, but I know now that she was doing it to get attention. A spin-off from that need is that she likes to be watched. She’s a bit of an exhibitionist on top of that. I know that in the Summer she liked to go somewhere semi-public, like our back garden, then strip off and masturbate under the sun. She didn’t really care too much if someone could be watching; I suspect the danger of that made it the more naughty and exciting for her. It’s what allowed her to make those sex tapes with me. It’s what made her go off to a dogging site with me. My education of late has helped me to understand that side of her.

My Exgf is behind the shower curtain and she’s nearing the end of her shower. In a scene out of ‘Psycho’ I yank the curtain aside.

“For fuck’s sake! You’ve scared me!” she chides, her breasts wobbling from her little jump.

Good, I think to myself, that’ll get your adrenaline flowing. That’s all part of sex. This is just a different way to get you turned on.

“I want you to put on a little show for me. I want you to show me how you play with yourself in the shower,” I instruct, keeping a dead-pan facial expression.

She looks at me for a couple of seconds, smiles and then starts fiddling with the shower-fitting removing the head. Water is spurting out of the end of the lead which is essentially a hosepipe. My Exgf lowers the torrent of water down between her legs and directs it upwards onto her clit. She takes a deep breath that makes her breasts swell as the water-pressure finds the spot. I’m standing a couple of paces away, watching her. Her eyes are trained on mine, but I’m taking in this scene. It’s quite a turn-on for me, but it’s not just the spectacle before me, but it’s also being able to get a woman to do this and especially this one who has always been so deceitful to me.

There’s something about a woman being dripping wet with water that is quite alluring. I think it’s subliminal in that it hints at hot, sweaty sex. I watch as drops of water slide down her smooth, hairless body. The pressure of the water on her clit is having its expected effect and I can hear that she’s getting closer to cumming. I know her well enough to know when she’s faking; if it’s real her eyebrows meet and she has an anguished frown. Those things happen as she cums now, her body shakes and droplets of water fly in all directions; her tits wobble beautifully.

We don’t say a word as she climbs out the shower and dries herself off. There’s an electricity in the air and words will destroy it. She never was one for cumming six times in a night, despite my best efforts. Once she’s cum, that’s her done for the day usually. It’s now implicit between us that it’s my turn to cum and it’s up to me to make the move to let that happen.

She walks naked into the lounge with me following her like a good little puppy. This time the puppy has ideas of his own. She’s walking next to the back of the sofa. I slap a hand on her shoulder which brings her to a stop; she keeps her back toward me. I walk up behind her, bumping my chest between her shoulder blades, then turn her to her right. Sliding my other hand around her stomach, I pull in with that hand and push down with the hand on her shoulder. She folds over and rests her hands on the back of the sofa in front of her.

“Stay like that,” I command.

I unzip my jeans fly and pull my cock out of my underwear. She can’t see this, but I know she knows what’s going to happen; she’s done this enough times with other guys. I wonder if she finds this boring or exciting? Is it possible to have had too many sexual partners before sex becomes boring? I hope that I never find out.

I take her from behind, sliding my cock up her pussy and it feels a curious mixture of warm wetness from her pussy juices and cold water from the shower. I put both my hands on her shoulders and her skin feels clammy. For a minute I fuck her like that. She doesn’t say a word and the only sounds she makes are the involuntary ones a woman makes when she’s getting fucked.

“Get on that stool,” I instruct, pointing over her shoulder towards the stool in front of the sofa.

I pull out of her and we walk over to what I know will be our final position for the night. She obediently positions herself on the stool, kneeling for doggy-style, carefully spreading her weight out. She’s naked and I’m fully clothed; I like this. I don’t think that a paid-for whore would be this compliant. I’m enjoying having all the power in this relationship. I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts because I know it isn’t going to last much longer; she’ll eventually run out of patience and wise up.

My cock slides easily into her wet pussy. She lets off her customary “ugh” sounds as I slam into her. Hardly ever did I touch her hair during sex because I know how fussy she is about it, but tonight I just don’t care. Did the random strangers she let fuck her care about her hair during her countless one-night stands? I think not. I bunch her hair up into a tight little knot and gently pull back on it, expecting some verbal resistance but none is forthcoming.

I suck on the thumb of my free hand and drop it down between her butt-cheeks. I find her butt-hole and push onto but not into it. She doesn’t flinch or say a word. The whole time my hips are in motion and my cock is repetitively ramming into her pussy. Can she feel what my hands are doing? If so, is she enjoying it? I don’t care, I’m going to do what I want with her.

Slowly I push my thumb up her bum and she doesn’t make a sound. In the final hours of our relationship I found out that she had secretly been having colonic irrigation sessions several times a year. Having something in her arse is nothing new to her, despite her saying otherwise.

The naughtiness of all this is too much for my brain and it seduces my cock into cumming sooner than I would like. As I feel my man-milk starting to make its move for the exit, I say to my Exgf, “Quick, lie on your back” and she rolls over surprisingly quickly. I rush forward like a fireman with a hose and try to direct my cock at her face, but baby-batter is starting to shoot out already.

Giving a woman a facial is not something I’ve felt the need to do or even thought of doing because I’ve always been more interested in making love, not just having sex. The first time I saw it done in a porn movie I thought it disgusting and it is obviously demeaning and degrading. However, given how I feel about my Exgf, how she demeaned and degraded me emotionally during our relationship, I feel that she deserves the same in return.

To be continued…

Dumping The Irish Cougar

“Feeling frisky?” is the first thing I say to The Irish Cougar when we awake after our night of unrestrained passion. The look in her eye said, “yes” and that’s all it took before we were at it again. It wasn’t long before we were doggy-style on the bed, with me pulling her hair back and my thumb in her bum. She certainly was a little cum-machine and she squeaked her orgasm out within minutes. Not long afterwards I unloaded fresh baby-batter into her.

She had to get to work, so a frenetic flurry of activity ensued on her part just before I was ushered out of the millionaire’s apartment…without being offered breakfast. It mattered not in the scheme of things and was totally in keeping with her selfish ways. I smiled to myself on the bus that took me back to my car because I felt that I had exacted my bit of revenge for her deceit…by deceiving her.

I felt no compulsion to ever see her again. Other than her sexual abilities I couldn’t stand anything about her. I couldn’t believe a word she said. Later that night I sent her the following email. I know that women prefer being dumped in person or over the phone, but I wanted to put it in writing so that it could serve as a reminder to her.

When I figured out your real age, I thought to myself “What is an almost 50-year old woman wanting with a 42-year old?”

“Ah, she’s just out for a bit of fun.”

I have kept an open mind about this, looking for evidence to the contrary.

In my world, if someone helps you move, pays the congestion charge, etc., it is customary to take them out for a meal.

Imagine my disappointment last night when you didn’t even offer to pay for the meal.

That oversight served to reinforce my perception that you’re out for yourself.

There is something in your profile that has bothered me and I think now that’s it’s all interrelated.

You’re looking for and am used to men having far more money than I currently have. I’m currently back at square-one: a 20-something kid starting a new life. I have my doubts that I can live up to your expectations regarding lifestyle. I have no doubt in my mind that as time were to go by that this would become a bigger problem between us. As I’m writing this, I’m getting ready to go off to Aldi and Lidl to do my groceries. I have never spent £70 on 3 carrier bags of food from M&S and probably never will. I have no doubt that your opinion of me would plummet if you saw my home.

My only 2 relationships ended with the same realization: they were with me for the money AND they had deceived me.

I was so excited after our first date. You can’t imagine my disappointment when I read your LinkedIn profile and saw your true age. I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt.

Your lying about your age was a cardinal mistake. To me it feels as if trust was strangled to death at the outset. My thinking about this is “If she lied about something so important, what else has she lied about?” I catch myself not believing half the things you tell me. It’s not natural for me to be like that. I’m by nature a very trusting person and have been badly taken advantage of in the past. Maybe I’m hyper-sensitive to deceit nowadays, but the slightest, smallest of white lies does not sit well with me at all.

You said that you’re looking for your soulmate. Me too. My soulmate would never have lied about anything, let alone her age.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this.

I just can’t see a way forward.

I’m sorry.

I wish you all the best.

You are remarkable and deserve the things you want.

I just don’t think we’re right for each other.

Good luck.

Her response came the next day and it was lame, centring on how wonderful her new life was going to be. I almost felt sorry for her…almost.

I’m struck by how quickly things between us degenerated. Our first date was promising but it was obviously my discovering her deception that halted matters abruptly in my heart. With every interaction her true personality came to the fore. Now just a matter of weeks later and it feels like I hate everything about her. I really need to stop being so easily impressed by a woman on a first date.

Telling lies on a dating profile is so stupid. The truth ALWAYS comes out, just how long it takes varies. Once the deceit is revealed, trust is damaged. In my experience women seem to lie about their age, weight and appearance. Women I’ve met on dates tell me that men lie about their height, jobs and income. It’s an age-old case of women trying to make themselves more physically attractive, while men try to appear to be able to make a woman feel safe physically and materially. Playing “I fool you, you fool me” only makes fools of each other.

This incident with The Irish Cougar has lowered my opinion of women even further. It has been on a downward slant for quite some time now. I’ve become aware of how acute my trust issue is, but every passing woman is making it worse, cementing what is already there. In my quietest moments I fear that I might never trust a woman again; it’s getting that bad.

I’ve always thought womankind to be something of a mystery, what with their unpredictable ways, inconsistent moods, mercurial decisions and emotion-driven behaviour. They’ve been a puzzle that I’ve been trying to solve all my life. I don’t think that I’m any closer to understanding women, but instead what I am learning via online dating is taking the shiny sparkle off them for me.

I used to think that the vast majority of women are good, kind, giving and supportive and only a few bad women existed on the periphery of society. It now seems to me that it’s the other way around and that a truly good woman, the kind I want, is a rarity.

I started out on my dating quest as a White Knight and with every new woman I meet it feels that I am becoming increasingly grey. I find myself doing things I ordinarily wouldn’t for reasons that are unfamiliar to me.

The shine is fading from my armour…and I’m not sure what to make of it all.

Ugly Kid Joe – Everything About You

Fucking Irish Cougar – Final Part

There’s a mirror watching us, so I turn us slightly so that we can both watch what we’re doing, but The Irish Cougar is keeping her eyes closed. I start kissing her neck and she lets off approving noises. I don’t know where I’m going with this in a bathroom, but what the hell, lets see where it leads.

She puts a hand behind her back and starts running her hand up and down my body while she’s still got her back to me. Her hand finds my crotch and she starts rubbing my growing cock. The mirror tells me that she’s enjoying herself because she’s smiling.

I start unbuttoning her blouse which reveals her white a-cup bra and a flawless, milky-white skin. Her jeans drop to the cold marble floor effortlessly and she does that cute feminine traipse out of them that makes any woman seem girlish. I’m learning that smaller-breasted women’s bras come off easily with a one-handed trick I’ve learned; bigger girls still need both hands.

The Irish Cougar is now just in her panties, leaning back against me, facing the mirror. Her breasts are pert and as firm as a teenage girl’s. I’m stunned; she’s a freak of Nature. I notice that one of her nipples is different to the other, so I cup that breast and start playing with that nipple.

“Ah, you’ve found my inverted nipple,” she says with a little giggle.

I say nothing; my mind is thinking where to take us because fucking in this bathroom is impractical. I don’t mind the occasional carpet-burn, but marble-knee isn’t for me. I scoop her up in my arms and she instinctively throws her arms around me neck. She weighs nothing, this tall, slender cougar.

The sofa in the dark lounge is the perfect place for me to have my way with her, to exact my revenge. Through the big windows the moon watches as I gently lower The Irish Cougar onto the sofa and she looks up at me in glee. I can’t help but wonder just how much she’s been looking forward to this. I take my shirt off and nonchalantly throw it away. It hits a piece of Japanese artwork that apparently costs more than my apartment, but I don’t care right now. The Irish Cougar makes a ‘hmm’ sound as I start fiddling with the belt on my jeans.

“No, let me do that!” she exhorts, springing into life and sitting upright on the sofa.

The Irish Cougar un-belts then unzips me, pulls my jeans halfway down my thighs, stops to look up at me to give me a smile, then pulls my underpants down. She looks at my semi-erect cock for a moment, then takes it in one hand, expertly pulls the foreskin back with her other hand, slowly brings her head toward it and then takes most of my cock in her mouth, letting off another ‘hmm’ sound.

After about a minute of very good cock-sucking on her part, I pull away and get undressed. The plush rug feels good underfoot and I know it’s good enough for a woman on her knees.

“Come down here on your knees,” I instruct and she complies instantly, wordlessly.

Like most women she’s happy being told what to do during sex. She slips off her panties as I make myself comfortable on the sofa.

We’re now both naked, I’m slouched back on the sofa, my legs wide apart. She’s on her knees before me, her hands on the floor, her elbows pressing her pert little breasts together and my cock is in her mouth. She’s rocking herself backwards and forwards; it feels fantastic.

She’s looking me in the eye the whole time, with a strangely submissive look in her eyes. I’ve never seen a woman do this before. She seems very content to keep doing this to me. Most women would break eye-contact after a few seconds, but not The Irish Cougar. I get the impression she’s revelling in this.

This sex slave pleasing her master move is amazing to me. Not only does it feel good but the sight of it is a turn-on, as well as the whole submissive gaze being a mental turn-on for me. There are praises to be sung about the sexual prowess of older women.

I’m amazed at how firm and young her body is. She has obviously taken great care of herself or is truly a freak of Nature. It was going to be a pleasure fucking her. I know that after a while I would be fucking her doggy style…with my thumb up her arse…and she would be loving it. The thought of that drives me to move matters along.

“Get on the sofa on your knees, put your hands on the top,” I instruct and again she quickly complies.

I get up, spin around and slowly push my cock into her vagina which is surprisingly tight and very moist. She lets out little gasps as I push deeper into her. My cock skids past areas of resistance; she hasn’t been fucked in a while. I have my hands on the side of her hips, then slowly run them up her sides. She truly has an amazing body for her age; everything is still so tight and smooth. Slowly but deliberately I slide my cock in and out of her; her breathing is in time to my thrusts. I tilt my head a little to one side to see if I can make out her facial expression. She seems to have her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. She’s enjoying this. Hell, most 50 year-old women would love to have a man eight years younger and well-endowed doing this to them.

I look down past her head and see the streets of London below us, white and yellow lights make it almost daytime down at street level. I can see cars and their passengers milling about impatiently, double decker red buses crawl through the traffic and I can see passengers sitting on the upper level thumbing their phones. Pedestrians go about their business in this silent frenzy of activity.

They’re all oblivious to the fact that a younger man is fucking an older women above their heads. She’s got one hand on the back of the sofa and another against the side of the window. Anybody looking could probably see her little tits wobbling as I ram my cock deep into her, faster and faster, harder and harder.

Her breathing is picking up pace, she’s enthralled. I can do whatever I want now. I give her backside a playful little slap with one hand and she instantly lets out an involuntary breath in response, but no other sound. She likes this, she wants this…and she’s loving this. The reflection of her face in the window tells me so.

I smack her other cheek and she makes a sound of satisfaction; she’s totally turned on. I reach forward and collect her hair into a little bundle, hold it with one hand and gently pull back. She offers no resistance and her chin lifts, her eyes still closed. Rhythmically I move my hips backwards and forwards, keeping a tight grip on her hair. I think she likes being dominated like this. How far can I go?

I suck on my thumb, wondering how she’s going to react to what I’m going to do next. Lowering my thumb I find her butthole and rest my thumb squarely over it. She doesn’t wince or make a sound. I start to apply a little pressure with my thumb, waiting for a reaction…that doesn’t come. My thumb slides as easily up her arse as my cock had up her pussy.

So here I am, just turned 42 and I have my cock in the pussy and my thumb up the bum of an almost fifty year-old woman; I’m in a multi-millionaire’s pad overlooking Hyde Park, a piece of the Marble Arch visible and the indifferent crowds of London below me…and somebody could be watching us.

It feels like I’m living somebody else’s life. Not for a moment since I set out on my quest for love did I think that a moment like this would arise. Internet dating isn’t all bad. It’s starting to feel like I’m living the life of a playboy though. What’s next for me, a life as a male escort to wealthy, lonely women?

On and on my cock and hips go, like the wheels on a steam train, now slamming forcefully into her pussy. This is what she wants, she’s used to this. I wonder if she’ll take my cock up her arse? It’ll be a tight fit but she’s probably used to that too. At her age she’s probably had a few cocks in her arse. I wonder if she’s ever had a cock bigger than mine in any of her holes? I won’t ask; okay, maybe in the morning. Until then I’ll ask other things because something I’ve learned is that when a woman is having sex, she’s highly likely to speak the truth about her sexual preferences.

“Do you like sucking cock?” I ask.

“I love it,” she answers.

“Do you like having a thumb up your arse?”

“As long as it’s lubricated,” she replies. Her answer stiffens my cock; she doesn’t mind have a thumb in her arse.

“Is it safe for me to cum in your pussy?” I ask, driven more by a sense of habit than anything else.

“Yes,” she giggles and then I realize that she’s probably well past falling pregnant.

I’ve never cum in a woman so old before. This feels so naughty. How does she feel about having a man almost eight years her junior doing this to her? It must do her ego a world of good, but how will her body feel in the morning, I can’t help but wonder. It dawns on me that a great benefit of having unprotected sex with a woman who has been through menopause is that you can’t get her pregnant.

Just then she cums, without any physical signs of warning or spoken hint of it. Her body shudders and shakes as she lets off a girlish squeal. Lost in my thoughts my body just kept doing as Nature demands and The Irish Cougar happened to climax. Having it happen naturally is a pleasant surprise as it hasn’t been a common occurrence for me; I’ve always had to put effort into making a woman cum first.

The next surprise is that I start cumming too. I feel her pussy clenching tight around my cock; her p.c. muscles are strong. She’s deliberately clenching tight and it feels good. The Irish Cougar certainly has skills and experience.

I’ve pumped my load into her and although a little exhausted by the intensity of what just happened, I take a moment to take this scene in and commit it to my memory bank. So here I am, balls deep into a much older woman, my one hand has her hair bunched up in it and I’m pulling hard, my other hand has its thumb buried in her arse. Her arms are splayed sideways; her hands are resting on the top of the sofa. Her breasts are exposed to the world and her eyes are still closed while her mouth is hanging open.

It seems sex is best when I care less. Sometimes trying too hard to please my partner leads to me pleasing nobody, myself included.

I let go of The Irish Cougar and she recoils back into a heap on the sofa before falling over onto her back, resting a wrist on her forehead.

“Bejeezus, that was good,” she wheezes in her most Irish accent.

That was the first of three sessions we had that night. Each was good in it’s own right as we discovered each other’s sexual proclivities. The Irish Cougar liked me watching her while she played with herself; that was her ‘thing’. It worked for me because I have voyeuristic tendencies; a good match for her exhibitionism. I made her cum with my cock once more while it seemed that she could cum once an hour. She liked to look me in the eye the whole time she had my cock in her mouth and I liked the gutsy edginess of it. Her little tongue licking my perineum felt like a puppy licking my hand; I loved it. She loved me fingering her g-spot and licking her clit at the same time, but it was my watching her touch herself that led to the biggest orgasms for her.

Everything we did to and for each other that night didn’t equate to how much she enjoyed having me watch her while she rubbed her clit raw. It must have been a Catholic rejectionist rebel thing that worked for her mind first and then her body slavishly obeyed.

We eventually fell asleep in the main bedroom, exhausted and satisfied, but I wasn’t finished her just yet.

Divinyls – I Touch Myself