Travel Gal tail – final part

“Um, aren’t you going to suck on the head?” I blurt out in disbelief, suddenly feeling like a spotty-faced teenager as I realize my ineptitude.

“No, I don’t do that,” she says, crawling onto her hands and knees on the bed, then bunching a pillow together and pushing it under her stomach.

I’m in a mild state of shock. No woman I can think of has refused to suck my cock. Those lips are not going near my bell-end, I know this now. This is most unexpected and unwelcome too.

My emotions cycle quickly through the stages of shock but I’m left mostly angry. Why does this sort of thing keep happening to me? In that moment it seemed that Travel Gal was not The One.

Snap out of it. There’s a naked woman on all fours wiggling her arse at me. Make the most of this situation. To borrow a South African rugby expression, I should ‘go for the gap”. I’ll go for her gap alright.

This pose that she’s assumed strikes me yet again as being something odd. Again she’s averting eye-contact, looking away from me, facing the headboard. The pillow tucked under her belly I’ve only ever seen in a manual for advanced sexual techniques. Either she’s a natural or has had an educated lover in the past or she’s read the same manual as me. The latter option I discount in my head because I don’t recall there being a chapter about being a cock-teaser.

Maybe this is what she does: she gets men all worked up, then disappoints them which results in angry sex. Is that it, she wants angry sex? Let’s find out…

I position myself behind her and slide a finger into her pussy. It’s like a white chocolate fountain in there, she’s that wet. It’s also a bit like the Royal Albert Hall, a cavernous space. I can easily fit two fingers in her pussy. Either she has had sex recently, or had a lover with an enormous cock or has had many, many cocks in her pussy. My trust demon springs up in his cage. Down boy. Maybe she has a vibrator as big or bigger than Tech Titan’s Purple Pussy Eater? I’ve learned that almost every woman has a vibrator or two stashed away in her bedroom, usually in the bottom shelf at the back of something, either in a box or a fabric bag with a drawstring.

Fuckit, I can feel myself going soft; I need to keep moving. I pull my fingers out of her and she doesn’t make a sound. I move closer on my knees and slide my cock into her. Travel Gal makes a slow sound of approval, but I’m struggling to feel much because this pussy is spacious; too spacious. If I was wearing a body bag for my cock I’d feel nothing for sure.

I start rocking my hips but I still don’t feel much. Shit, I’m going to go soft and then it’s awkward talk time, something along the lines of “don’t worry, it happens to all men from time to time”. I don’t need that pity-party going on. I know, I’ll get naughty and see what happens.

Raising a hand to my face I suck on my thumb. I wonder how she’s going to react to this? Will she baulk like a bronco and catapult me off the bed? She’s a sophisticated country lady, this might be new to her, so there’s no telling how she’s going to react. I am curious though…

I gently slide my wet thumb up her bum as my cock rhythmically flails about in her pussy. Travel Gal doesn’t move or make a sound. Most woman would tense up at this surprise anterior intrusion, but not her, she stays relaxed. My thumb slid easily into her arse and I could swivel it around if I wanted. Having something in her arse was nothing new to her. It was the most spacious arse my thumb has ever been in. Was anal sex her thing?

Wait a second…maybe that’s why she won’t suck my cock?! She’s used to having a cock in her arse and therefore won’t suck on one. Could that be it? She thinks the tips of dicks are dirty? Well, they are, given their variety of uses, but I’m not arguing that case. In my head I start debating this possibility.

While I’m indulging in my penile monologue I fail to notice that she’s close to another orgasm. It’s only when she starts making louder sounds that I snap out of my errant orbit.

Travel Gal cums with a scream that she propels into a pillow that I didn’t notice her grab and put in front of her face. Has she done that before too? I know that we’re all second-hand lovers, but some of her moves are new to me and I consider myself very well read.

Reality check: She came while I fucked her pussy and had my thumb up her bum. This prim and proper country lady likes it dirty. I don’t know what’s going on in her head, but I need to cum too. I can analyze this later.

I haven’t let go of her and she’s still in position. My turn now.

Travel Gal is now more vocal, uttering that classic immortal line of “oh yeah”, almost chanting it like a mantra every my cock slams into her. As the front of my thigh slaps a buttock, each time she mutters “oh yeah”, over and over again. Her pussy has tightened and somewhat clamped itself around my shaft. She starts to feel good.

There I was, one of her big breasts in my hand, my cock in her pussy and a thumb up her arse…and she was loving it. This is not what I expected of her, but it’s probably not what she expected of me either.

Shall I be really naughty and put my cock in her arse and pump my cum into her there? It’ll easily fit; her arse is looser than most women’s pussies. No, after the anal sex incident with Krazy Girl I swore I won’t do anal again. I was fretting about it for months afterwards, scrubbing myself raw in the shower in a frenzy of pointless angst, driven by the fear of AIDS.

Remembering that Sunday morning with Krazy Girl leads to the memory of the time I fucked Tech Titan in the arse because it’s what she wanted too and…oh, I think I’ve just cum…

Yes, the greatest sexual organ is indeed the brain.

Travel Gal wriggles off The Hook, grabs a robe strategically hanging from the back of the door and minces off to the bathroom down the short hallway. A minute later she rejoins me and we cuddle up, making polite pillow talk until she drifts off away from me. I lie blinking at the stars who, through a gap in the curtains, were watching us and they blink back as my mind races, as I try to make sense of what just happened.

She wouldn’t suck my dick, that’s for certain. I can see us having this conversation:
Why Blowjobs Are More Intimate Than Sex

The next morning she stirs and goes downstairs to let her dog do his morning ritual in the back yard. I guess it’s part of her routine to rise early and just keep going because without much being said she goes downstairs and starts making us breakfast. I get dressed, give her a hug and kiss before going to my car to get my dirty weekend bag. I shower and ready myself for what I’m thinking is an unpredictable day.

Breakfast is one of the best full English breakfasts I’ve ever had. She’s quite good in the kitchen. Then we go for a walk around her hamlet, allowing the dog to do his thing. Even out in the boonies people are expected to pick up their dog’s shit. I watch Travel Gal expertly wrap a plastic bag around her hand and bend over, scooping her pooch’s pooh into her hand before pulling the bag over it and tying it up before dropping it in what must be the only doggy droppings bin for miles. She does this twice a day? How does this square up with my notion about her and anal sex?

We spend the day watching slushy romantic comedies such as ‘The Holiday’. Travel Gal has a romantic side to her. I can see it because I have it too. Sitting cuddled on the sofa seems like the logical thing to do as it’s another miserable, cold Winter’s day. I’m aware of not feeling the urge to go back to bed, but I’m also conscious of the fact that we haven’t said a word at all about last night’s sexual encounter.

Travel Gal makes an impressive dinner before we walk the dog one more time. The hands that cooked that meal pick up dog shit twice daily? Does it follow that the cock that goes in her arse will not go in her mouth? She will not eat shit. Is that what’s going on in her head?

Darkness overwhelms day and I make my excuses about leaving. She has to work the next day and I don’t want to overstay my welcome, that’s what I tell her. Her mouth smiles but her eyes don’t. We kiss passionately at her front door. I get the impression that she doesn’t want me to go, but I have to.

I get into my car intent on driving back to London…because I have another date lined up. It’s with the Russian MILF. I’m giving her a chance to redeem herself after our unsavoury first date. We should be good together, that’s what OKCupid’s system indicates, so maybe a second date will be better? I wonder if she’ll smell pussy on me? I drive for a little while until I have a signal for my phone. The Russian MILF has sent me a WhatsApp message saying that she can’t make tonight because she’s ill. The next message she sends me has a photograph attached. It’s of her and some guys at a fancy-dress party and her caption reads: “Me at a party last night”.

Well enough for a party last night but not well today? She can just fuck off. I can easily replace her. I respond with “Ok, no problem.

What are these women like? Okay, I won’t lie, a part of me is enjoying the unpredictable nature of this dating life. It’s certainly stretching my boundaries, perceptions and beliefs about life, women, relationships and sex. However, I feel that it’s coming at a price whereby I don’t feel enriched by it all. Instead I feel that a part of me is slowly dying and being replaced by something I don’t recognize.

I drive home hearing the “oh yeah” chants of Travel Gal echoing in my ears.

Yello – Oh Yeah

Travel Gal tail

Travel Gal better give the best blowjob known to mankind. That’s what is going through my head as I slowly make my way to Travel Gal on this January night. Driving through unfamiliar country roads of endless twists and turns in the dark during a raging storm is not my idea of fun. I don’t want to drive one-way for 2 hours only to not get a blowjob. If she refuses to go down on me, she just has to go. There are a few sensation in life that I love: the taste of milk chocolate hobnobs, tiramisu, cheesy doritos, a meat feast pizza, a cold cider…and a blowjob. No blow, she go. Simples.

I eventually find her home which is part of a series of stone cottages in the middle of nowhere next to a pub. I use the knocker on her door and her dog inside goes ballistic. Good guard doggy. Please don’t bite me. I wonder if Travel Gal will? I’m holding a bottle of wine in my hand, leaving my dirty weekend bag in my car. If I arrived holding that it might seem presumptuous, although from our last conversation the other night I got the impression that I’d be spending the night. I decide that discretion is the better part of valour.

Travel Gal greets me warmly and gives me a kiss on the lips; quite a welcome. Doggy recognizes me and his tail starts swatting furniture. I present the wine and she disappears into the kitchen with it. Her home is cosy, a stereotypical English cottage like the one in The Holiday. Hmm, is she going to be my Cameron Diaz?

“I haven’t prepared a dinner because there’s a pub I’d like to take you to,” she says.

“Oh, perchance the one next door?” I ask, trying not to sound like a smartass.

“No, the one we’re going to is a little drive away in the next village,” she says pouring fresh water for the dog then putting her leather coat on.

“The one next door no good then?” I ask, wondering if it’s a horrible dive. She’s quite classy, so will naturally avoid places like that.

“No, it’s my local and it’s good. I just don’t want people seeing us together in there just yet,” she says opening the door and ushering me out.

I’m not too sure what to make of that and just smile mawkishly to preserve the peace. Without a word I get into the passenger seat of her car which smells like soggy doggy. It seems like she has this all planned. This night is going to be interesting.

Travel Gal drives at breakneck speed through blackened lanes of murky ink that are obviously familiar to her. This reminds me of Pretty Teacher’s driving habits. I resist the urge to turn into a driving instructor. Must preserve the peace if I want my knob polished. I wonder if she swallows?

The quaint pub we end up in is deserted, so we have privacy by the cartload out here. The staff have different English accents, I’m so far from home. The food is surprisingly good, the wine suitable and the conversation sparkling. Travel Gal and I have no problem keeping each other intellectually stimulated, challenged and amused. All through our banter I’m treating our words as foreplay because I know that a woman’s mind needs to be turned on before her body is. I’m as subtle as can be, lacing witticisms with double entendres.

Yes, my highest priority for this encounter is sex. I’m incredibly curious about what happened on our last date which led to her being satisfied a few times but left me befuddled. Does she have an aversion to penises? Are we sexually compatible? These two things I have to know. Of course I want to get to know her better as a person, finding out what makes her tick, seeing if we have relationship potential, but those are secondary in my mind. Will the evening be ending with a long drive back home for me, or am I sleeping on the sofa with the dog’s farts for company? Or is something entirely unexpected going to happen?

Back at her place she sets about her evening routine of seeing to the dog and securing her home. I don’t know what to do with myself so I go upstairs to investigate the bedroom arrangements. We’ve not said a word about if I’d be spending the night but that has been implied, well at least I think it’s been.

The bedroom is something that Beatrix Potter would approve of. Old wooden furniture is in daily use, the bedding and curtains are chintzy. The bed is of the four-poster type of a good height. If I take her from behind then she can hold onto a corner post. I’ve always thought that that’s what those were for.

Travel Gal joins me in the bedroom having brushed her teeth. I’m not 100% sure what to do next, but I know that it’s up to me to initiate what I think she’s expecting. Have I done enough to get her in the mood? Shit, if I get this wrong it’s going to backfire horribly and I’m going to make a fool of myself and be overcome with embarrassment, but I have no choice but to go for it.

I gently pull Travel Gal to me and we begin to kiss. In what must have resembled a scene from The Flash, a flurry of frenetic activity sees clothes go flying around the room. One thing is definite: she fancies me.

Within a minute we’re both naked and she’s lying on her back on the four-poster double bed that dominates the room. I’m going down on her and, for an older woman who told me that she’s been through menopause, she has no problem getting juicy. Travel Gal must be healthy because there’s no funny smell to her natural lubricant; I’ve always appreciated that in a woman.

I introduce a finger to the mix and it finds her g-spot.

“I read up about the g-spot,” she says.

“Oh, really?” Should I stop what I’m doing? Is that her innuendo? I lift my head.

“Yes, I don’t think I’m a g-spot girl. I’m very much a clitoris girl,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Okay, noted,” I respond, releasing her g-spot.

“Stroke my clit gently up and down, not sideways,” she instructs.

That’s what I’m liking about older women: they know what they like and aren’t afraid to ask for it.

Did The Graduate get this degree of instruction from Mrs Robinson? Every woman has her own style or requirement. I’m learning that no two women are the same in bed. The single best thing a man can do in bed with a woman is to pay attention to her needs and preferences. If he doesn’t, a clock somewhere starts ticking. Naturally that works both ways.

I do as instructed and it doesn’t take long before she cums with a suppressed scream…and that sit-ups-like position with her hands behind her head, elbows almost touching so as to hide her face. What the hell is that about? I won’t ask. Okay, I’m going to, just not tonight.

Cuddling with a woman after I’ve made her cum is one of life’s sweet moments for me. That raw vulnerability mixed with trust makes me feel alive, valued and manly. I caress her as she lies against me. Her skin is like velvet and I like stroking her. She likes it too. Most women like to be stroked and not just between the legs.

Travel Gal pushes herself away from me. Going to the loo I suspect. I’m wrong. She starts kissing my face, my throat and shoulders. God, her lips feel wonderful. She’s taking her time about it; I love it when a woman does that. Wait a sec, I didn’t tell her that this is what I like! How does she know?! She doesn’t; it’s what she wants to do.

Oh lordy, have I found someone sexually compatible in Travel Gal? Could I finally get this lucky? After all these months of disappointments, false starts and lies, am I finally being rewarded?

Travel Gal is kissing the inside of my thighs and is working her way up to my groin. Her hair falls playfully onto my skin and that heightens what I’m feeling…heavenly. All my troubles, worries and responsibilities gently fade away as I feel her lips making their inexorable way to my genitals.

I love that feeling of anticipation that builds as a woman’s mouth is heading for my cock. The physical pleasure is obvious, but with me it also comes with a sense of giving that I appreciate. This woman is giving me pleasure, giving me wondrous sensations, giving me what I want and, to an extent, what I need.

Her tongue is warm and slippery as it glides slowly over my testicles. I’m so glad I manscaped down there this morning. The itching next week will be worth it.

Sensually she sucks one testicle into her mouth, swirls her tongue around it…wait, where’d she learn that?!…no woman’s ever done that before!…shut up, lie back and enjoy it, you dumbass. She does the same with my other testicle.

Oh yeah, now we’re getting to the main event. She’s gripped my cock, is holding it upright in front of her face and has begun tenderly licking the shaft like it’s a giant ice cream. Not long now until she’s sucking on the head of my penis. All eight thousand of my nerve endings collected there will be jangling in her mouth and I’m going to enjoy every second of it. Yes, almost there, any second now, all that life-reinforcing warm wonderfullness around my knob…

“Right, that’s enough of that,” Travel Gal suddenly says, letting go of my cock and it flops onto my belly like a dead fish.

What the fuck?!!!


To be continued…

Busty Blonde makes an impression

I leave my date with the Tiny Russian filled with a sense of sadness which I struggle to shake off as I drive to Busty Blonde’s home in central London. She’s invited me to her place for lunch, something that I consider unusual yet refreshing for a third date. It’s usually several dates before a woman invites me to her home, if ever. I must clear my head and my heart so that I can focus on Busty Blonde; it’s what she deserves and what I need to do.

Parking in central London is always a challenge and eventually I find a spot near her home which is part of dozens of terraced houses. If I see her more often then I won’t be driving but will take the train. I wonder how she feels about visiting me in the countryside? Wait, why am I thinking about how a relationship with her will work logistically? I’m not really sure how I feel about her other than I enjoy her company.

Busty Blonde greets me enthusiastically at her front door with the cheeriest of smiles. She does have a great smile. Her home is a one-bedroom apartment which is spacious, functionally-furnished in shades of cream and white, but only has a shower, no bath. For a property worth nearly half a million Pounds I’d expect a bath for my money.

“I’ve made us a Malaysian curry,” she says half-asking, half-telling.

“Excellent, I love that kind of food,” I reply.

I’m learning that having a similar taste in food is an indicator of a host of things. If a couple are at extremes in how spicy they like their food, then they will clash over many issues. That’s a theory of mine that I’ve cottoned on to. The fact that Busty Blonde likes the same kind of food of me I take as a positive sign.

Her culinary skills are impressive; the curry is better than restaurant quality. If this was my place I’d turn the television on, show her Californication and half an hour later be shagging her. However, it isn’t my place. Her windows are enormous with flimsy tulle curtains that would let the neighbours who I can see in their lounge across the road see us in action.

Do I want that kind of action with her? Actually, yes and no. I don’t feel any lust for her and that’s the problem. I want to feel that gotta-have-you instinct when I look at my woman. I don’t feel that way about Busty Blonde. Yes, I’d love to feel the weight of her massive mammaries in my hands or have them slap my face, but it’s not an overwhelming desire with her. Is that a bad thing? Has pussy-vision blinded me in the past? Is that where I’ve gone wrong? I’m not sure. In fact, I’m not sure about much any more.

“How about we go for a walk? I’ll show you my neighbourhood,” Busty Blonde says as I think of what to do next.

I’m pleased by her suggestion because I wouldn’t want to spend the afternoon sitting in her lounge chatting while the neighbours across the way waited for some action. I have no interest in being someone else’s real-life Californicator, even though my closest friends are pointing out the similarities.

Busty Blonde and I stroll around a chilly part of London. From her enthusiasm and knowledge of the area I see that she has very much been what I call a London Girl. She’s been married to her job, loving the lifestyle of a moneyed young woman replete with an alcohol-propelled social life, draped in labels and eminently proud of the over-priced part of London that will have two coffee shops next to each other. I’ll now quote what their typical opening lines on a dating profile says: “I’m looking for my partner in crime. Someone to share adventures with, but still happy to curl up on a sofa drinking red wine.” Every second dating profile has a variation of that. Is Busty Blonde like that?

“Are you happy to live in this part of London for the rest of your life?” I ask as we saunter around a crowded park.

“No, I’ve changed. There was a time when I would have said yes, but now I want a house in the countryside. I even want a beagle,” she says with a laugh.

Wow, not the answer I was expecting. This London Girl has outgrown the trappings of her yuppy lifestyle. I’m pleased to hear Busty Blonde mention a dog. I’m starting to think that that’s another great indicator, given my experiences with women who have cats versus those who prefer dogs. I seem to get along much better with the latter.

For hours we walk and talk until it starts to get dark and colder. We head back to hers where she fusses over making me a coffee while finding some biscuits. We sit at her dining table where I’m facing her bookshelf that is straining under the weight of all the paperbacks that she has stowed on it. You can tell a lot about someone from what they read, if they read at all. I analyse the content and find that it is not too dissimilar to things that I’m interested in. Busty Blonde has a penchant for historical novels dealing mainly in the struggles of ordinary people during trying times. Almost none are slushy romance novels. She reads what I’d like to write.

“It seems you’re quite the reader,” I say.

“Yes, I finish at least one book a week. These books are all old. I’m into Kindle nowadays,” she says.

So she spends her spare time reading, not living it up like a typical London Girl. Busty Blonde is becoming more interesting by the minute. We chat for a while about her favourite books which are about people overcoming adversity, against the odds. Is it against the odds that we could fall in love with each other? Why am I thinking this? I have other matters to attend to.

“I’m sorry, but I need to get going. I’m seeing a friend tonight,” I say, wondering if she’ll catch my white lie.

“Okay, drive carefully,” she says.

Nope, not for an instant did she seem to suspect who my ‘friend’ might be. She really is an innocent. A good, decent innocent. I feel like such a shit. Her eyes give off a hint of wanting me to stay, to talk some more, to laugh some more, to just stay.

Next to her front door we kiss for a minute and as kisses go it’s okay. I’m in no way turned on; there’s nothing stirring in my loins. Saying our goodbyes we make noises about getting together again next week. I meekly agree. My mind is already focussing on what I have to do next.

I get in my car, fiddle with my satnav and set course for a two-hour drive into the countryside. Next stop: Travel Gal.

I’m curious to know why we didn’t have full sex the last time we saw each other, but my mind is churning over thoughts of Busty Blonde, mixed with thoughts of Tiny Russian, more thoughts about Travel Gal…around and around I go, on my silent carousel for one, on my quest for The One.

Coal – Stay

Date #43 – Tiny Russian

While I was getting ready to meet Travel Gal, Busty Blonde and The Russian MILF I came across another profile that caught my attention. I’m starting to think that online dating is a numbers game in that if you go on enough dates you’ll find someone perfect for you who thinks you’re perfect for them too. So often for me it has felt like a sudden deluge of new potential matches would appear in a wave only to be followed by a drought of interesting profiles. In the past I let new arrivals slip through my grasp by not contacting them as soon as they appeared because I had one or two other women I was in contact with. I’m now riding this latest wave by juggling four women at once.

It’s proving tricky remembering what conversation I have had with whom, especially once I’ve met them. In this case I’m referring to Travel Gal and Busty Blonde, neither of whom suspects that the others exist. For all I know each of these four women has their own posse of suitors. Online dating and relationships can sometimes be a shitty game and we’re all just contestants hoping to win something and it’s not always the same prize.

The fourth woman I’m interested in is also Russian. There’s just something about their appearance and presentation that I find irresistible. I think it’s because they make more of a feminine impression on me which stirs the horny demon in me that makes me want to defile them.

Today’s contender is a few years younger than me so I assume her child to be a teenager. Pretty as can be, light brown hair, beguiling smile, beautiful eyes, a playful way with words on her profile; I just had to meet her. Besides the child issue there is also the fact that she’s only five foot tall. Yes, I was writing about Baltic Babe and needed some reminding of what being with her felt like, partially in the hope that it would provide some new insights into what exactly I like and should avoid in a woman. I have a weakness for sweetness, that much I know.

I send off a humorous email that does the trick and we’re swapping witty, brief messages over the course of a few nights. Of course I’m messaging or phoning the aforementioned three other women whom I have already met. The Russian MILF I’m not putting that much effort into because our date didn’t go that well, but I am inclined to see her one more time. At times all this messaging with women on dating sites has felt like having a second job. It can be hard work and I am starting to get fed up with it all. I can’t keep spending my evenings this way. I can’t wait to find The One.

The Tiny Russian and I agree to meet for coffee on Saturday morning. After my expensive experience with The Russian MILF I’m keeping dates down to short, lunchtime coffee dates from now on. If there’s chemistry, it’ll be there within an hour. My first date with Baltic Babe proved that to me and I’ve been foolish to ignore it for so long.

Could the Tiny Russian be The One?

I arrive at a mini-mall on the outskirts of West London where the Tiny Russian lives. I’m not sure what to expect from this date because my head is full of ideas and thoughts about the other women I’m seeing. As each face pops into my head my emotional state changes because of how I feel about the face I’m thinking of. Having so many women on my hands is stretching my ability to make a sane choice, but it also gives me a freedom not to rush into a relationship. I also find what I am doing slightly unfair to all involved but this is modern dating.

The Costa coffee shop is humming and it’s only ten o-clock. The place is full of yummy mummies and I notice some of them glancing at me. I am the only middle-aged man in the place and I’m alone so it’s to be expected that I evoke some curiosity. The Tiny Russian texts me that she’ll be a few minutes late. Why do women struggle to be on time? Is it really that difficult? Or is it some half-baked ruse they were told to do by some glossy but trashy magazine that they read while being ripped off in a hair salon?

Eventually the Tiny Russian arrives and, wow, she is tiny. She might not even be five foot and she’s skinny. If we got physical I could break her. She’d have to go on top. I might even be able to do ‘The Propeller’ with her: spread her legs wide apart, prop her onto my cock and spin her around like she was a propeller.

I stoop down and give her a kiss on each cheek. I can feel the eyes of the audience upon us as we sit down. We make a little small-talk before I head off to get her a coffee and a pastry. As I stand in the queue to order I think about her initial impression. Yes, she looks like her photos and, yes, she is incredibly pretty. Her English isn’t as good as The Russian MILF’s, but that means her speech comes with that sexy Russian purr that makes my sphincter tighten.

As we use our coffees and pastries as props over conversation, it seems to me that she is very defensive. Most women are in the first minutes of a date with me, but then they relax and occasionally enjoy themselves. From all my other dates I’ve come to know that almost every woman who has gone internet dating has run into two extreme characters: the nutcase and the sex monster. The former is nothing like what they expected and quickly shows why he is single. The latter is only after sex. Both of these creatures freak women out to the extent that whenever they go no a date they can’t help but wonder if this new guy is one of these two denizens of dating. The female equivalent of these is the Baby-brainer and the Gold-digger. Every man encounters those two. I think that’s a shame and an indictment of society, but it is what it is.

Slowly the tiny Russian warms to me and starts smiling and laughing. Perhaps she has got used to my accent? I like hers. It turns out that she has been in the UK for nine years; I would have expected her English to be better. I decide to get more personal with her, seeing as she’s now more at ease with me.

“So how did you come to be in the UK?” I ask.

“I met an Englishman online when I was in St. Petersburg,” she begins.

St. Petersburg? The Russian MILF was from there as well. Could these two know each other? If so I could get into trouble here. No, there’s a ten year age-gap, so it’s not likely.

“He came to visit me in St. Petersburg several times before he asked me to marry him. I wasn’t that interested, but my family forced me to,” she continues.

Does this mean that she was a mail-order bride? I just can’t understand how anyone can do that. I guess my life has never been that hard so that I would be willing to do this. It must have been showing on my face what I was thinking because Tiny Russian decides to tell me more.

“I was young and I didn’t know what to do. My parents wanted a better life for me. I feel ashamed now that I did this, but at least I have a little girl of my own who means the world to me,” she says with a plaintive look in her eyes.

“And the father?” I ask, now prepared for a bombshell. It seems with her anything is possible.

“Well, now we’re finalizing our divorce. We’re arguing over support payments for our daughter. He’s being very nasty and the stress of it all has caused me to be ill for the last year,” she says.

Oh lordy, I feel sorry for her, but this isn’t what I’m looking for. Does this mean that she has money problems on top of all this emotional wreckage?

“Are you back at work yet?” I ask.

“Yes, I’ve been working half days for the past month. That way I do the school runs,” she replies.

“I take it then that your daughter lives with you?”

“Yes, full time. She goes to her father every second weekend,” Tiny Russian says.

She only really has time for a relationship every second weekend it seems. Not the deal or lifestyle I want. My heart feels for her, an attractive young woman who wants to know what love is because it’s obvious to me that she’s never known it, not even the fake versions that I once knew.

I deftly change the topic to something more positive while I ruminate over her. She does most of the talking now and is quite animated. From her words I deduce that she’s not infected with the disease of money-madness like so many people are. She has that sweetness that I find alluring, but I’ve grown enough in the last years to know to avoid that kryptonite. Tiny Russian is a good, decent person who doesn’t want much from life. She doesn’t aspire to have the farmhouse in Tuscany and be draped in labels like her compatriot, the Russian MILF, does. If it wasn’t for her baggage then she is the type of person that I can have a loving relationship with. However, she isn’t The One.

The droplets of coffee left in our cups are cold as I check my watch. I have a lunchtime date with Busty Blonde next. Tiny Russian spots me checking my watch.

“You need to go?” she purrs.

I get the impression that she wants me to stay, to talk some more, but I know that there’s no point.

“Sadly, yes. I’m meeting a friend for lunch,” I say, wincing as I know that I’m a bad liar. I think she’s smart enough to know what kind of friend I’m referring to.

“Okay. I understand,” she says.

“What are you going to do the rest of today?” I ask as we stand up. The difference in height would always make people stare at us.

“I’m going home to prepare for my court date with my ex-husband this Tuesday,” she replies with a pained smile.

I feel so sorry for her. She is one of life’s innocents, a gentle creature who must find all this such an insufferable burden. Where are her domineering parents now? Their ill-conceived notion could never turn out well. I suppose desperate people are prone to doing desperate things.

“May I escort you to your car?” I offer.

“I like that. You’re such a gentleman,” she says with a coy smile.

There’s that playful little imp that I read of in her profile. I feel the need to end this date on as positive a note as I can. It’s the least I can do for her. When last did someone say or do something nice for her? She deserves it. I recently saw a cartoon on Facebook that said, “The woman who asks for nothing, deserves everything.” I think this applies to her.

I chaperone the Tiny Russian to her car which is parked near mine. Her car is an old, small runabout that is the signature vehicle of mothers doing the school run. It’s a life and a world far removed from my simple, selfish existence.

“I guess this is goodbye then,” I say.

The Tiny Russian takes a step back onto a kerb-stone so that she’s a few inches taller. We both smile. She’s so cute and in that moment she reminds me of some of the better moments I shared with Baltic Babe. Her acquired troubles and weight of responsibility disappears and she seems like a little girl again, wanting a boy to kiss her for the very first time. It’s a feeling I like.

I step forward wanting to kiss her cheeks, stoop down toward a cheek, but Tiny Russian ambushes me and latches her lips onto mine. I’m caught by surprise but relax and enjoy our kiss. She’s standing on tippy-toes and her hands are holding onto the lapels of my jacket. I raise my hands and can’t help but put them on her delicate ribcage. God, she feels so fragile. Our lips entwine nicely and she makes a sound of approval. I take that as my cue to withdraw.

For a few warm seconds we stand under the Winter sun, blinking at each other. That was a nice kiss. Before one of us says or does something we later regret I step back and open her car door for her. Without a word she gets in, buckles up, smiles at me, reverses out the bay, gives me a cheery wave and drives off.

What a wonderful little person. I wish her all the strength and luck in the world. If I was religious I’d say a little prayer for her. She’s on her own here, battling an embittered, spiteful man while trying to do her best for her child. A younger me, the White Knight, would scoop her up in my arms and do whatever it takes to make her world right. However, the current me, the Grey Knight, is cynically leaving her to her own battles because I have to do what is right for me. We are both alone having to find our way through our boulevard of broken dreams.

I get in my car, take a moment to shrug off what I’ve just experienced and start thinking about my next date in an hour with Busty Blonde.

Green Day – Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Date #42 – The Russian MILF

Mother I’d Like to Fuck = MILF. That’s not a term I’m fond of, but I do appreciate the concept. A stunning blonde on OKCupid is suddenly a high match and I’m intrigued by her profile. She says she’s 45 years old, but she looks 25. My experiences with women using old photos causes me to discount her attractiveness. She writes of her longing for a true love and her zest for life shines through in her profile. Her love of travel resonates with me and causes my dusty passport to wriggle. The only blemish on the landscape for me is that she has a child, but her photos show him to be a young man so that shouldn’t be an issue.

I fire off a cute approach email and she responds within hours. Her response is much longer than my message and I take that as a positive sign because I’ve learned that if a response is long in coming and especially is short, it means that she has loads of emails to deal with and I have much competition. If the response is wordy it means that she’s keen to meet me.

A quick Google image search leads me to her name which enables me to find her Facebook profile. Some people might find this precaution a little creepy or stalkerish, but in online dating it’s a necessity to prevent yourself from wasting your time, money and emotional capital. It turns out her photos are very recent and she is stunning, one of Nature’s freaks, a very youthful looking middle-aged woman. Blonde hair, blue eyes, milky-white skin, good figure, pretty face, albeit a little on the short side for me…now that’s a mother I’d like to fuck.

After just two emails each she suggests that we meet in central London after work on a week-night. I like her positivity.

Could she be The One?

I think and write the above words yet again and I’m starting to feel like an obedient dog tethered to a lamppost outside a grocery store who expectantly stands up every time someone comes out the exit, but having to sit down again, swallowing disappointment.

I have an additional reason for wanting to meet this woman: she’s Russian. I’ve decided to write a blog about my dating experiences. My target reader is me, when I was 21 years old. I wish someone had told me all the things I’ve had to learn in recent years. It would have been nice to have had a father or older brother clue me into the realities of women, dating, sex, love and relationships, but I didn’t. I’m hoping that my stories and ideas find a home in the hearts and minds of young men who are smart enough to learn from someone else’s mistakes. If in the process I entertain or inform other readers then that’s great too. Will they spread the word about my blog? Time will tell. If by some minor miracle it leads to a book deal, a television series and then a Hollywood movie, well, that would be great too. I’ll gladly accept the money, but they can keep the fame. I digress…

I’ve been writing about Baltic Babe for my blog and find myself wondering if she was that special. The Russian MILF is partly an attempt to find out is she was. Are there going to be common behaviour traits that make me go mushy inside while maintaining the most manly of exteriors? In deciding that I’m more likely to find true love with a woman from Eastern Europe I’m taking this date very seriously, not just because of the remnants of a hankering for Baltic Babe.

It’s a cold Thursday evening a matter of days after 2014 has begun and I’m early for my date with The Russian MILF. I find myself sitting in a Starbucks coffee shop in the fashionable King’s Road in central London. I take the opportunity to send text messages to Busty Blonde and Travel Gal; got to keep the pot boiling with them. While trying to keep warm I see that I’m surrounded by groups of stunning, young women who look like models. They’re all tall with long hair, expressive eyes, pronounced cheekbones and are skinnier than their lattes. A strange place for sexy, young things to congregate. Maybe this is the part of London where I find Her?

At the appointed time I make my way to the darkened entrance to the Saatchi gallery where The Russian MILF suggested that we meet. After a minute I get a text message from her that she’s running a few minutes late. I decide to stand and wait, although it’s close to zero centigrade. A quarter of an hour later a short, shadowy figure approaches me. I decide that it must be The Russian MILF so I step out into the light.

It is The Russian MILF and she is as stunning as her photos lead me to believe. How nice to have a date who actually looks like her pictures. I don’t know what she makes of me because the moment our eyes met she stopped dead in her tracks. If this was one of my early dates then her sudden reaction would have caused me to think that she didn’t like the look of me. I might have wondered if she was about to spin around on her knee-high boots and walk off. I would have thought that because I’d never thought much of my looks. I considered myself at best average looking.

OKCupid has a handy facility hidden away on the site where you can submit photos of yourself and, for a day, total random strangers from all over the planet rate your appearance. You can specify which gender rates you, so I obviously said women only. I found this a daunting thing to do, but I did so wanting to have a clearer understanding of how others perceive me. You can submit batches of photos and usually one of them will rate better than others, so the best pictures I’ve used on my dating profiles. What surprised me is that none of my pictures rated lower than a 7 out of 10 and the average photo was rated a respectable 8. This lead me to improve my own self-image that for all my life was one of being a freckly, gap-toothed teenager. I think we’re all guilty of believing the things we tell ourselves, no matter how self-limiting or counter-productive. We cherish these notions, not realising that they’re holding us back. Online dating has freed me from a false, out-dated self-image.

I’m better looking than I’ve given myself credit for, so The Russian MILF’s reaction I won’t assume is for negative reasons. I stoop down and kiss her hello on each cheek, but I can’t feel much with my lips because they’re so cold from standing outside as long as I have.

“So where would you like to have dinner?” I ask.

“Right there,” she says, pointing towards a fancy-looking Italian restaurant that is lodged against the side of the imposing gallery.

“It’s my favourite restaurant in London,” she adds as we walk towards it.

She is shorter than I expected and I find myself wondering if we make for an odd couple given the discrepancy in height. Sex with a smaller woman has always been good fun. Sex?! Yes, I’d love to take her to bed. Physical attraction to her was almost instantaneous.

We find a quiet table in the restaurant which is filled with kookily-dressed people from the art world having a raucous time. Drop-dead gorgeous models across the road in the Starbucks, label-wearing oddballs in here. Is there a convention of some kind happening here? No, this is how it is in this part of London. Pretentious people trying to impress other pretentious people they can’t stand. Not my scene, but it seems to be The Russian MILF’s. I think you can tell a lot about someone from the restaurants that they frequent. Hmm…

“Do you work nearby?” I ask. Always a good conversation starter that question.

“No. I work on the East side of London,” she answers.

That’s why she was late, but why make that effort?

“I guess you must really like this restaurant?” I ask.

“Yes. I love the food here. It’s always good,” she says as she buries her nose in the menu.

I look at the menu and see that even the starters are £10 a plate. The main courses start at double that. This is going to be an expensive evening. Is this why she quickly suggested meeting here? She wants a free meal from this restaurant? Hmm…

A waiter arrives to take our order. That’s when it started. The Russian MILF wanted to know the ins and outs about almost every dish on the menu. The poor chap had to leave us several times to go find out about a dish that she was considering having. Does it really matter what kind of vinegar the asparagus is daubed in?!

It was after the fourth time when he had to disappear into the kitchen to talk to the chef that I remembered something. Pay attention to how a woman treats people who serve her, people who are powerless before her, because that will give you an idea what a relationship with her will be like. The Russian MILF was showing herself to be high-maintenance.

Food was ordered after a quarter of an hour of explanation and fact-finding. I have never experienced such a labourious fuss over food before. I’m unimpressed, but I’m reminded of a time with Baltic Babe when she made a Polish waitresses’ life hell too.

“I see from your profile that we share a love of travel. Where’s your favourite place?”

“Oh, I absolutely love Italy. In fact, last week I got back from there having bought a farmhouse in Tuscany,” she says excitedly with a hint of a Russian purr that I find so sexy.

Hmm, so she has money of her own. Good. She can pay for half the meal tonight.

Conversation rolled around as I tried to keep things as positive as I knew how. Eventually it became serious and she started telling me her life-story. Her first love got her pregnant and shortly after they were married he died from a congenital disease. Wanting a better life for herself and her child she decided to leave Russia. After series of adventures and close calls in countries along the way to England she arrived on this sceptred isle a young woman with a toddler on her hip. She worked illegally as a cleaning lady in a London train station because her English wasn’t good enough for better work. Her precarious visa situation severely limited her options. She worked hard, took her chances and today had a high-paying job in a promising industry. I admired her tenacity, daring-do and drive. She reminded me of a younger me. I’m sure that there is a bigger story, probably with some ugly bits to it, especially to do with legalising herself and her child, but this being a first date I wasn’t going to pry.

We compared notes about our lives as immigrants in the U.K. and there were many similarities. However, it became obvious to me that our expectations of the future were very different. Love was not her highest priority, whereas it was mine. Understandably financial security is what she craved most. Her son was a young man finding his way in the world and as such was making mistakes that were an emotional toll on his mother. A man will always be in second place in a mother’s heart; her children will always come first. It’s totally in keeping with Nature’s Grand Conspiracy…and I don’t like it. I want to be the one and only in my woman’s heart. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t want children: I want Her all to myself. It’s one of the reasons why I have avoided dating single mothers.

After a couple of hours our main courses were finished, but The Russian MILF was still hungry and she ordered another over-priced side-dish. The food was quite ordinary and not worth even half the price. My understanding of her culture was that status, prestige and impression counted for more than substance. I couldn’t care less what other people thought; I’m my own man. Were are at opposite ends of the spectrum in this regard.

The Russian MILF made an ambiguous comment that had a sexual innuendo to it. Ah, we’ve arrived at the point when a woman feels comfortable enough to indicate her sexual interest in me, if it exists. I made a sexually laden reply, thinking we were getting playful now.

“Whaat?! What do you mean by that?!” she exclaims, obviously annoyed by my remark.

Shit, I’ve got it all wrong. Better apologize and backtrack.

“I’m sorry, but I misunderstood what you were saying. I do apologize,” I say.

“Good, because I didn’t like what you said,” she chides.

In that moment she reminded me of Baltic Babe. When annoyed by something, no matter how small, the cool demeanour instantly evaporates and is replaced by a demon spitting venom. Is this an Eastern European cultural trait?

I moved banter along and we enjoyed a very ordinary dessert. However, conversation between us wasn’t the same after that incident and I couldn’t see how to rescue the situation. Was there any point in doing so? I decided that the answer is “no” and asked the waiter for the bill. When it arrived The Russian MILF excused herself and went to the ladies.

I pulled my wallet out and paid the £100-plus bill. I think the waiter deserved his tip. I wasn’t too impressed with her manoeuvre to avoid paying for the bill. Was she punishing me for the spat? Or is this how she operates, getting men to buy her meals at this place? It didn’t really matter, I know she’s not The One.

The Russian MILF returns and I help her put her coat on. As we’re leaving the restaurant she makes a point of thanking me for the meal. I appreciate her manners but feel that it was money wasted. Was it an evening wasted? No, I got some reminders of Baltic Babe and got to see that she wasn’t so unique as I had always thought. The chemistry we shared was unique though.

It’s below freezing outside and the streets are deserted. I escort The Russian MILF to the nearest Tube station where we both have to catch a train to get us elsewhere. We sit side by side making small-talk until I have to get off first. I give her a polite kiss on a cheek to which she smiles and just says, “Goodnight”.

It was an interesting evening, but not what I was expecting. We didn’t really have any kind of chemistry between us. I do feel that I was led up the proverbial garden path when it came to the choice of restaurant. She is definitely a materialist and therefore we would never get along.

I would much have preferred to have spent the evening with Busty Blonde or Travel Gal. However, there is the little matter of meeting another Russian MILF in two day’s time. It’s going to be a busy Saturday because I’m seeing all three of them on the same day.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Baltic Babe was not that special 2) Easter European women are materialistic, more so than other cultures 3) Beware women who use dating as a way to a free meal; I need to control the choice of venue better 4) I need to get into the habit of letting a woman pay for her half of the meal if I have no interest in seeing her again.

Madonna – Material Girl

Travel Gal surprises – Final part

It takes less than thirty seconds for Travel Gal to be lying on my sofa, her jeans and panties thrown to one side and I’m licking her clit. Her jumper I tossed aside and it landed near the dog which made him open his eyes and wriggle his eyebrows before resuming his slumber. Her blouse is unbuttoned and open, her bra is pushed up under chin. Travel Gal’s breasts are surprisingly large, as are her brown nipples. She’s put her hands behind her head, as if she’s about to do some sit-ups while her eyes are closed. Her minge is neatly trimmed in a Brazilian style so it’s easy for me to get to her clit with my tongue. Her pussy is moist as I slide a finger in there.

Good gracious, her pussy is cavernous. I can easily fit two fingers in. Has she been fucked recently? Did she have some fun on her business trip? Is she seeing someone else? Is she safe to fuck without a condom? These are the thoughts that race through my head as I slide a second finger into her vagina. I can easily cross these fingers inside this pussy, it’s that spacious.

With my fingers crossed as in the hoping for luck gesture I swivel them around in her while I lick and suck her clit. Her g-spot swells and with a bit of help from my fingers there she cums with an almighty squeal which makes the dog almost bump his head on the underneath of the table. Her wonderful breasts wobble like mounds of jelly as she shudders from the climax which lasts for almost ten seconds. Hmm, maybe she hasn’t been fucked lately. That orgasm has been stored up for quite some time.

I let go of everything and cuddle up beside her. Women’s clits become too sensitive to touch after an orgasm and many women feel a bit vulnerable so they feel the need for a cuddle. I’ve never been sure about what to say in this moment so I always just keep quiet and let the woman enjoy the moment.

“Wow, that was incredible. Where did you learn to do that? Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” she finally says.

While her motor is still running is the time to get a woman to do what I want; that’s something else I’ve learned. I stand up in front of her, an unspoken invitation for her to undress me. She gets me hint and sits up on the sofa to start stripping me. As she does so I take the opportunity to grab hold of one of her breasts which feels perfect to the touch. They rival Krazy Girl’s boobs in the perfection stakes and I’m mindful of the fact that Travel Gal is almost fifteen years older. Age does not prohibit sexiness.

“You’ve kept these well hidden,” I say.

“I’ve learned to. I don’t like people staring at them. Some women can be very jealous,” she replies as she unbuckles my belt and drops my jeans to the ground.

Now I’m standing in just my underpants and socks. I’m expecting her to tell me to take my socks off before she drops my jocks and starts playing with my cock. I’m sporting a massive erection now and the tip of my penis is sticking out of the top of my undies. Surely she can see how big it is and now wants to see it and play with it? How will she look with my cock in her mouth? Does she know how to give a decent blowjob? I bet she does.

Travel Gal runs her hands up and down my body, feeling my muscles, slowly working her way down to my waist. Ah, she’s taking her time about it; she likes to build the anticipation. Oh, here we go, she’s just put her hands on my underpants. My cock is going to spring free. What will her reaction be? Will she stop for a second to have a good look at it, like so many other women have? Will she pull the foreskin back and lick the tip first, like most women have done? Or will she just close her eyes and take it in her mouth, first sucking slowly before building to a frenzy?

“No, he can stay right there,” she says, patting my hips before pushing herself back onto the sofa.

What the fuck?! What the hell’s going on here? No woman has refused to pull my cock out before. I don’t understand what’s happening, but I’m not going to say anything. Maybe she’s now feeling guilty and remorseful about what has just happened between us and is trying to reclaim some dignity. If that’s the case then I need to slow things down before speeding them up again. I’m turned on and want to cum too. Maybe she needs more coaxing of the orgasmic kind?

I reach down and grip her heels, pull her legs up towards me and splay her legs open on the footstool in front of the sofa. Again I get down to give her some finger-licking that a fast food chain didn’t think of when they came up with their slogan. Again it doesn’t take too long before she has a squealing orgasm. I was expecting it to take much longer, but as my first time with Tech Titan and some other women has taught me, if a woman hasn’t had it in a while then when it can cum out, it does so in a flood.

I am intrigued by her sit-ups-ready pose, as if she’s also trying to hide her face. Is she one of those people who finds sex shameful, a by-product of an overly-religious upbringing? She keeps her eyes closed the whole time, as if she’s in denial. I find myself wondering if I have another Teacher Gal on my hands (literally) who has issues about sex?

Once again I cuddle with her before standing up in front of her, now almost demanding my own satisfaction. I’m getting a little frustrated and impatient. My balls are on fire. My baby-batter wants to breathe.

“Don’t you want to play with him?” I ask, pointing to my penis, thinking she needs a little help getting over the line.

“No, not today,” she answers.

In less than a second my rock-hard erection goes limp and flaccid. What…The…Fuck?!

Okay, this is new. I decide to relax. I can’t force her to do something that she doesn’t want to do. I lie down next to her, trying my hardest to hide my displeasure. What kind of woman lets a man get all turned on and then spurns him?

Just then I notice that her dog is looking as us; his face serious. Her last climax must have woken him. His eyes dart from me to her. Is he annoyed about being woken up? Does he think I’m attacking her and her needs to defend her? Does he want to join in?

“Have you ever let him lick your pussy?” I ask her.

To this day I do not know where that question came from.

“No. I’ve never even done it in front of him,” she says.

Her tone of voice must soothe him as the dog drops his jaw to the floor, puffs his cheeks once and goes back to sleep. I notice that he’s been shedding a lot of his black hair on my cream carpet. That’s going to take some time to clean up.

Travel Gal and I lie wrapped up under a throw, watching more Californication. The worlds’ greatest marital aid prevents me from saying something I might regret. I sit there trying to figure out what her issue is. I don’t want to seem clingy and insecure, so I decide not to ask. There’s no rush after all. I wasn’t wanting things to be like this today anyway, but here we are. Just have to make the best of it.

A couple of hours go by before even I think it’s time she head back to her part of the country. It’s no surprise to me when she says, “I have to work tomorrow, so I need to get going, I’m afraid.”

“No problem. I understand,” is the best I can say. I wasn’t expecting her to spend the night.

“Thank you for everything. Next weekend at mine?” she proffers.

“Yes, it’s a plan,” I instantly say, without thinking.

Travel Gal gets dressed, wakes the dog and I help her put the leather coat on. I walk her to her car and we enjoy a sweet, lingering kiss before she and her faithful companion disappear into the dark of the world.

Why did that just happen? I’ve heard it said that Xmas and New Year’s makes people do things that they ordinarily wouldn’t. I don’t think that that’s the case here. I’m in a particular frame of mind that some might call confused and others desperate. I call it ‘transition’. Maybe she is too? Whatever she’s thinking and feeling I want to find out.

Dan Fogelberg – Same Old Lang Syne

Travel Gal surprises

It’s a few days after Christmas and Travel Gal is passing my town on the way back from visiting family so she offers to visit me. At first I’m not too keen on the idea because I don’t want her seeing my place so soon. In the past other women’s opinions and behaviour has changed for the worse. As we speak about it on the phone I’m unable to think of a good enough reason to put her off so I agree to her visit. Only after we say goodbye does it dawn on me that she’ll also be arriving with her dog who is always by her side. My place is neither pet- nor child-friendly, but what can I do?

It’s a cold, dreary Sunday when Travel Gal arrives at my apartment complex. I go down to meet her in the car park where we I kiss her hello on the cheek. She seems happy to see me but has other matters on her mind.

“I don’t suppose your place has space for a dog?” she asks, gesturing towards her companion who is sitting imperiously, staring at us with impatient eyes.

“Of course there’s space. Let’s go up,” I say while hiding my reservations.

I couldn’t say that he stay in the car all day while it’s so cold. Maltreatment of animals is something that gets me angry very quickly. There’s never been an animal in my apartment so this could get interesting. Just how interesting the rest of the day will be I don’t know. I’ve not really come up with a plan or objective for this date other than to cook for her, make small talk, get to know her better, perhaps take the dog for a walk if it isn’t raining or snowing and, if it seems appropriate, introduce her to Californication.

The black lab strides into my apartment, sniffs a round for a few seconds and throws himself down under a coffee table and goes to sleep. That was easy and Travel Gal relaxes too. I take her leather coat and hat and stow them away where Krazy Girl liked to keep her stuff.

The lunch I make for her is essentially the same collection of exotic meats that I’ve made for other women, but she’s had it all before courtesy of her job. Nevertheless she enjoys it and I’ve learned that almost all women are impressed by a man who can cook. We finish off a bottle of chenin blanc over lunch and I realise that she’s not intending leaving any time soon because she’s had too much to legally drive.

After a dessert of butterscotch pudding Travel Gal suggests that we go for a walk, which I take to mean that her dog needs exercise too. We wander around my town and it’s such a grim day that we don’t see anybody. The dog does his business in the nearest park and it’s only as we’re leaving that I spot a sign saying that owners have to clean up after their pets. I say nothing and hurry us along.

As we walk and talk about her familiarisation trip of recent weeks I notice her wrinkles less and less. Her way of speaking that initially grated has bothered me less too as the day has progressed. More than anything I see her cheery smile and mesmerising blue eyes. Her jeans and thick woolly jumper hint at a good body that was hidden on our first date. Do I find her physically attractive? Yes. Can I imagine myself having sex with her? Yes.

Back at my place the pooch resumes his place and, not knowing what I should do next, I resort to putting Californication on. Pretty much like any other woman who has sat by my side watching the first two episodes Travel Gal is amused and can’t stop smiling. Okay, so she has a naughty sense of humour; that’s good.

Normally at this point I would make my move; the seduction would begin. Within minutes a woman would be naked on my sofa while I would be fully clothed. Today, however, I’m in no hurry. I want to take things a little slower with women. The fury in my loins has led me into trouble at times.

I offer to make Travel Gal a coffee, which she accepts and I go to the kitchen. After switching the kettle on I turn to talk to her, thinking her to still be in the lounge, but she’s followed me and is standing in the kitchen. She leaning back against a wall, her hands behind her back and acting as support for her backside. Her one foot is propped against the skirting board and her breasts are pushed out towards me. She’s smiling at me. Fuck, that’s a sexy pose.

Her eyes are saying “come hither” and I decide that a little kiss can’t hurt. I’ll give her one of my soft, gentle kisses and see what effect that has on her. Without a word I walk over to her, keeping my eyes on hers, I place my hands on her hips. She says nothing and just keeps smiling at me. I slide my hands behind her hips and hold her wrists. I lean slightly forward, deliberately stopping short of her mouth, wanting and waiting for her to come that little bit towards me, which she does.

Our lips touch and Travel Gal makes a sound of approval. Has she been looking forward to this? I read somewhere that most women love being forced up against a wall and then having a man lean his weight against her. I’ve never really thought about that and here’s the perfect opportunity to see if it’s true, albeit with a sample of one.

Travel Gal pushes her tongue into my mouth and in that moment I’m taken back to when I was seventeen years old and my high school sweetheart was the first girl to French kiss me. Back then it was such a shock that I lost my balance, toppled us over into a seat and I stubbed a fingernail that turned black the next day. Today I don’t have that reaction any more; it might be something of a passion-killer if I did. Now I accept it as something that almost all women like to do when kissing. They generally don’t seem to like it if a guy does it first, but if they do it first then it’s a turn-on for them. I’ve learned to not initiate and to only reciprocate once they’ve started doing that. It seems to me that a woman will only do so once she’s getting turned on.

So now Travel Gal is turned on. What do I do? Stop matters as tactfully as I can before she’s naked and spreading her legs for me on my sofa? My other dating experiences have taught me that when a woman wants a man to take her and he doesn’t do so, his chance is pretty much lost because she won’t risk being rejected a second time.

I’ve read enough profiles on OKCupid to have arrived at a conclusion about when the time is right for a couple to get physical. It appears that 90% of women want to get intimate within three to six dates with a guy. I was astonished when I realized this and went reading profiles just for the sake of verifying the answer to the question that indicates this. It’s a skewed distribution curve and there are equal outliers who expect it sooner as there are women who want to wait longer. This falls under ‘Another Myth About Women Destroyed’, in that the chaste virgin is a rarity and the truth is that women are more eager sexual beings than most men have been brought up to believe.

One kiss leads to another and I decide to let my hands do the wandering. Travel Gal maintains her pose against the wall as I glide a hand over her body. It’s a surprise to me to feel that she has large breasts, something her clothing has kept well hidden. Naughtily I slide my hand between her legs, deliberately touching her vagina and she lets off a gasp of pleasure. I think she’s ready to fuck; no turning back now.

I force my hand under her jumper and blouse, push it up towards her breasts where I grip a pleasant mound of mammary while we continue to kiss. Squeezing her breast leads to her giving off a little giggle which I take as a sign that she’s not going to resist me in any way. My hand finds her bra clasp and I loosen it with a single movement, a trick I’ve learned in the past year. I return my hand to the nearest breast and she lets off an ‘ughh’ sound as my warm hand takes hold of a cold breast. Damn, these are a nice surprise. I want to see them now.

To be continued…