Brazilian adeus

After fantastic sex on Saturday we indulged in pillow talk during which The Brazilian hinted that she has a fear of commitment. It stemmed from her childhood and her parent’s unhappy marriage. That’s not too unusual as I’ve met several woman on my dates with similar stories, but I want to proceed with caution and my eyes wide open. I realize that I don’t really know much about her history, so on Monday I decide to go digging. We keep repeating our history until we learn from it.

I found The Brazilian’s Facebook page and saw that her favourite male character from ‘Sex and the City’ (her treasured show) was Aidan. Strangely, that’s my second name. I read up on this character and other than him making furniture and having a kid, I am Aidan in character but less of a doormat. It’s freaky.

She listed on Facebook her two favourite movies as being ‘Out of Africa’ and ‘The Way We Were’. The stories both end in a similar fashion: the relationships fail and the woman is left feeling abandoned. I find that quite telling and take it as something of a red flag. However, I notice something about both storylines: the protagonists are separated for a while before being re-united and their romance resumes before ultimately failing.

Is this her style of relationship? Is this what she likes doing to men? Is this why she asked me on our second date what my favourite type of movie ending is?

When it got to that time of night when Busty Blonde and I would talk on the phone, a little part of me would dread it and then be relieved when the call was over. With The Brazilian I can’t wait to call her; I feel like a pimple-faced teenager all over again. I can’t wait to hear her voice, but I don’t know what we’ll talk about and I don’t really care. We’ll start off with “Hello…” and take it from there.

I have to draw on all the skills that I’ve acquired over the past two years in order to keep The Brazilian. She’s a massive challenge because of her commitment fear, something I can really do without, but hopefully it’s temporary. I don’t want it to become the focus of our relationship; I want mutual love and respect to be our axis.

I phoned her on Monday night, we had a pleasant enough chat – well, it was her venting about a bad customer mostly. I spoke to her about the Farnborough Air Show, something I had mentioned the previous day and her response seemed lukewarm at best. I then asked about getting together the coming weekend. Her response was, “Well, I’ve been invited to a birthday party on the Saturday night, so I’ll probably go to that. I’ve also been invited to a kiddies birthday party on the Sunday. I usually don’t go to those, but this one I might.”

This kiddies party was different because a customer who had stopped doing business was going to be there and The Brazilian wanted this person to feel awkward. Now if she would rather do that than see me, then that tells me loads; she’s vindictive and can be confrontational. She also doesn’t know who or what is good for her. It also tells me that I’m not a high priority. Of course I’m accepting at face value that she’s telling me the truth. Ah, my good ol’ trust demon furrows his hairy brow, his dark eyes glow as he grips the bars of his cage and starts tugging at them…

“Okay, no problem, “ I say. Of course it was a problem. I want to see her again but I get the impression from her words and their tone that she isn’t exactly chomping at the bit to see me again. I’m making that old mistake of getting too invested in a woman I liked too quickly. Old habits die hard, but I can’t help getting carried away like an excited little boy on Xmas eve. I know what I want and I want it as quickly as possible. Seen logically, the prudent thing to do is to re-activate my dating profiles and keep my options open. That way I don’t allow myself to become too attached too soon which might spook her and result in pain for me.

I ended the call on Monday night saying that it was her turn to call me. Let’s see how long it takes before she calls me. I’m going to give her time and space to miss me. I won’t initiate any kind of communication on Tuesday. If I don’t hear from her at all on Tuesday, then late that night I’ll go on to the dating sites where I switched my profiles off last week and start creating options. I use that word ‘option’ because that is exactly how I’m starting to feel to her.

I would love to have the chance to say to her, “Isn’t time you let go of an idea you told yourself to believe a long time ago when you were a little girl? We all hold on to ideas that actually hold us back from getting what we want. Your ideas about commitment are wrong and redundant. They have not served you well. Don’t you think it’s time to leave them behind and move onto something more useful?”

Tuesday and I’m writing about Krazy Girl for my blog. A part of me is becoming very aware of the similarities between Krazy Girl and The Brazilian: coming on all fiery and excited in the beginning then suddenly blowing cold and then disappearing. Is the excellent sex impairing my judgement again? I’m struck by another similarity between the two in that Krazy Girl went to great pains to keep my existence secret and, although it’s only been ten days with The Brazilian, she told me that she has informed nobody of my existence too. I need to proceed slowly and with caution, not just to avoid scaring her off, but to protect myself.

I go on to Tinder to re-read my messages with The Brazilian, looking for clues and see that she was active on it 3 days ago and had removed one photo and replaced it with another. Why do that if you think you’ve met somebody? You wouldn’t. I have to accept that her fear of commitment is a massive problem and that I should start taking steps to protect myself from possible harm. I’ll cool it with her, let her do more of the running by way of initiating contact and see what happens.

It dawned on me today that so far she has not said anything or done anything that indicates that she’s interested in a relationship. Over the course of the day there was absolutely no contact between us. I was determined to not initiate communication. She can make an effort too.

Relationships and effort.
Relationships and effort.

I’m wondering if she was unimpressed by my place. It didn’t fit in with her expectation. Most women have an idea that they generate in their own heads about what a guy’s place will be like, because it’s part and parcel with their fantasy of the perfect man coming along out of nowhere and, of course, he’s rich too. It’s a great fantasy and most women buy into it and many live their lives according to it. My place is basic, it’s not fancy or flash in any way. Has it done it’s job of warding off another gold-digger?

Late on Tuesday night, during the World Cup game in which Brazil was losing five nil at half-time to Germany, she sent me a Whatsapp message that said, “You do know that I’m half German?” I left it a few minutes and responded with “Call me.” She didn’t call.

I remember her saying that she wants an easygoing, drama-free relationship. I took that to mean that she has only known the opposite of this. I now see that she is the cause of the drama. This hot-cold treatment I’ve seen before and I don’t like it. I’m too old for silly fucking games.

I’m starting to think her primary interest in me is sexual. Anything else is just noise. So be it; as long as I know the score. I won’t go getting my hopes up; the likelihood of disappointment is high. A pity, because I really like her.

Wednesday and I’ve seen that she’s been active on Whatsapp over the course of the day when I’ve gone on it to chat with friends. Yes, I would check when last she had logged on too and it was as often as me at a minimum. So, no real communication in two days. I’m feeling angry and I go onto Tinder, reactivate it and get a match within minutes and started swapping messages. I go on to a few of my trusted free dating sites and reactivate my profiles. I write to two new women on PoF.

I’ve started to subscribe to the expression that people come into our lives for a reason, a season or a lifetime. My instincts now tell me that it is going to just be the first reason with The Brazilian. The fact that she had not lived with a boyfriend since 2002, when she was 26, I should have taken as a massive red flag. She clearly has issues about commitment and relationships because I think it’s only natural to want to live with somebody if you love them.

The Brazilian’s obviously not relationship material. Does she revel in self-sabotage so that she can get her kicks out of feeling scorned? How many men has she done this to and how many more will experience this?

How many more women like her will I encounter? What percentage of women are like her? The mistake was obviously mine in that I still emotionally believe that having sex with someone is an act of commitment. I should know better by now. I have an increased need to want to visit a STD clinic now.

Thursday and I resolve that if I do hear from her again, I’ll wait that amount of time to get back to her. I’ve been so bothered by her behaviour, the blowing hot then cold, that I’ve done some research on the internet about it. The common advice is to leave her be, then only contact her as often as she contacts me. An interesting article contended that physical attraction has a very short use-by date and should best be exploited as quickly as possible.

However, I have to face facts. Nobody’s that busy that they can’t call or text me. She’s just not that into me. The way I feel about her now is largely disappointment. I’m also feeling a little foolish in myself. Connecting with someone on Tinder seems to be just about the sex. If I never hear from her again I won’t be too surprised or disappointed. I shouldn’t have got my hopes up like I did. Stupid Boy. Stupid, stupid boy…

Friday drifts by and I don’t look at anything involving The Brazilian. Swapping messages with other prospects feels tedious; I’ve had the wind knocked out of my sails. On Saturday morning, out of boredom and frustration, I go on to Tinder to see who was out there. I flick over to The Brazilian’s profile to see that she had logged on at 11pm the previous night.

Monday night and to my great surprise The Brazilian phones me at 9.30pm. She tells me that a troublesome customer had really upset her the previous week and she was having sleepless nights because of it. To boot she also had a cold and spent most of Saturday sleeping, not going to her friend’s party on the Saturday night nor the kiddies birthday party on the Sunday. The conversation was mostly her venting about her bad customer and unthinking staff. I found it boring, but had mastered the art of saying “uh-huh” with other women many years ago. She seemed still keen to go to the Farnborough Air Show on the coming weekend. The conversation ended after an hour – our longest chat via phone yet – with her saying twice, “We’ll speak soon, yes?”

I was pleased to hear from her and very surprised because I thought she was lost to me. I’m sure that there’s lots that she’s not telling me. I think this period of silence between us will do me a lot of good. I am looking forward to seeing her again.

I think I’ll surprise her with my red sports car and then we’ll have a nice barbecue with my friends. Depending on the weather we’ll either see the airshow on the Saturday or the Sunday. I hope it’s the former because I’ll then have an excuse to sleep over. I don’t expect sex, but it would be nice to feel her fall asleep in my arms.

If my reading of the situation is correct, then her phoning me was a massive act of commitment on her part. The way she said “speak soon”, the almost pleading tone, which surprised me, is a sign that she really wants to see more of me. I’m very happy to oblige. I’m already thinking of taking her to the Bristol Balloon Festival.

I didn’t phone her on the Tuesday as I didn’t want to seem too keen again, but besides that, there was little new to discuss. On the Wednesday night I spoke to my friend about the upcoming Farnborough Air Show and the weather forecast is rainy, except for the Sunday afternoon. I called The Brazilian at 8.15pm and ended up leaving a voice message. I then sent her a Whatsapp message just to make sure. Then I realised it was a Wednesday night, it’s when she seems to disappear. Peter Sarstedt said it best, “Where do you go to my lovely?”

I saw on Whatsapp that she logged on at 10.15pm and saw my message. I was tempted to phone her, not expecting her to answer because I would probably hear train noise in the background or a restaurant scene. My trust demon insists that she was on a date with another guy.

I now don’t trust The Brazilian at all. This is going to fizzle out quickly so I need to make the most of what’s on offer. If I do get to spend a night with her again, I’m going to slip on a condom and fuck her in the arse because that’s all she’s showing herself to be good for. If I’m really lucky and naughty, I might film this with my phone as a keepsake. I didn’t get to do that with Krazy Girl and so badly would have loved to have a video of me fucking her.

The similarity of this situation is not lost on me. Sweet Thing was followed by Krazy Girl, almost two identical sets of relationship styles – submissive and compliant followed by unavailable and difficult. Is Life playing games with me too? Is there something that I’m being shown for a second time for a reason? Is there a vital life-lesson somewhere in all of this that I’m missing?

On Thursday The Brazilian sends me a message on Whatsapp saying that she had developed tonsillitis and that it is very contagious so we won’t be going anywhere on the weekend. I texted her back asking if she would like any company over the weekend. No response for several hours. Then it dawned on me; she’s not interested in me. All the silence, the excuses were just her way of trying to brush me off. I know what a woman is like when she is interested in me and this isn’t it. I feel like an unwanted puppet on the end of her string.

I send her this Whatsapp message: “Sorry, I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake…message understood…you won’t be hearing from me again…good luck and goodbye.

It is the shortest and most brutal message of its kind I’ve ever sent, but it reflects my mood. I feel cold and numb inside, a familiar numbness that was starting to feel like an old acquaintance that will never be a friend.

Alone again…

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) It is now a fact to me that only by the end of the third date will you know if there will be a relationship. If there’s any doubt, then there’s no doubt. 2) We all have our own relationship style and for some people it is a negative one. 3) Tinder appears to be a hook-up app for people only interested in sex.

For anyone who is experiencing this hot/cold behaviour from someone then the following article will help:

Barbra Streisand – Memories (from ‘The Way We Were’)

Sweaty third date

It’s Saturday afternoon as I meet The Brazilian at my town’s station. I’m uncertain about how today will turn out. We kiss politely, I shoulder her bag and then we walk to my local supermarket to get ingredients for our dinner. She barely looks at my town; she just has eyes for me and is very talkative. It feels good to be with her again and everyone else seemed to disappear from my sight, so I guess I only have eyes for her too. I’m filled with a sense of relief by her positivity.

Back at my place I get to work making us a Thai massaman curry. That dish takes almost two hours to simmer so I introduce her to Californication which she absolutely loves and can’t get enough of. An episode ends and we start kissing. It was like we had never kissed before and it felt like I had my own private little fireworks display going off above my head.

It isn’t long before we are both naked on my sofa and in missionary position. She grabs the back of my neck, looks deep into my eyes and with clenched teeth says, “I want you to fuck me!”

I duly oblige.

It’s spontaneous sex on my sofa, the best kind of sex, the type that gets sweat, cum and pussy juices all over the covers. It is glorious.

“Hey, the balcony door is still open! The neighbours can hear us,” I say, uncomfortable with what I had just noticed.

“So what. Let them listen. Now fuck me,” she says.

It’s a hot July day and I’m starting to sweat as I heave into her slippery little pussy. The Brazilian is holding on tight, her fingernails are starting to sink into my skin. I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my neck, down my throat, stopping momentarily, then it falls onto her forehead. She feels it land and closes her eyes, opening her mouth in appreciation and letting out a breath of air through her nostrils. She liked that drop. She likes everything we’re doing right now. More droplets of sweat periodically gather and fall onto her face, each time landing somewhere new. Some women like that, some don’t.

Suddenly she starts wriggling under me and I sense that she wants to change position. Maybe she didn’t like my sweat hitting her in the face after all. Without a word I withdraw from her and she scrambles up. Almost instinctively we assume cowgirl position. The Brazilian is lithe and she expertly balances herself on me, straddling me, with just her vagina the only part of her touching me. She bounces rhythmically on my cock, her hands on her knees, a self-satisfied look on her face.

It’s quite a sight seeing a woman doing this. Very few have the physical ability to do this position. Only my Exgf ever did this to me. Krazy Girl tried it but had one foot on the ground which, by comparison, is a bit of cheating. I didn’t complain then and I certainly have no reason to now either.

I watch as The Brazilian closes her eyes and enjoys herself on me. My eyes can’t help but wander to her breasts. She’s at least a D-cup, which is unusual for such a petite frame and thus they look bigger than they actually feel in my hands.

“Aai, paapie,” is let off a few times as she enjoys herself on me. Some women indulge in a shift of power during sex, either giving it by submitting or seizing it. Right now The Brazilian is experiencing the latter. She certainly is quite fit and I think she makes herself cum; it’s the change in tempo, the anguished face and staccato breathing at one point that makes me think so. I guess she doesn’t want my neighbours to hear her cumming. Despite this she keeps going.

It isn’t long before I cum too. I can count on one hand how many times a woman has made me orgasm like this. I stifle my roar and The Brazilian looks down at me, a smug look on her face. She settles down on my groin and grinds herself on me. My sperm must be everywhere in her pussy now. Shit, I hope I don’t get her pregnant. She might not be telling the truth about being on the pill. Ah, there’s my suspicious mind again.

I suggest that we go for a walk because it’s too hot inside, so still in the afterglow we quickly find ourselves in a nearby park. Conversation is driven by the Brazilian who is still chatty. I had decided not to broach the issue of her whereabouts on Wednesday night, but she says something that piques my interest and I have to ask about it. Again it involves her being honest or dishonest.

“So you were born in 1977, weren’t you?” I tapped into what I suspected was unfinished business. I was right.

“Erm…uhm…no. I was born in 76. I lied about my age on my Facebook profile because it’s nobody’s business how old I am,” she says with a touch of defiance mixed with concern.

I look at her and just smile. I heard almost those exact words from the Irish Cougar. It didn’t matter to me how old she was. She could have been much older than me and it wouldn’t have changed how I felt about her. Before I get a chance to say anything, which I didn’t really see the need to, she says, “I suppose you want to leave me now?”

Where the hell does that come from? Is there some insecurity that I’ve touched on? Does she have a suspicious mind?

I stop walking and she does too. I face her, take her hands in mine and say, “No, your age is not an issue. I’m only interested in what you have in there,” gently putting an index finger on her heart. Then moving the finger to her head I say, “What’s in there has been taught and can be changed, but what’s in your heart will always stay the same.”

Her eyes widen and I take that as a sign that she likes what I just said.

Before she feels the need to say anything I turn and continue our walk, leading her. Without looking at her I reach out and hold her hand. She squeezes mine.

An older couple approach us, they are coming down the incline, but they didn’t seem to notice us because they are engrossed in their own conversation which involves some light laughter. After they pass us the Brazilian speaks.

“That couple have such as easy-going relationship,” she says, not realizing that she had just given me the keys to her queendom.

“You know all those other men you’ve been involved with? I’m not them,” I say with a serious look in my eye and smile on my face.

The Brazilian smiles back at me.

Silence breaks out for a few moments before I feel the need to share something with her.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you this weekend,” I say.

“You nearly didn’t,” she replies with a steely look in her eyes. I notice her shoulders stiffen.

“Why?” I have to ask. Here’s a chance to see what’s going on in her head.

“Thursday and Friday I was scared,” she replies.

“And now you see that there was nothing to be scared of,” I say with a smile. Her shoulders relax.

Got you. You know I caught you out lying, that’s why you were scared. Just having her know that I know she’s lied to me is good enough for now. I won’t say any more of it because that might come across as an attack, to which she’ll literally run away from me. No, discretion is part of my valour still, so I’ll leave it be. This knight has learned to stay his sword and only unsheathe it for the battles that matter. She can take this as a warning that I’m not stupid and she shouldn’t try it again.

We go back to my place where we enjoy my Thai curry and spend the night watching Californication. The Brazilian is addicted to that show, which pleases me. As a raunchy episode ends we look at each other in that knowing way. Words aren’t necessary.

I pick her up and carried her to my bedroom. She doesn’t weigh much so it’s easy for me and she’s petite so I don’t bang her elbows or feet on doors or walls. She wraps an arm around my neck and doesn’t seemed concerned that I could drop her, so I guess she has faith in my strength. I notice as I carry her that she is giving me a peculiar look with a wry smile; I would say it is one of admiration and definitely approval.

I lower her gently onto my bed and undress her before reaching for a bottle of massage oil. Her body and skin feel good under my hands and she seems to like my touch.

“He cooks and he massages. What more could a girl want?” I ask jokingly.

“Yes, I know,” she murmurs as I push my hands up her back, alongside her spine, forcing the stress and negative energy out of her body. I give her the best massage I know how.

With the massage over she is totally relaxed and I say, “There’s something I’ve been looking forward to,” as I gently turned her over onto her back. She looks at me with puppy-dog eyes and I can see that I can do whatever I want with her in that moment.

I stand up, get undressed and half lie down on the foot of the bed. I carefully prise her legs open and begin kissing the inside of one thigh and delicately work my way up to her groin before stopping and then starting all over again at her other knee. This time when I get to her pussy I just run my tongue up the centre of her pussy, feeling her lips parting either side of the rough side of my tongue and I feel her clit which is quite fleshy.

Frenetic intense, passionate sex ensues. It felt like we hadn’t fucked for weeks although it was less than eight hours ago. She came twice again, silently as usual but I’m getting to recognize the judders and shudders that her body gives off when she climaxes. This time I was more careful and hosed her down, pouring my more watery sperm onto her chest which she proceeded to rub into herself. It’s quite a sight seeing a woman doing that.

We lay awake until 2 in the morning, just talking to each other. It felt great to look at someone I desired and to hang on her every word. This is what I want, this is what was missing with Busty Blonde.

I awake sporting my usual massive morning glory and I just have to have her one more time. She was dozing in a half-awake state. I rolled her onto her back, being careful to balance most of my weight on my arms, and started to rub my cock between her legs, which as luck or nature would have it, fitted perfectly between her legs and rubbed between her lips and over her clit. She never said a word nor resisted and it didn’t take long before she was turned on and thrusting her hips up towards me, inviting me to put my cock in her. I rolled her over and slid my cock into her slightly moist pussy and started fucking her doggy style which, as I knew from our first night together the previous week, was her favourite position. Most women can’t handle doggy style with me because they find it uncomfortable, but The Brazilian loves it.

She became fully awake and pushed herself up to assume the full position and I just loved watching her hands grip the bedsheets as I forced myself deeper into her and increased my tempo. I gripped her buttcheeks with my hands and forced them apart to take a good look at her cute, pink little arsehole. Did she really want to take my cock in that little hole? My cock is more than four times the thickness of my thumb and my thumb barely squeezes into her arse. The thought of that acts as naughty inspiration. I suck on a thumb and slide it up her bum.

“Aai, paapie, yes, do it,” she exclaims, wriggling her arse as my thumb slides in.

The Brazilian keeps jiggling her butt, seemingly enjoying having something in it. Maybe it’s time to give her what she wants?

I take a moment in mid-fuck to look down and take in the sight before me. Here was a sexy little woman, natural blonde hair, milky white skin with few blemishes, her back to me, her head down, her breasts flopping about, giving off sounds of pleasure as my cock rammed deep into her pussy. THIS is what I wanted. THIS was perfection. In that moment I felt happier than I had in a very long time.

The power of those powerful thoughts and feelings leads to me having my orgasm, somewhat prematurely in my opinion. The brain is indeed the most powerful sexual organ. I can’t pull out in time and end up squirting my load into her pussy. She stops wriggling as she feels me cumming.

“Aai, yes,” is all she says as my warm, sticky cum floods her tight little pussy.

While she showered I did the washing up from the previous day. When she came out of the shower and was ready for the day she came into the kitchen intent on doing the dishes. I cannot describe to you how that simple, everyday act of washing dishes and having a woman offer to do so in my home makes my stomach turn to mush. I take it to not just be an act of respect and appreciation, but a small act of love. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it, but a woman offering to do that floors me every time. Of all the women who have been in my home, only three have actually done the dishes: Tech Titan, Krazy Girl and Busty Blonde.

We went for an alfresco breakfast at a breakfast bar on my town’s high street. The Brazilian wasn’t quite her normal chatty self and she preferred to bury her nose in a Sunday newspaper that someone had left at our table. I tried to make small-talk but she wasn’t interested. It felt as if a wall had gone up between us; a strong, silent, impenetrable wall. It’s as if she had made up her mind about something or was trying to. This felt horribly familiar to me. I’ve felt it before on the last date with The Model, Country Girl and Musician Gal.

I hate this feeling, this atmosphere. I hope that this doesn’t turn out the same way. I really like this one. Got to hope for the best, keep calm, play it cool.

We eat our full English breakfasts in near silence. I give her space and time, but our normally lively banter doesn’t return. I sit racking my brain about what could have happened to cause this change in attitude. I find the silence almost unbearable. Was it something I said or did? Or was it something I didn’t say or do? Why do some women do this to men?

Mercifully breakfast ends which The Brazilian insists on paying for. Then she announces that she has to go home. At the station we share a polite kiss that is an anti-climax to how the last day has been. Her train departs at midday and I’m left standing on the platform, feeling somewhat confused.

I had resolved to make no mention of The Brazilian’s lie I had found out about. This decision was vital because it set me free to enjoy the weekend and it was the right decision. If I had allowed myself to dwell on that issue I would have come across as pre-occupied and unfriendly even, constantly casting a suspicious eye on her words. She would have picked up on this and she would naturally have turned defensive in her thoughts and deeds. It would have been a dead-end weekend and would have strangled our relationship in its infancy. Instead we had a wonderful weekend and I’m better for it in many ways. It’s just a pity that it ended on the flat note like it did.

Later The Brazilian texts me that the train broke down and it ended up taking her 3 hours to get home.

I’m not going to try to get inside her heart. That won’t work. Instead I’ll patiently wait for her heart to wrap itself around mine.

Elvis Presley – Suspicious Minds

Brazilian rumbled

As I sit here writing this, having got home just over an hour ago after our first night together, I feel a long-forgotten sensation that I like: light-headed, butterflies in my tummy and a warm glow all around me. Could The Brazilian really be The One?

What is it that I’m so drawn to? Aside from having a common wanderlust and, so far, a few other important things such as an enjoyment of sex, it’s how I feel when I’m with her. She has a passion for and outlook on life that is very similar to mine and I think that will serve as the basis for our relationship. She has a zest for life that I feel I once had and have lost, so I appreciate that in her. It’s not since Krazy Girl that I’ve met someone who, when we look at each other, we have a mutual desire to jump each other.

That animal magnetism that was so sorely lacking with Busty Blonde has appeared out of the internet and it counts for a lot. After just one weekend with The Brazilian I’m infatuated with her; in all six months with Busty Blonde not for a moment did I feel this way. I can see that I can forgive a lot of things in The Brazilian because I desire her, lust after her and, after last night, our first night together, I know that no matter what, we’ll both want to fuck each other even after a fight.

I marvel at the simplicity of this carnal urge that will forgive all manner of sins, but I do wonder about the sensibility of it. I’m not talking about being like a dog in heat, my always wanting to fuck, just waiting to be let off the leash. I’m talking about a quieter, more powerful sense that resides deep within me, that gives me equal measure of comfort and concern. Comfort because it makes me feel alive, a virile man, capable of and actively coupling with a woman whom he desires.

The concern and question of sensibility is of a self-aware man knowing that it could get him into trouble, leading to yet another heartache. With age does it become harder to deal with disappointment and even harder to still believe in true love and to keep trying to find it?

I think it’s the beauty of the structure, that the obvious risk and potential fallout is necessary to heighten the sensation, the euphoria, of what it is to be in love. Knowing that it could end very badly, is the thing that makes us subconsciously pay that extra little bit of attention, to make that effort, not just in the hope of avoiding disaster, but in making the most of what is on offer.

At the moment I would say that The Brazilian and I have similar hearts. We seem to both yearn for a drama-free relationship. I think that if you trust, value and respect each other then there’ll be very little drama.

She has an innocence, a vulnerability in her heart that I can sense, because it is there in mine too. She’s like a little girl who wants somebody to take her hand and lead her to her tea-party in the garden, then to sit and play with her.

I’m starting to think more of her as a little bird. She wants to feel safe and protected while at the same time being filled with a sense of freedom. I have to learn to gently hold her heart in my hands and savour those moments, because there is no telling when she’ll suddenly flit away, perhaps one day never to return. I know already, after just two dates and one night together, that that is how it will be between us and I have no choice but to accept it as such.

I’m infatuated with her, intoxicated by her. I can’t stop thinking about her, remembering all the things we’ve said and done and not just our first night together. I’m looking forward to taking her to all the same old places that I’ve taken all my other dates over the years, largely because I know it’ll be fun with her and it’ll be different with her.

I see elements of some of the other women that I’ve encountered in the past two years. There’s the fun factor of Tech Titan, the cheekiness of Baltic Babe, the sexuality of Krazy Girl and the goodness of Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde, all rolled into one person. Looking at the sentence I’ve just written, I realize that those are the factors that encapsulate what I am looking for in a woman and why I am so taken with The Brazilian. Most importantly, there’s chemistry between us.

It’s now Tuesday and as I write about Krazy Girl for my blog, I find myself wondering if this might turn out to be a repeat of that; starts off all fiery and frenetic and then she runs away. Or it could be like Baltic Babe, all sweet and light in the beginning, then the crazy comes out? Time will tell.

Wednesday night and I’ve spent the day writing about Krazy Girl. I’m starting to see a lot of similarities. The previous night The Brazilian had said to me that for the Wednesday and Thursday night she would be attending a government training session for her industry. She mentioned that it was in London, somewhere near her.

Just before going to bed, something at the back of my brain (my trust demon, perhaps?) told me to check her profile on Tinder. Her profile said that 4 hours previously, at 7pm, she was 70 miles away from me. Every other time I visited her profile it said that she was 28 miles from me. She wasn’t in London, far from it, literally.

I feel so deflated. It feels like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. My every instinct tells me that she was with another man, probably on a date, possibly more. It feels like cupid has fired a flaming arrow through the balloon that was my hopes for a relationship with The Brazilian.

Of course I’ll see what she says, but it’s not looking good. I have an old decision to make now: do I confront her and probably never see her again after having it out on the phone with her or do I live in hope that there’s an explanation, or do I string her along and see how long the sex lasts?

I hope I’m misunderstanding this, but I’m pretty upset at the moment.

The thought has just occurred to me that this is life repaying me for having hurt Busty Blonde so much.

It’s Thursday night and I’ve just got off the phone from The Brazilian. I had played it cool all day, only sending her one Whatsapp message at lunchtime asking how she was. She answered just before 6pm. I decide to call her at 8pm to speak in person instead, not because I hate fingering a device or because it’s nicer to hear the other person’s voice, but because I want to have a chance of catching her out if she has lied about her whereabouts. People change their tone of voice when lying.

We make idle chit-chat then I slip into the conversation her “course” of the previous night. She said it was boring. I ask where it was, but she ignores my question and starts talking about something else. I ask again where it was and there is a momentary silence before she mentions an adjoining suburb in a slow, hushed tone. My stomach falls around my feet and blood from my upper body races off after it.

It was only a split second, of course, but it felt like such a lonely, empty eternity, as the gravitas of the disappointing lie set in.

“Why, were you checking up on me?” she asks, breaking the momentary silence. Has she realized that I know she was lying? It’s a strange thing to ask, don’t you think? If she had nothing to hide she wouldn’t have asked that.

I ignore her question and move the conversation on, just like she tried to do. How does she like it now? She’s not stupid, she now knows I suspect something. Does she think I’ll like her lies? How can I love her lies? What’s next: games?

If you forgive one lie you instantly commission hundreds more. A relationship beset with lies is something I can and will not tolerate. Complete trust and honesty is essential to a healthy relationship. Only a fool or an inveterate liar believes otherwise.

My trust demon is going berserk in his cage. He’s straining at the bars, trying to force them apart. He’s swearing unspeakable words at The Brazilian. How dare she do this!

My gut reaction is to call her back and have it out on the phone with her, but I’m older and wiser now. This could all be a misunderstanding on my part, but my instincts tell me otherwise. Nevertheless I know to keep my options open. I consult a friend of mine who is an expert in these matters. She earns her living from helping people deal with matters of the heart. With the help of her ideas and words I came up with a course of action.

It’s a Friday night in early July and it’s hot. The Brazilian is due to visit me tomorrow and I think that whatever happens will either make or break us. While I was cleaning my home in anticipation of her visit, words and feelings inside me met and this poem was the outcome.

    The hot Friday night before you came

It’s a July Friday night
It’s hot and it’s still light.
I so badly want you by my side
Your every word I would abide.

We have serious issues to discuss
I could really do without a fuss.
If we argued, early you would leave
Another wasted chance I’d grieve.

If finding you are made of deceit
From you I shall retreat.
But if you are The One for me
Talking it through will set us free.

The way will be clear
To find love
Free of fear
Each other’s glove.

I’ll be everything I know I can be
You’ll just have to wait and see
I can’t wait to take your hand
I hope tomorrow goes as planned.

Yello – Of Course I’m Lying

Cock-eyed Brazilian – Final part

“Aai, paapie, your cock is too big for my mouth,” The Brazilian says in her cute Latin accent after a few more seconds of sucking on my penis. Where has ‘paapie’ come from and what’s that all about? This must be her dirty talk. I’ll find out more later during pillow talk.

Instantly she springs into life again, this time climbing onto me. I like it when a woman gets into the cowgirl position because I can see, feel, reach and touch everything. Slowly she lowers herself onto my cock, there’s a few judders along the way when her pussy struggles to go down further. It seems its been a while since this pussy last saw action.

Within seconds she’s riding me as fast as she can, like her life depended on it. Her breasts are bouncing beautifully. Yes, she’s been gagging for it, alright. That’s what’s behind all this energy and enthusiasm. Is she into me or does she just need a fuck? I don’t know.

She was certainly determined to have my cock in her mouth. Did she really want to take it in her arse too? I’m not comfortable with that idea at all. In fact I’m uncomfortable with her liking anal sex. I still consider it very risky, perhaps out of ignorance, but if she insisted I would slip one of those god-awful condoms on and give her what she wants.

Another cry of “Aai, paapie” grabs my attention. I think she’s getting a bit sore. She jumps up off me and assumes doggy position in less than a second.

“Take me from behind,” she instructs and wiggles her backside at me.

Damn, she’s cute. I do as asked. I’m always keen to please, but her style does make me smile. She certainly knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it. How refreshing.

Of course we’re going to do doggy style my way. I’m going to put her on The Hook and see how she likes that. Maybe she’s all talk about the anal?

I let her have it hard and fast non-stop for at least a minute. All those hours in the gym have benefits. I stop, slow down, gently rock backwards and forwards with my hips while I get my breath back. Less than thirty seconds later I let her have it for a minute again. I don’t know how many times I repeat this because my brain is distracted by thoughts about contraception, sexually transmitted diseases, my own orgasm and about anal sex.

My thoughts sabotage me and my erection fades. Going soft is always embarrassing, but The Brazilian thinks nothing of it. She spins around on her knees most expertly and starts sucking on my cock with even greater enthusiasm than before. Looking down on her doing this to me is an amazing sight.

“That’s it, suck it. Make me hard again and I’ll make you cum with my cock,” I say.

“I’ve already cum twice,” she responds.

“What? I didn’t hear you. You’re a quiet little thing,” I say in surprise.

I now feel that the way is clear for me to cum too. It’s probably nearing midnight and I’m getting tired. I spin her around and we get into doggy-style position again. I force my cock into her pussy again, still surprised at how small and tight she is. I push myself deeper into her pussy and she lets out a breath of air that is a mixture of satisfaction and discomfort. She certainly has a pleasure-pain thing going on. I like the realisation of that and my cock hardens more because of it.

“Oh yes! Fuck me!” she exclaims.

That is exactly what I start to do. I grip her hips with my hands and squeeze them. I rock my hips but am conscious of the fact that I can’t really feel my cock moving in her because her pussy is so tight that it seems to have clenched around my cock, locked on and it wasn’t going to let go.

I let go of her hips and lean forward slightly to bundle her hair into a bunch. The nice thing about fucking a small woman is that everything is easily reachable by hand. I grip her hair with one hand and gently pull back. Her head comes up and she lets out a gasp of air. With my free hand I suck my thumb and slowly slide it into her arsehole which is surprisingly moist in itself. I’ve got her on ‘The Hook’ and it was easily done. The Brazilian doesn’t make a sound as my thumb slides in. She is totally turned on as I hold her in that position: pulling on her hair, thumb deep in her arse and my cock totally filling her pussy, fucking her.

“I don’t know which is tighter – your pussy or your arse,” I say.


“Do you like this?” I ask.

“Yesss,” is her throaty reply with a hint of her sexy accent.

“Say ‘please fuck me in the arse’,” I instruct.

“Please fuck me in the arse,” she instantly echoes.

“Keep saying it,” I command.

“Please fuck me in the arse,” she repeats, this time more softly.

I let go of her hair and it falls down around her head and shoulders. For some reason that moment seems like a beautiful sight to me, watching her natural golden blonde hair assume a life of its own. A soft, spring-like recoil nurtured by gravity that speaks of an effortless femininity, a gentle caress of her skin that mimics the gentlest of kisses.

The Brazilian drops her chin and makes approving sounds amongst her saying every couple of seconds, “please fuck me in the arse,” each time in a different way, sometimes loudly, sometimes softly, each time emphasizing a different word.

I feel that pleasant warm glowing sensation starting in my stomach; I’m going to be cumming soon. I haven’t ejaculated for three days and for me that is a burden; my balls are aching and I think that that sensation started when I saw her for the first time yesterday. I can’t wait to feel cum pouring out of my cock.

As she says “please fuck me in the arse,” it feels like my whole body explodes as cum shoots up from my balls and out the tip of my cock. My hips became a jackhammer as I slam my cock as hard and as quickly as I can into her unbelievably tight pussy. I don’t recall her saying or doing anything in those few moments because my orgasm is consuming me. It is one of the best ever climaxes of my life.

After savouring the moment for a few seconds I pull out of her and collapse next to her now-slumped body. We’re both panting.

For some reason her saying anything I wanted to brought to mind this scene from one of my favourite shows, “The Secret Diary of a Call Girl”.

The Secret Diary of a Call Girl – s03 e03 – Funny Moment

“What we just did was very naughty,” I say referring to the lack of contraception.

“I know, very naughty. Don’t worry, I’m on the pill,” she says, understanding my inference, just as I knew she would. The Brazilian isn’t a stupid person.

“Let’s spoon,” I suggest, expecting her to comply, but she doesn’t and instead starts putting on a nightie that was lying on the floor next to her side of the bed.

“I don’t like feeling cold on my back, so I always sleep with a top on,” she says.

I was disappointed. There are few things that I love more in life than feeling the naked body of my woman against me. Once under the covers we lie facing each other.

We engage in pillow talk, the type that involves brutal honesty, naughty secrets, sexual histories and laughter. In our moments of honesty she tells me the one thing that I can’t stomach to hear. Innocently she mentions having committed my sexual foible. My heart sinks and air leaves my body. I try to not let it show. I think I get away with it and shortly afterwards we go to sleep.

I’m shocked and disappointed. It was all going so well until now. I lie staring at a crack between the curtains, watching moonlight seeping into the room. My head and heart races, trying to come to terms with her revelation, but sleep overcomes me before I find a solution.

I think that we all have a sexual no-go zone, a hang-up that only makes sense to us, but it would bemuse, puzzle or outrage others. I’m not wanting anyone else to understand it or try and help me with it, so I’m not going to explain it. I don’t think that anyone would understand it anyway. Let’s just call it a quirk in my psychological structure and leave it at that.

At 7am her alarm sounds. I give The Brazilian a good morning kiss on her forehead and she barely stirs. I decide to make myself scarce and immediately get up and start getting dressed. My noise brings her to life.

“Wouldn’t you like some breakfast before you go?” she asks in a croaky voice.

“That’d be nice, but I’d rather go before any of your staff get here. I don’t want to complicate your life,” I respond.

The Brazilian smiles.

At her front door she’s in a robe, looking dishevelled, but ever so cute. We kiss passionately.

“Call me,” she says with a hint of vulnerability to her words and a pleading look in her eyes.

“I was always going to,” I respond with a smile.

In my car I start my long drive back, battling London traffic on a Monday morning, but I don’t mind because I’m smiling to myself…and my mind is racing like a relay team around an Olympic oval. All my thoughts are of The Brazilian and the previous day and night.

There’s an electricity to our every exchange, a breath-holding seriousness to everything that we say to each other and it’s effect is a sexual tension between us that will inevitably result in an intense physical encounter. It’s how Mother Nature intended it to be, surely? It all feels so damn good. I feel alive again. This is what was missing with almost all these other women and I’ve forgotten how good it feels.

Yes, The Brazilian has committed my sexual foible. It is unreasonable to expect everyone to have universal morals. The problem is mine, only in my head and thus entirely mine to deal with. I am just going to have to live with it, not because she is in need of forgiveness (she doesn’t need that), but because I am in need of love.

I think if we’re lucky, we get to know the price of a relationship in advance, instead of when it’s too late. If this is the price to have her my share my life, then how I feel right now, this is a price I am willing to pay.

My soul needs love, a true and real love that is mutual. I need to give it perhaps more than receive it.

I just hope that this doesn’t turn out to be a one-night stand. I don’t think I can handle it if that’s what this was.

Sam Smith – Stay with Me

Cock-eyed Brazilian – Part 2

I’m stunned by The Brazilian riding me like this. No woman has ever been this brazen with me before. Yes, Krazy Girl comes close on our first time, but this exceeds that encounter in terms of audacity. Is The Brazilian a slut, really horny or totally into me? Maybe all three? I feel my cock growing and as it does so she grinds down harder onto it. She’s looking me straight in the eyes as she does so, a lustful look in her eyes. Damn, she’s hot and in more ways than one. I pull her t-shirt up over her head and fling it to one side. Her breasts are squashed into a pink bra and they look amazing. She pulls her elbows in closer together that makes her tits look even bigger. That little act of extra naughtiness does something for her and she throws her head back, letting off an anguished gust of breath.

There’s no stopping this steam-roller now; I have to fuck her. She’ll be so upset and feel rejected if I stop this scene. I hope that this doesn’t jeopardise our chances for a relationship. Oh well, got to hope for the best and make the most of this situation.

I start fiddling with the back of her bra, but she interjects.

“Let’s go to the bedroom” she says.

I love it when a woman says those words. I’m happy to do it anywhere, location doesn’t really matter to me. Sometimes the more dangerous the setting the better the fucking. No, I love those words because of the intent, the desire that resides behind them. The woman before me uttering those sacred words has dropped all her inhibitions, shelved any pretence and wants me to fuck her, usually hard and fast and almost always doggy-style.

Without ceremony or further discussion The Brazilian gets up off me, steps onto the floor, turns her back without making eye contact and strides to the bedroom across the way. I follow like a salivating trophy dog on a leash. A king-size bed dominates the room while unpacked boxes loiter on the periphery. The Brazilian drops the rest of her clothes onto the floor, depriving me of the pleasure of undressing her. Still with her back turned to me she climbs onto the bed and flops herself over onto her back.

She puts her wrists up alongside her head and slowly opens her legs, explicitly, daringly showing me her vagina, which as I had expected was groomed in…a Brazilian style, with a narrow runway strip of pubic hair covering her pussy lips and clitoris.

The Brazilian makes for a fantastic sight. Her light tan speaks of frequent visits to sunny climes that involved topless sunbathing. She’s doing that sexy biting of the bottom lip that makes my cock twitch. Her breasts are exquisite, large and sporting brown-pink nipples that are almost totally erect. Her chest is a little flushed, so she’s very turned-on. Her eyes invite me to do as I please.

I maintain that being a good lover is actually quite simple: all you need to do is pay attention. Nowadays, courtesy of my dating adventures, I also think that simply asking your lover what they would like is not the worst idea. I also get a kick out hearing a woman express her sexual desires; it’s a turn-on for me to hear a woman tell me what she wants. It’s almost always been a surprise to learn what a new lover likes and I’m learning that it’s almost always totally unpredictable.

As I undress myself, I get the naughty talk going.

“Play with yourself for me. Then tell me what you want me to do to you,” I say.

I’ve never been so blunt with a woman in such a moment before. This could be a turn-off I realize as I utter my words. The Brazilian licks a few fingers and starts rubbing her clit. Hmm, nice and obedient. I like that.

“You can do whatever you want with me,” she says with a daring look in her eyes.

That makes my cock harden even more. I’m almost totally naked now. Some women get a kick out of watching a man undress in front of them. Does she?

“Do you have any special request?” I ask. There’s always one thing in particular that a woman likes.

“Hmm, you might find out out that I like something else too,” she hints.

As I clamber onto the bed, moving slowly towards her on my hands and knees in a panther-like crawl, my mind starts racing. I wasn’t too sure what she meant, but my best guess is that she means anal sex. I decide to find out.

“Do you like having things in your arse?” I venture, knowing that this could backfire horribly, but going with the mood of the moment.

“Yes,” The Brazilian wheezes.

“Do you like having fingers in your arse?” I ask, trying to sound unperturbed as I edge closer towards her.


“Do you like having a cock in your arse?” I’m now on my elbows, her pussy close to my face. I’m going to lick her and she knows it.

“Oh, yes.”

“Do you like being fucked in the arse?”

“Yes,” she says, letting out a big breath, now rubbing her clit furiously.

“Do you want me to fuck you in the arse?”


I’m not too surprised to hear this. I have heard and read that Brazilian women enjoy anal sex more than any other nationality. If it hadn’t been for my anal sex experiences with Tech Titan and Krazy Girl, I would probably have been horrified, but nowadays my horizons are broader…broader than a gaping, gasping little arsehole filled with hot, sticky cum.

I say no more and start running my tongue up and down her slippery slit. She takes her hand away and returns it to next to her head. She closes her eyes, giving herself over to pleasure.

Damn, she’s a horny, sensual little thing who’s into anal sex. I didn’t see that coming. The image she projects is that of a prudish, slightly geeky, librarian next door, but in private she wants to be fucked in the arse. What goes on in her head? Maybe I’m so behind the times and don’t know that anal is mainstream for women nowadays? Stop over-thinking; get on with it!

Within a minute I’m fingering her g-spot to anguished approval, licking her clit and tweaking a nipple with my other hand. The Brazilian is keeping her eyes closed and still biting her lower lip. It isn’t long before she’s writhing uncontrollably and my fingers need co-ordinating to keep doing whatever is making her body react like this. She’s not making a sound and is seemingly deliberately holding her breath. Her body shudders twice and I think she’s just had her first orgasm, but she’s totally silent about it. Did she or didn’t she? I’m not sure.

Like a zombie in a horror movie, her eyes spring open, she frees herself from my fingers and tongue, quickly crawls onto her knees and pushes me over onto my back. Wow, where do these sudden bouts of explosive energy come from?

I know what this little sex kitten wants now, so I send my feet pointing to opposite corners at the foot of the bed. The Brazilian latches her mouth onto the top of my largely-erect cock, not bothering to pull the foreskin back while at the same time she makes herself comfortable between my legs. Her head is bouncing around on my erection and she’s constantly changing direction and angle as she feverishly goes down on me. This is impressive cock-sucking; such enthusiasm. She’s in a cocknotic state.

She slowly pulls down on my shaft and takes with it my foreskin. Still with her eyes closed she licks all around my bell-end, sliding her tongue around, over and under every contour, as if it was the creamiest ice-cream on a hot Summer’s day. Her tongue eagerly slides up and down every side of my shaft.

I realize that she’s lubricating my penis. I don’t think it’s necessary given how juicy she was a minute ago. I’m nearly fully erect and wonder if she really wants my cock in her arse. Now that she has an idea of the size of it, has she changed her mind?

“Is that cock big enough for you?” I ask coyly.

“It’ll do,” she says laughing, looking up momentarily, then biting her bottom lip and forcing herself down onto my cock again.

Wait, did I see correctly in that instant? I need to check. I need a ruse to make her look up at me again.

“You’re a good little cock-sucker,” I say and it has the desired effect. She looks up at me again for a second before continuing to suck on me.

Yes, I saw right! Her one eye has gone squint! It’s pointing towards her nose; her one sky-blue iris is almost touching the corner of her eye! Sucking my cock has made her go squint.

Let’s call that ‘cock-eyed’, shall we?

Yeah, sucking my cock has turned her into the cock-eyed Brazilian. I like that one; it’s one for the memory bank.

Aaw, look, she’s struggling to get her mouth around my cock now. Most women struggle and give up after a while once the novelty has worn off, but this little cock-eyed Brazilian is determined to keep sucking away on it.

To Be Continued…

Cock-eyed Brazilian

The next day I’m speeding towards the trendy part of London where The Brazilian lives. My heart is pounding and there’s a little itch in my groin as thoughts of her race through my head. Could this be it? Is this Her? Finally, after all this time, effort and disappointment, could I finally have found The One?

Stop it. It’s only been one date, fool! You know the rules by now. Only get excited by the end of the third date because only then do you know if the feelings are mutual. Getting excited now is just setting myself up for a big fall. Keep it together. Be more Passive-Disinterested; it drives women wild.

I keep thinking about how much I wanted to kiss her yesterday. I even went home and looked up what the term for it is. Basorexilia: the overwhelming desire to kiss.

After more than an hour’s driving I get to her home which doubles as her business. I’ve always had immense admiration for anyone who runs their own business because I know how hard it is. We greet politely at her front door and it’s just cute kisses on each of her cheeks. I’m pretty sure that the real kissing will come later in the day.

In the blink of an eye we find ourselves on my picnic blanket in a nearby public park. Earlier I’d been to the shops as soon as they opened and bought everything anyone could want to eat at a picnic. The Brazilian is pleased with my surprise and suitably impressed by my selection. Conversation is easy, positive and energetic. She laughs at my every joke, but there’s much more going on between us.

The electricity between us is palpable and I want to kiss her. How and when should I make my move? I think she’s too much of a lady to make the first move. Almost all women are like that though; they want the man to initiate proceedings. Luckily for me I’ve never been afraid to lead.

As if on cue a cluster of rain-clouds speedily collect overhead and start spitting on us. I’m prepared for this and hoist the largest umbrella that I could find at home. I motion to The Brazilian to join me under it, which she duly obliges. Our shoulders are touching; it’s the strongest physical contact we’ve had so far and it feels good. I’ll try my luck soon. An idea comes to me.

I take a spicy cocktail samoosa and I feed it to her. She laughs as I do so, but she accepts my gesture. I’ve always thought it incredibly naughty and titillating to feed a woman food. It’s an erotic act that touches a woman on several levels. The most obvious mental image is that of feeding her my penis. On the cerebral level it also tells a woman that I am prepared and able to dominate her; that is a turn-on for women too. In my experience women find this act to be a part of foreplay and they like it.

“Oh, there’s a bit of crumb next to your mouth,” I say. There isn’t but I want her to think that there is.

The Brazilian wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I smile to myself. Here we go…

“Nope. You’ve missed it. Let me get it,” I say.

I lean towards her, aiming my lips at the side of her mouth, but stopping just short from making contact. Will she pull away, signalling that she’s not yet ready to get physical with me? Or will she come in and meet my lips, thus showing her attraction and desire for me?

The Brazilian instantly moves her head to meet my lips with hers. Our lips are a perfect match. Our first kiss is slow and gentle. I just make my lips available and let her rise to the occasion. Whenever I’ve done this within a few seconds a woman is getting into the kiss as I can feel the energy within her rising, she closes her eyes and her breathing intensifies. It’s when I notice the breathing that I pull away, thus leaving her wanting more. As I pull away from The Brazilian she opens her eyes and they’re ablaze with passion. There’s something I need to know.

“When did you first want to kiss me?” I ask.

“From the very first moment I saw you standing outside the station.”

“Really?” I was surprised.

“Yes, and the whole time we were sitting on the sofa in the pub watching the Brazil game, all I wanted to do was kiss you.”

“Guess what? I wanted to kiss you then too.”

We both smile and then share a kiss that seemed to go on forever. Spots of rain fall on the ground around us as we kiss, but I don’t recall feeling a single drop land on me. It was one of those moments when the universe stood still, just for us, as our lips and tongues entwined, bonding not just our bodies but our souls too. I knew then for sure that I could fall in love with her.

Seeing as we’re having this moment of honesty and she’s forthcoming, there’s something else that I need to know.

“Tell me something. What kind of relationship are you looking for?” I ask, this question driven by the niggling fact that we found each other on Tinder.

“More than anything, I want a relationship free of drama.” She answers with a plaintive look in her eyes.

“Me too. I’ve had enough drama to last me another lifetime.”

I think for a few seconds, feeling her gaze still upon me, I turn and say, “I won’t hurt you, but you can hurt me, because I can take it.”

“I won’t hurt you,” she says softly.

The clouds multiply and an English Summer downpour forces us to abandon our picnic.

“How about we go back to my place?” The Brazilian suggests.

“I don’t think we have much choice,” I say, starting to pack everything away. I haven’t driven for so long only to go home after a couple of hours. I’m quite happy to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon with her snuggled up in my arms, watching movies, chatting and kissing occasionally. I think it’s too soon for sex; we only met 24 hours ago.

In the car park I pack picnic gear into my car and I watch as The Brazilian happily skips over to a rubbish bin to dispose of surplus packaging. She looks so cute and I spot her breasts bouncing. I hadn’t noticed before that she has surprisingly large breasts. Until now she’s kept them hidden away under a tasteful scarf, like most big-breasted women do. Hmm, I look forward to playing with those one day. Patience.

Back at her place she makes us coffee and we get comfortable upstairs in her lounge area which is cluttered with unpacked boxes. The downstairs of her dwelling is reserved for her business. We sit side by side on her new fabric sofa as she flicks through television channels trying to find something that might distract us. We’re in serious danger of ripping each other’s clothes off and fucking like rabbits, such is the sexual tension between us.

The Brazilian finds a mindless rom-com and we pretend to watch it. She excuses herself and goes to another room, returning wearing a tight t-shirt and flimsy tracksuit trousers. She looks so sexy and her breasts are on full display. Damn, they look squeezable!

Hang on, what’s going on here? I’ve been in this position before. It was with Baltic Babe when she returned to the lounge wearing a nice little nothing too. Sex was on offer that night and I turned it down, then haven’t seen her since. If you say no to a woman she won’t offer again because her ego couldn’t risk or tolerate another rejection. A woman will only offer herself to you once. Is The Brazilian signalling that she wants sex?

She throws herself down on the sofa, snuggling up next to me. After a minute of silence The Brazilian snaps me out of my train of erotic thought by uncharacteristically asking me a question about myself.

“What’s your favourite type of ending to a movie?”

“At the end of the movie, ‘When Harry Met Sally’, Harry says to Sally, ‘when you realize that you’ve met the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, the rest of your life can’t start soon enough’,” I say.

“I like that. It’s beautiful,” she replies and sighs.

I cup her face and we kiss…and keep kissing. The Brazilian is getting turned on, the sounds she’s making tell me so. What do I do? Should we go all the way? No, it’s too soon for my liking. I want a loving relationship that has sex as the finishing touch on top, not the foundation of where it all started. Am I wrong in this regard? Perhaps, but it’s what I’m comfortable with. Fucking first then hoping for love afterwards is not likely to work in my opinion.

The Brazilian comes to life, opens her eyes that are blazing again and pulls away from me. She gets up and clambers onto the sofa with both feet, deftly stepping one foot over my legs before lowering herself down onto my lap, facing me. She slides her arms behind my head and starts grinding her crotch into mine.

To Be Continued…

Date #47 – The Brazilian

I’m fed up with conventional dating sites and it’s time to try something new: Tinder. I can see how it can be addictive, quickly swiping through faces as if it’s a game. At times I feel like a kid choosing sweets from an old-fashioned sweet shop. I like about one in twenty faces that meet my liberal criteria: blonde. Overnight I start getting matches and one in particular stands out.

She was Brazilian, lived in London and I liked the look of her; that’s Tinder for you. The Brazilian made excuses about not being able to get together because she was moving home and business at the same time. We kept swapping occasional messages for over a week which ended in me giving her my mobile number and suggesting that she phone me. Silence.

Then, several days later, on a Sunday night she puts in an appearance via Whatsapp and we spend a lot of time swapping messages until I ask when we’re getting together, upon which she disappears. Then she reappears on Monday night, we swap many more messages, so I get tired of this and suggest that we talk on the phone, upon which she instantly disappears. I phone and get her voicemail, but I don’t leave a message. She reappears later, saying she had to go get food. We swap a few more messages and I phone her, this time leaving a message. Absolutely nothing in response.

WTF?! Why do women play these stupid fucking games? I now think she’s another Lusty Lawyer, craving attention but unable and unwilling to contemplate anything more than that. A time thief, an emotional cripple, not relationship material, a no-hoper.

Well, I could be wrong. On Friday morning she contacted me via Whatsapp, claiming to have only got my voicemail message now. I didn’t believe her, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and agreed to her request to meet the next day. I suggested noon, but she countered with 3pm. Whatever! This woman seems a little hard work.

Could she be The One?

So there I was on Saturday afternoon outside the entrance to Tower Hill Tube station, taking shelter from a sudden Summer downpour with a horde of bemused, noisy, drenched Japanese tourists. I didn’t have high hopes for this date because she seemed a little flighty and her life had her firmly under control. It was just going to be another date, one to help get me back into the rhythm of dating so that when I met The One, my skills would be sharp and matters would turn out how I wanted. After all, you only get one chance to make a good first impression.

My phone rattled into life with a text message from The Brazilian, “Which side are you?”

I thought about texting back, but then got that familiar sensation that someone was looking at me. I looked up and my eyes met hers through the crowd of tourists. She instantly smiled and my heart skipped a beat; she was as pretty as her pictures on Tinder. I liked the look of her and a sense of relief spread across my body. A blonde haired, blue-eyed, pretty Brazilian? That’s a new one for my spreadsheet.

As she walked up to me I was surprised at how short she was, despite wearing boots that must have added at least two inches. She was still smiling as I kissed her hello on a cheek. What I really wanted to do was scoop her up in my arms and give her a good ol’ fashioned black-and-white movie kiss on the lips. That reaction upon meeting a woman hasn’t happened often for me.

I turned and motioned towards the steep stairs that lead down from Tower Hill Tube station, ready to roll out my “do you like chicken?” gag, but before I had a chance to say a word The Brazilian had coupled her arm with mine. That absolutely stunned me; no woman had done that before. You could have knocked six foot two inch, two-hundred and thirty pounds me over with a feather.

I took that as clear sign that she liked the look of me; we’d hardly said anything to each other. I led us to St Katharine Dock and The Brazilian didn’t know of it. We went to the Dickens Inn and had a pizza each and shared a bottle of wine. She ordered the spiciest pizza on offer which made me think that she was an exciting, energetic lover (it’s a theory I’ve been working on and the findings so far are good).

We sat on the balcony overlooking the marina, initially engaging in the usual small-talk of first dates. I was struck by something unusual; she did most of the talking and it revolved around her telling me about herself. I just sat back and didn’t have to ask many questions to keep the conversation going. In fact, after an hour it seemed like she was selling herself to me. Most women quizzed me on a date, but The Brazilian did not ask a single question about me. I thought this very unusual, but said nothing, instead continuing to listen her rattling off her life in chronological order. It seemed a very well rehearsed script; how many dates has she been on?

As she spoke about herself, I came to the conclusion that The Brazilian was a happy, energetic little person, something that makes my insides turn to cotton wool. Someone who is happy within themselves is so much less hard work than a miserable, anxious person with emotional baggage, which is how I would describe half the women I have met for dates.

“Do you like to cook?” It’s a question I’ve asked my dates only if I sniffed out the slightest prospect of a relationship. I’ve never treated that question as a deal-breaker, more of a fact-finder. If a woman said, “I’m a terrible cook and hate it” on the one extreme, I took that as a hint that they might be a selfish person, a Taker. If, on the opposite extreme of the spectrum, she said, “I love to cook,” I took that as a positive sign that she was something of a provider, a Giver, someone I’d more comfortable with. My ideal answer would be somewhere in the middle, something like, “I enjoy cooking with somebody.” That then is somebody like me, someone who wants to share life, not predominantly give or take. In my years of dating I had never heard any woman say that to me.

The Brazilian’s answer?

“I enjoy cooking with somebody.”

For the second time on our first date you could have knocked me over with a feather. All my blood rushed to my feet; even my cock was in awe. Something at the back of my brain sat up, then stood up, stiffened its spine and said, “Hello, what do we have here?!”

I couldn’t help myself, I immediately launched into to my Magical Forest HeartScan. Her answers were: 1) I’d arm myself – which told me she’s a fighter, the same as me 2) I’d wash my hands and face – which sadly told me that she didn’t throw herself into love and was cautious about it, the opposite of me 3) She’d eat some of the house and then knock on the door to ask permission to enter – which told me that she had a lust for life, was as daring as me, but was respectful and courteous to others; therefore similar but better than me. It was the fact that she was a fighter that impressed me most because nobody else came close to me in that regard. Her attitude towards love was disappointing though, but only because I was hoping for more, hoping that she’d be the same as me, but so far very few women were.

I told her my analysis of her answers, being honest about her approach to love, fully aware that I risk spoiling matters, but to my relief she just smiled coyly and took a sip of her wine. From everything she had told me and her attitude so far, I came to the conclusion that she was looking for a relationship, not just a sweaty role in the proverbial hay. She had my attention, but I was still playing it cool, leaning back in my seat while she sat on the edge of hers.

Lunch was over, the pizzas were good as always, the wine bottle was empty and our stomachs were full and, I think, so were our hearts because we were enjoying each other’s company. The Brazil versus Chile game in the World Cup was about to start so we made our way downstairs to find seats near a television. We got lucky and found a two-seater sofa all to ourselves with a clear view of a screen.

All the while we sat there, for almost two hours I was conscious of three things. First, she had almost no interest in the game and couldn’t take her eyes off me. She was a patriot and her profile pictures included shots of her at Brazilian football games, but today she wasn’t interested. At first it was flattering, then it became annoying and eventually creepy. Secondly, I was fighting off the desire to want to kiss her. I was constantly wondering what her lips felt like, whether she used her tongue, if she made sounds, if she was a good kisser. Thirdly and somewhat bizarrely, I wondered several times what it might be like to have sex with her on that leather sofa. What would it feel like to turn her onto her back, pull her red jeans and panties down to her knees, then lift her legs in the air, unzip my fly, pull my cock out and slide it into her. What would that feel like?

More time went by while I struggled to maintain my composure. I was hoping that Brazil would win the game so that she would be in a more positive frame of mind than if they had lost. Who knew where today might lead? A tonight? The game went to a penalty shoot-out which Brazil won, but I don’t think that my date noticed or cared; she only had eyes for me. This was bordering on freaky now.

The thought had entered my mind that our obvious mutual attraction was so great that it might lead to us going home together. I’d never slept with a woman on a first date; it’s not anything I’ve aspired to and have in the past had opportunity to do so (see The Russian Model). My old code of chivalry dictated that I not even consider let alone suggest this. A long-term relationship doesn’t start like that, I still believe.

With the game over, the date could have ended there. Most people would have done so, I think. However, I felt that it was going well and I was enjoying myself. Not expecting her to agree, I suggested that we go for a walk. This might all end abruptly now.

“I know it’s getting late, but I don’t suppose you’d like to go for a walk?” I said.

“That would be very nice,” were her words. I was reading the situation correctly, it seemed.

As we approached the stairs outside The Dickens Inn, I turned to The Brazilian, about to offer her my arm as she wasn’t totally steady on her heels, when I noticed that she didn’t seem to sure about what to do. In an act of pure instinct, born out of years of doing so with the few women I’ve cared about, I took her hand. It felt natural and right to do so and to my relief she seemed comfortable with this somewhat brazen act on my part. Out of the corner of my eye I think I saw her smile.

We walked around St Katharine Dock, with me taking the lead in the conversation, telling her of the history of the area that I knew by heart after so many dates, but still told it to her as if it was the first time ever I had said those words. This date was starting to feel magical.

Eventually we ended up going into a coffee shop on the Southbank. Seeing as I had paid for lunch, The Brazilian insisted on paying for our coffees, which I was uncomfortable with as usual, but relented because she seemed adamant. I needed the toilet and returned to find her having chosen a table with a padded bench and a single chair in front of it. She was sitting on the bench so I naturally took the chair in hand, but before I could sit down, she said, “Don’t you want to sit next to me?” and patted the seat next to her on the bench.

That simple act blew me away. Here was someone who was obviously comfortable with me and didn’t see me as an adversary, but instead as a partner that she wanted to share things with. No other woman I’d ever dated did that and I had also been to that very coffee shop with many of them. She certainly was setting herself aside from all those other dates. With a smile I sat down next to her.

Light-hearted, fun conversation shot between us, energized by what we were feeling. This is how it should be. Having enjoyed our coffees and banter, we realized that it was getting late. I said, “May I escort you to your station?”

“Yes, please. We need to get to Waterloo Station.”

I liked the fact that she used the word “we”. It sound like we were a couple already. It was starting to look and feel that way and at breath-taking speed.

So we walked to Waterloo Station, holding hands all the way, engaging in endless chatting. She certainly liked to talk, so I let her, which wasn’t a bad thing as it let me get to know a lot about her experiences, her viewpoint and opinions on things and, to my great surprise, she didn’t say anything that I thought was a show-stopper. I was starting to feel a connection with her, a meeting of minds and a hint of a meeting of spirits too. There were a few moments when I felt my heart swell. I could fall in love with her, I knew this already.

We stood at the gates to the bustling platform where her train was waiting to whisk her away from me, to her home, wherever and whatever that was. It felt almost to be the natural thing to get on that train with her, to hold hands as we walked up her street and wrap my arms around her as we fell asleep. I didn’t want the night to end.

Even now my lips get the better of my judgement. I said, “If we were naughty people I’d go home with you tonight,” with a wicked little laugh.

Her eyes darted between mine and I realised that she was taking me seriously.

“Hmm, tempting,” she said with a serious look in her eyes.

“No, not tonight. Not my style,” I said, rebuffing her, slightly concerned at her now obvious desire to want to sleep with me. I should have taken that as something of a red flag; if you sense a relationship with someone, you know there’ll eventually be lots of sex, so why rush it? But I did come across her on Tinder after all.

“Your train is about to leave, “ I said, defusing the situation.

She looked at me, her mind and heart obviously racing, but her lips were the cruel gatekeepers to her words that I would have loved to have heard.

Our eyes were locked on each other’s and I so badly didn’t want the night to end, but deep down knew that it had to, but also I knew there would be more nights, perhaps even better ones, with her.

I recalled something that had worked well with The Finn a few weeks ago, so I used it again, slightly uncertain what its effect would be.

“Umm, I don’t normally do this, but I’d like to see you again. Let me know sometime if you feel the same way,” I said.

“Yes, I want to see you again too,” she instantly shot back with a relieved little smile that showed some of her perfect, white teeth.

“Are you free tomorrow?” I asked jokingly, giving her my best smile.

“Yes, I am. What time?” was her instant response.

“Whoa! I was joking. Are you serious?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Okay, send me a text message with your thoughts and we’ll make a plan. Your train is getting ready to leave,” I said over the noise of an impatient, old-fashioned whistle.

The Brazilian quickly leaned forward and presented her cheek which I equally quickly kissed. It was too soon for our first kiss and the circumstances weren’t right.

I stood and watched her scamper off through the gates and down the platform as other passengers jumped into open carriage doors.

If she stops and turns to smile at me, she wants me.

The Brazilian stopped outside a brooding dark door, turned to me, waved at me and gave me a perfect smile that I can still see today.

Only Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl had this effect on me after a first date…and look what happened. I must be a glutton for punishment…but I really want to get to know her…be with her, because she feels ‘right’.

I feel good. Damn good.

Michael Buble – Feeling Good