WTF?! Hello tainted Tinder

I haven’t decided what to do about The Saffa. There might be another guy on the scene but that’s not what’s bothering me about her; her reckless behaviour makes me feel unsafe about her. She’s starting to get on my nerves with her petulant negativity towards her employers. Her way of dealing with her work situation reminds me just too much of how my Exgf went about things that almost always resulted in a lot of bad feeling all round. Her obstinacy rivals my mother’s. I’ll try to help The Saffa and perhaps she’ll respond well to new tricks?

As the week unfolds I help steer her away from the rocks of where she would have lost her job and probably moved in with me for a while. Her employers have started handing her written letters that seem to have been crafted by a lawyer. I temper her response but it’s hard work. Her handling of the situation is piss-poor and I’ve lost a bit of respect for her.

On her afternoon off she comes to visit me. As usual we get down to conventional sex in my bedroom. I eventually came with her on The Hook, she’s shouting “please fuck me in the arse”. It’s just naughty talk but it always makes me cum. It has been four days since my last release and I’m sore and leaden, but feel so good after my orgasm; it’s one of the best of my life.

She brought the tube of KY Jelly and I raised an eyebrow. We’d always joked about trying anal sex because of the size of my cock. She confessed to having done it twice before with other guys but was intimidated by my cock. It’s not something I crave but she keeps bringing it up.

It was time for her to go home but she started kissing me all over again. She knows how I like that but she was again going to be late for work. We ended up trying anal sex, but only the tip of my cock slid in – quite nicely too – but she couldn’t take it and sprang away from me. We laughed about it, even as her train departed at exactly when she should have been reporting for work.

Unsurprisingly the next night she phones me and tells me of the drama that ensued because she got back to work more than an hour late the previous night. I try to calm her then try to talk sense into her, but she’s not wanting to listen to anything I say. The Saffa deliberately talks over me each time I try to say something. I fall silent, then she falls silent. I start to talk and she talks over me, several times and intentionally. She is now seriously pissing me off.

“Dammit! Will you listen to me?!” I bark.


She put the phone down on me.

Whaaat the fuck?! I don’t deserve this from her. I’m trying to help her. Ungrateful bitch.

I believe that all it takes for a relationship to break down is for one person’s behaviour to become unacceptable to the other person. I’ve been on this roller-coaster with other women and I’m not getting on it again. That’s it, our increasingly tainted love is over! She’s history.

Fuck it! I hurt Busty Czech for her. I gave up an expensive holiday that I badly need so as to have The Saffa in my life. This is the thanks I get?! I’m angry, angrier than any woman has made since I left my Exgf. I also feel foolish for putting my eggs in one basket.

Driven by a rage that permeates my body more comprehensively than Mexican tap water, I go onto Tinder. I spot the awesome-looking woman that I think of as The Artist, someone whose profile brought me to a standstill the first time I saw her earlier in the year on my Happy Humping Ground dating site. Excitedly I swipe right, but we don’t match. Disappointed I move on and click on a dozen pretty blonde faces.

Overnight I get two matches and start swapping messages. In a matter of hours I’ve set up a date for tonight, Friday night and another for Saturday lunchtime. What nobody knows is that I’m not looking for love with these two women. I’ve been reading unsavoury reviews of what Tinder is about and it seems to have degenerated into a hook-up app. Yet another woman, this time The Saffa, has made me exasperated towards women in general. Very few are interested in love, most just want sex. Fine, maybe I’ve been a blind fool, so if this is the real game in town I’d better start playing by the correct set of rules!

I’ve never had a one-night stand, maybe it’s time to broaden my boundaries. If all that women on Tinder want is sex then their honesty frees me from any emotions resembling love. I’ll just fuck them and dump them; they know the score. For the hell of it I’ll rattle The Saffa’s cage, put her through the wringer for a while before I dump her too.

On Friday I tell The Saffa via a text message that I was meeting a male friend that night. I smile as all sorts of questions start coming in via Whatsapp about details of where I was going, what I was wearing. She was suspicious and you know what, I didn’t feel too guilty about it. I felt anger towards her and going on another date with someone new and intending to bed her at the end of the night felt devoid of moral bankruptcy. I felt entitled to do what I wanted after the past week of her bad behaviour.

I’ll fuck one horny slut on Friday night then another Tinderella on Saturday.

I couldn’t know that I was about to meet the woman I shall refer to as ‘The Cockaholic’.

Tainted Love – Marilyn Manson

Of Mothers and Fathers

There is something important that I have learned in my dating adventures. If you want an instant insight as to a woman’s relationship history and how a relationship with her will be going forward, you only need to ask her, “How would you describe your relationship with your father?” Whatever she answers will tell you everything you need to know.

The nature of my working life has revolved around my ability to quickly spot trends and patterns. I can’t help but do this when listening to people telling me about themselves. It’s a professional hazard, but one I enjoy. It feeds my analytical side, the part of me that helps make sense of the world around me. Other people might not like it, but it serves me well. Don’t worry, I carefully hide it when on dates.

After sitting across the table from almost fifty women in two years, this is what I have seen. Nature’s Grand Conspiracy has dictated that daughters are more influenced by their fathers and boys by their mothers. This cross-bonding sets that little person up for life when it comes to dealing with their love-life.

It has amazed me how common and accurate my observation has been. I feel that I have helped some women I’ve met when, only after deciding that I won’t be seeing them again, I use their words in response to my question and ask if it applies to their relationship history, that they then have their own epiphany. It’s as if a light-bulb has literally gone off above their heads.

We all have a relationship style, an unthinking way of how we expect things to be at the outset and over the course of a relationship. We get this from our parents. Sometimes we strive for the opposite of what our parents inadvertently teach us; I am of that mold but more about me later.

The beginning of any relationship is the exciting fun part, we all know that, but it’s the bit afterwards that we all struggle with. Some of us never get to the afterwards because of ideas we hold in our heads, feelings that we expect and cling to, so the change to a stable, predictable, almost boring relationship is too much to take on and we withdraw. I’ve seen that several times with the women I’ve dated. They just don’t know how to let things be and they cling to the romance phase. Some baulk at the first sign of change because with that comes the unknown, something us humans are pre-programmed to fear.

I’ve also seen in my own dating experience that the less interested in a girl I was, the more interested in me she was. If my internal attitude was one of, “Hmm, yes, I suppose you’re okay.” then a woman would do all the running and I would be in the driving seat in the relationship.

If I was very taken with a woman, then I couldn’t help but let it show. She then had all the power in the relationship, I did all the running. It became hard work and usually didn’t last very long. Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl taught me this.

So if I can contain my interest when I meet somebody I want, play it cool, then it’s more likely to work out in my favour, i.e. lead to a relationship.

I now find myself wondering if the feeling that this approach gives off to a woman reminds her of her father’s attitude to her. Always there, never dominating, letting her be and being there for her, physically and emotionally. So, are women looking for a man who makes them feel like their father’s did?

I’m inclined to say “yes”. However, it’s a qualified one because there are few other factors that influence proceedings, primarily ‘power’ in a relationship. That is something I’ll be sharing my thoughts on at another time. For the time being I’ll say my behaviour provides a feeling that gets their attention, while later seizing the power in the interaction keeps their attention.

About two-thirds of the women I have met through dating have admitted to having bad or terrible relationships with their fathers. Some don’t even know who their fathers are. Of course that’s not their fault but it has left them somewhat compromised in the relationship stakes. Baltic Babe had only recently started communicating with her father. Musician Gal told me never to even mention her father the first and only time I asked about him. My Exgf’s parents divorced when she was one and she didn’t have a male role-model in her life until she was seven.

For a while I thought my “aloof but interested” approach was causing a problem but then I realized that no approach would work with some of these women. They are just too messed up permanently or temporarily confused by a past traumatic relationship experience. Lusty Lass, Cat Lady and Krazy Girl were of the latter.

Something else I have learned is that if a woman has “daddy issues” then aside from a turbulent history with men, the sex is good if not crazy. If her relationship with her father is normal and healthy then, apart from relatively few relationships, the sex is average to bland.

These women with daddy issues seem destined to ride a Carousel of Cock, an endless stream of strangers that they use sex to attract but then become fearful of or lose interest in. The attention they garner makes them feel good about themselves for a short while, but then they need another fix from another guy. With so much sexual experience they pick up skills and fetishes that make playtime phenomenal fun, but they just can’t sustain a loving relationship. They drift from lover to lover, perpetuating the same sabotaged relationship style over and over. Krazy Girl and my Exgf are classic examples of this. They don’t know how many times they’ve been had nor do they know who’ll be next. I wonder how it ends for them. A song from Rodriguez comes to mind.

So how does any of this apply to me and my situation? A lot of what I’ve discovered applies to men too. I’ll use myself as an example.

First, I know that my own relationship style is a consequence of my upbringing. My relationship with my mother was terrible and has only in recent years progressed to bad. In the endless war between my parents my mother used me as a pawn against my father. I can count on my hands and have fingers left over the number of times my mother allowed me to be alone with my father. There was no real reason for this other her conceit and spite. I resented her for this.

When I was with my father I saw a side to him that very few people did. He was gentle, thoughtful and attentive to me. When he was with other people he was proud, imposing and loud. I didn’t like who he was then and have only come to terms with that side of him in recent years. He grew up during the Great Depression and it scarred his psyche because his was a poor upbringing. He once told me of eating pumpkin every night and his trousers his mother had made from torn Hessian bags that the pumpkins came in. Children at his school made fun of him for it. All his life he craved social respectability, status and acceptance, the things he never got in his formative years.

My mother is a poorly educated, unintelligent and stubborn person. In her twenties and thirties she was a perfect ten in appearance, but Nature’s Grand Conspiracy decrees that what it gives in abundance in one area it takes from another area. So many of the nines and tens that I’ve dated and bedded were great to look at but unpleasant to be around. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of your parents, but I’m just stating the facts. I’ll illustrate by way of an example.

I’m a little boy, about eight years old and we’re out for a Sunday drive on a baking highway near our city. Suddenly smoke starts spewing out of the front of the car and my father pulls us over to the side of the road. It’s lunchtime and we haven’t seen a car for some time and none are to be seen in the distance where the unforgiving African sun is melting everything into a silvery shimmer. I sit in the back seat of our Mercedes as my father gets out and opens the bonnet. Steam covers him and my mother gets out to investigate too. My father owns a garage and a car dealership while my mother can’t park her car.

“Do you think it’s the battery?” she asks him as the steam from the broken radiator pipe abates.

“Why don’t you use your head?” he retorts.

“What?! I must use my head against the battery?! Don’t be so bloody stupid,” she snaps back. An argument commences.

That’s an humorous moment from a private war that saw nightly fights, upturned dinner tables, thrown objects, kicks, tears, bouts of drunkenness on his part and the occasional not coming home for several nights. I’d go hide in my bedroom, finding sanctuary with toy soldiers or comics. I remember many Summer nights lying on the grass in the backyard, using my dog as a pillow and staring up at the stars waiting an uneasy truce to break out. Neither of them ever came to look for me.

And so it was between the two of them, day in and day out, year after year until the stress of it all caused my father to have a fatal heart-attack a few years after that incident by the roadside.

My mother never once said or did anything that made matters better, only worse and that applies to everyone she interacts with. She couldn’t care less what anyone else feels and never for an instant stops to consider the consequences of her words. She has a serious attitude problem but will never change. I got through my teenage years not because of my mother’s efforts but despite them.

It doesn’t surprise me that I want the opposite of what they had. I want a loving relationship characterized by harmony, respect and co-operation. Those last three elements, I can see, are becoming increasingly central in my quest for love. I know now that my marriage was based on my need for this. I felt emotionally safe with my ex-wife. That is my relationship style.

My childhood has also played a role in my decision not to have children because I feel unequipped having never had good role models. Maintaining a loving relationship is hard enough, what are the odds of success by complicating it with a child or two?

Sadly The Saffa is starting to remind me of my mother. She is as stubborn and unwilling or unable to say or do anything to make things better. Hints of it came my way during the squabbles over lunch and pancakes. I can see it clearly in her handling of the dispute with her employers. I fear that she’ll soon be out of work and homeless and looking to me to help out. I don’t need or deserve that responsibility. I have money problems of my own, I have no room for charity. Besides it is also a dreadful way of coming to live with someone you’re seeing, especially someone new.

The Saffa’s parents divorced when she was little and her father moved to another country. She only saw him a few times a year when she was shipped off to him. Her mother didn’t remarry until later in her life. The Saffa has what can be best described as a turbulent relationship history. I doubt that there will be harmony with her while co-operation will be difficult to achieve at times. Each petty argument will be like an addition to death by a thousand paper cuts, eventually respect will die.

I’m also starting to suspect that she is bit of a drama queen. If there isn’t some kind of drama happening somewhere in her life, she’ll create it.

I have heard it said that a weak woman will drag a man under and a hard woman will drag a man around. I’ll add to that truism by saying that a stubborn woman or drama queen will drive a man crazy, perhaps even to an early grave.

I don’t feel emotionally safe with The Saffa. That’s what has been bothering me.

Rodriguez – I wonder

My troublesome Trust Demon awakes

I’m meeting The Saffa and it’s a sunny, tranquil Sunday morning. It’s the end of September and unseasonably warm. I’m not sure how today will play out after the petty arguments of earlier in the week. We kiss hello outside the Royal Exchange at Bank and she’s immediately her chatty self. My concerns appear misplaced; it seems as if nothing bad has ever happened between us.

We make our way down to the Docklands Light Railway where we get a front-row seat on the train so that she could experience what a train driver sees. We alight at Canary Wharf to walk around the Cathedrals of Capitalism; she has never seen anything like it. Then we get back on the DLR and travel under the Thames into Greenwich. We walk around the village area, feeling the history then wander around the Old Royal Naval College where she is captivated by the chapel which has an impressive Baroque interior.

The Maritime Museum is next and she wants to stop and look at every exhibit which is natural, but we could spend the entire day here while I have plans to show her much more. By now we are getting hungry and I lead us to a nearby indoor market where we buy and share all sorts of foreign nibbles and delicacies. The Saffa smelt somebody’s chips doused in vinegar and salt, so she craves that. We find a traditional English fish and chips shop where she gets her craving satisfied. We stroll off to Greenwich Park where we lie on the grass eating our motley lunch. When we finish eating she asks me to lie on top of her; it was a feeling that she just had to have. I oblige despite feeling very self-conscious with hundreds of people around us. She really lives without boundaries.

Next I take her up the hillock that is presided over by the Royal Greenwich Observatory, the place where time is measured from. Unknown to her it is also where I asked my ex-wife to marry me. It’s closed, so we stand outside at the vantage point taking photos of the surrounding London skyline and Canary Wharf. We walk back down the hill and along the way we are passed by an absolutely stunning Eastern European girl dressed in all white to match her hair. The Saffa spots her and remarks, “Did you see the heels she was wearing?” I pretend to not have seen her. In my head I was remarking to myself how attractive that girl was, but how I could never ever have the kind of connection with her that I have with The Saffa. There’s a lot to be said for cultural similarity. My days of being attracted to Slavic women are over.

It’s dusk and we end up at a Jamie’s Restaurant where we find a comfy sofa and share coffee with pastries. Conversation never once runs dry between us, but that would never be a problem because the Saffa is something of a chatterbox, so much so that she is prone to talking over people. It’s rare for me to finish a sentence, which I’m starting to find annoying.

The only blight on the day was that she was regularly venting about her work situation. She’s now in a dispute with her employers about her Wednesday afternoons off. From what I could see The Saffa was taking liberties with her time off and her employers were laying down the law, but she didn’t see it that way. No amount of trying to apply reason would change her outlook. Fearing becoming embroiled in yet another silly argument I have to change the topic several times before she lets go of it.

It’s getting late so we head for the trains, catching the DLR back to Canary Wharf where we change to the Jubilee Line. I have to change en route to get my train home, so I have to say goodbye to her on the train. Not the best kind of good night kiss, it’s always too rushed.

I have enjoyed the day. Is she ‘The One’? In my heart I don’t think so. There’s something about her that is bothering me and I can’t identify it. It’s stopping things from blossoming. Do I enjoy spending time with her? Very much so, but it feels more like friendship and not love. What am I going to do? I’ll give it time.

Late on Monday she tells me that some old high-school friends were wanting to meet up later that night. She loves spontaneity, so I think nothing of it, other than wondering about her employer’s opinion given the current impasse about her taking time off. The next day on Facebook she posts several pictures of her with three guys in a pub. I see no problem.

On Wednesday The Saffa comes up to my place. I make her a strong massaman curry which she loves. The spicier they like the food, the better the lover; I’m convinced of it. We watch some Californication which she is becoming addicted to. Almost predictably we started making out then fucking on my sofa.

Krazy Girl contacting me the other day made me realize that I regret not filming her and I having sex. It’s a strangely satisfying thing to see yourself in action and it helps to improve technique. Whether or not things work out between me and The Saffa, I want some memories of us together, pleasuring each other. I had recharged my camera battery the day before, so in a premeditated fashion I began filming us fucking.

We’re both naked and The Saffa is sitting on the footstool, looking at the television. I switch the camera on, position it perfectly on a table and point it towards her.

“No, what are you doing?!” she exclaims as I stride over to her.

Without saying a word I point my cock towards her face and all resistance is broken. She comes forward and latches her mouth onto my penis like a starving baby getting its bottle. The footage ends with her being on all fours on my sofa, her d-cup breasts flopping about. I’m fucking her from behind, pulling her silky blonde hair back with one hand and I’ve got a thumb up her bum.

“Ja, fuck me. Ooh, fuck me harder,” she shouts out just before she cums with that little squeal of hers.

Still on The Hook she slumps forward onto the sofa while I continue to do my thing. It isn’t long before my cock is pumping and squirting hot, sticky cum into her tight little pussy that has a slight curvature in just the right place. I pull out and she spins around and sucks my cock dry.

We cuddle up on the sofa under a throw for a while, but eventually the time nears for her to have to go back to work in London. I don’t want her situation with her employers getting any worse because of me.

“Sweetie, isn’t it time to catch a train?” I ask.

“No, I want some more of your cock,” she says, leaning over to my groin, pushing the throw away.

“Hey, you don’t want to get into trouble at work,” I counter.

“Agh, fuck them,” she says as she latches onto my cock and starts sucking away on it.

I look down at her in disbelief and she does what she does best. What is her problem? Does she have some kind of death-wish going on? I try to figure it out while she expertly brings my orgasm to fruition and savours the proceeds.

Not long afterwards we’re scampering towards my train station as her train is arriving. A hurried kiss sees her off. It’s just turned eleven o’clock, the time when she’s supposed to report back to her charge, but the trains will take another hour to get her there. I turn and saunter back home, my head full of questions about her self-destructive behaviour.

On Friday morning The Saffa tells me that she had used up all her nights off for the week. Then later in the day tells me that she’s meeting her old school friends again that night.

Hmm, my trust demon awakes and rattles his cage, yearning to break free. I haven’t felt him for a while, thinking him in an icy hibernation, his black little heart frozen. I’m wrong. He’s alive and well and trying to protect me.

I go onto The Saffa’s Facebook page and do some reconnaissance. I notice that in preceding weeks, when she was supposed to be “working”, that she was out partying with friends. She told me that she only gets Wednesday afternoons and Saturday afternoon until Sunday evening off. The date and time-stamp of photos that she and other people have posted of her tell me otherwise. My analytical eye sees that one of the guys has appeared in photos thrice in the past two weeks.

She’s lied to me, there’s a mystery man on the scene and she is deliberately courting danger with her employers.

I see trouble ahead…

Lindsey Buckingham – Trouble

Fiery lunch and angry pancakes

Monday starts with The Saffa initiating intense sex and she cums twice on The Hook with her squealing piggy sound; ever so cute. We go to The Stables Market in Camden Town to sample exotic foods and textiles where we spend the day.

At lunchtime we stand looking at all the options around us. And we stand and stand while she can’t make her mind up. This takes me back to our earliest dates where I noticed her indecision over trivial matters and rash reckless decisiveness over important matters.

Noticing lengthening queues , without a word I step over to a Chinese takeaway vendor and order what I want, thinking she could catch up. For several dates now she was expressing her discomfort at my paying for everything, so I thought here’s a chance for her to pay for herself.

By the time she had decided what she wanted – the same food as me – I was halfway through mine. I noticed a change in her body language and frequency of eye-contact. We sat and ate in silence until I coaxed it out of her what was bugging her.

“Want to tell me what’s the matter?” I ask, like many a fool before me.

“You couldn’t be bothered to buy me lunch,” she snaps back.

Oh, the drama. She was upset that I didn’t buy her lunch? A heated exchange follows until an uneasy truce breaks out. I hope that this behaviour is short-lived because I have no time for a drama queen. A little damage has been done as I don’t appreciate petulance and mixed messages.

I calm the waters and distract her with silver jewellery, her favourite trinket. She hasn’t been sleeping well at her place of work/home, so that night we decamp to my home in the countryside. It felt quite sweet to be walking through the door with her into my home. I really wasn’t comfortable with her living arrangements; not private enough.

The next morning, a Tuesday, I get up leaving her slumbering in bed and go to make us pancakes. I have a recipe that has worked just fine for many years. The mix was made and first pancake is under way when The Saffa joins me in the kitchen.

In less than minute she is telling me how to make pancakes and quizzing me on how I made the pancake mix from scratch. I told her my method and it wasn’t to her liking. She keeps going on about how I’m doing it all wrong and it won’t be edible. I ignore her and keep doing what I know works, but she keeps going on and on about how I should be doing it her way. A silly argument ensues and in a moment of utter frustration I shout out, “Why can’t you just let me do what I want?!”

The Saffa storms off into the lounge and throws herself down on the sofa, folding her arms and legs, tapping a foot against a coffee table.

Oh, good grief. What a shit way to start the day. I was wanting to surprise her with breakfast in bed but she wouldn’t let this happen for some reason.

I know that in the affairs of humans there is a process that all new relationships have to go through, irrespective of whether it’s in the workplace, sports team, military unit, friendship or romance. 1) Forming. The participants come together and commence interacting. 2) Storming. Boundaries of acceptable behaviour are established via argument and confrontation. 3) Norming. Roles are accepted and a hierarchy is clear. 4) Performing. The group gets on with the task.

In a romantic relationship the ‘Storming’ stage is where a couple find out – consciously or unconsciously – who is the senior partner. The couple hopefully learn how to deal with their inevitable differences. If they’re lucky they find out how to argue constructively. The relationship will not progress until the ‘Storming’ or ‘Shouting’ stage is completed. Many a budding relationship has wrecked itself at this stage. The sad truth is that very few of us know or are taught how to argue constructively. I certainly don’t.

Swallowing hard, I take a deep breath and go into the lounge to make peace. The tapping foot slows down as somehow I find words that soothe. The pancakes are presented and they get eaten with long teeth on her part. The day crawls by with polite platitudes and a noticeable absence of anything sexual. Eventually I see her off at the train station in the early evening with a feckless kiss.

After the blow-up over pancakes and the un-bought lunch things just aren’t the same. The magic is gone and the chemistry between us is flat. My outburst may just have lost me a good woman. My lack of self-control comes with price, just like it does with other people.

The Saffa phones me when she gets back to London and mentions that she has bought a pregnancy test kit; her period is several days overdue. That came out of nowhere, but mercifully it proves to be a false alarm, or so she tells me the next day. I really must be more careful otherwise I could find myself raising a kid with someone unsuited to me.

My mind keeps asking if she’s The One? The doubts are growing and the arguments haven’t helped. I’m starting to think that she’s not ready to put her heart in my hands and perhaps for good reason as I might just be a monster. However, is her behaviour a fucked-up defence mechanism to test my resolve and protect herself? I don’t know. I know very little about her inner workings. As voluble and volatile as she is, her true feelings are kept hidden from me. Was some of her attitude driven by the thought of being pregnant by me? Or was it good ol’ pre-menstrual syndrome? Why doesn’t she just talk to me?

Borne out of a sense of frustration I find myself thinking of swapping naughty texts with Exgf, but I decide not to. To my great surprise Krazy Girl sends me a text message, so my mind wonders over to fond memories of her and the kinky things we never got to do. Again I invoke some self-control and ignore her because I’ve been down that road and vagina enough times to know where it leads to.

The Saffa and I swap cheery, positive messages and pictures via WhatsApp for the rest of the week and she phones me at night time after work. Superficially everything is hunky dory, but to me the magic is obviously gone and not likely to return. I feel like I have fucked this up with my outburst over pancakes.

We’re stuck in the ‘Shouting’ stage. How am I going to get us out of it?

Once again what was clear, shiny black and white has become an amorphous, opaque grey.

Joan Armatrading – The Shouting Stage

Great Balls on Fire

I go into London to have my hair cut in Covent Garden at a pretentious chop-shop in preparation for what should be a memorable weekend. The Saffa’s client is going away for a long weekend and she’s invited me to spend the weekend with her, which I gleefully accept. Busty Czech is now history and I can hopefully forge forward towards love.

I arrive mid-afternoon at The Saffa’s place in a swanky part of London and we share drinks in the sunshine on the patio. The alcohol goes down easy and we take photos of each other, fully clothed, but striking suggestive poses. It isn’t long before we are on her bed fucking.

Something my quest for love has taught me is that if a woman has gone without sex for six months or more, when she has it on tap, she’s ravenous for it. It becomes a central part of her daily thoughts which in itself exaggerates her need for it. Once that switch has been flipped and a woman has sex on the brain nothing else will suffice, which is nice for her man if he has a normal appetite for sex.

We’re going at it missionary style, she has her arms and legs wrapped tight around me; I love that sensation of being one. The Saffa uncouples her arms and pushes up against my chest, forcing me to look at her.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, stopping my gyrations, fearing that I’m hurting her. Then I realize that it might be because we might not be alone again.

I’m wrong.

“I want you to choke me,” she says.


I’ve heard of this and it’s naughtier cousin auto-asphyxiation, but it’s not something that has appealed to me. Never has a lover asked for this. I’m not too sure how to do this, but if it’s what she wants then I’ll try it while being careful.

“Are you serious?” I counter, just to check before proceeding.

“Ja man, just do it. If it’s too tight I’ll let you know,” she answers.

So like that, for the first time in my life, I gently strangle a woman while fucking her. I think it’s a bit weird as my hand grips her fragile throat and her eyes go big. Apparently all’s fair in love and war, but I’m inclined to add ‘sex’ to that saying.

I start squeezing tighter and tighter while fucking her harder and faster. The Saffa cums with an almighty blast of air spat into my face and a series of break-dance-like moves with her body then squealing like a little pig. If I hadn’t recently had the displeasure of Busty Czech’s full-throated screams then I might have thought badly of The Saffa’s sounds, but now I just think they’re cute.

Without stopping I keep going vigorously as she deals with the aftershocks of what must have been an above-average orgasm for her. My balls clench tight and it’s time for my baby-batter to breathe. She’s further along in her menstrual cycle and I don’t want to get her pregnant.

“Where do you want my cum?” I ask. There’s no predicting her answer I’m learning.

“I want it all over my face. I love it,” she wheezes.

That works for me and within seconds I’m straddling her chest. The Saffa has closed her eyes, opened her mouth, is sticking her little pink tongue out while she’s holding her hair back with a free hand. Women hate having cum in their hair, no matter how much they like man-milk.

I haven’t climaxed since Busty Czech jerked me off last Saturday night so I’m eager to unburden myself as my balls have been aching for two days now. I usually become uncomfortable after three days so this is a recent record of some kind for me. Today I was having headaches and feeling ready to explode. I can’t cum soon enough!

A few sharp tugs of my penis leads to a sweet eruption of sperm flying out of it. Dollops of it land on the bridge of The Saffa’s nose and then gravity forces it to separate into two smaller splots that slowly slide down and around her face. It just keeps coming, there’s so much of it and it’s thicker than yogurt. I’ve never covered a woman’s face with so much sperm before.

“Agh, ja, yes,” she says, keeping her eyes closed before running her tongue around the edge of her mouth, collecting sperm on the tip of her tongue as she goes, then curling her tongue and retracting it, swallowing my cum.

In my earlier question of whether she’s kinky or perverted, I’m inclined to say the latter.

Saturday we have sex again first thing which she initiates. She cums while being on The Hook and asks me to cum on her breasts which she smears in with a devilish smile. Afterwards we go to Spitalfields Market where she is happy to give respect to every stall selling anything from around the world. After that we make a brief visit to Brick Lane just before closing time because she wanted to buy a trinket she saw the last time we were there.

Saturday night ends with us having sex in her bedroom again. At least she hasn’t asked that we baptise every room in the little old lady’s home, but it’s early days. It’s getting late and the lights are out because they were never switched on. We’ve been at it for quite a while.

“I’m getting a little dry. I need some lube,” The Saffa says.

She had told me that she’s always had a bit of a lubrication problem in the past and this is the first time that she’s reached for some jelly. No other woman that I’ve been with has had this problem, even the older ones, so I decide to let her lead proceedings because I don’t really know what works for her. I’ve never ever even seen a container of lubricant.

“I need to smear it on your cock,” she tells me after fiddling with a small bottle in her bedside drawer.

The Saffa starts applying this strange smelling stuff to my erect penis, balls and scrotum. It feels quite cool. I like it. I wonder how that will feel like to her?

“Oh shit! My hands are going warm!” she exclaims.

“What’s going on?” I ask while enjoying the cool sensation on my genitals.

“Oh no,” she whines as she switches the bedside light on and reaches into the drawer. Two hexagonal-shaped little bottles are held up to my face. The one label mentions ‘lubricant’ in its name and the other says “Tiger Balm”. The latter is a menthol heat rub used in Asia for all sorts of muscular ailments. It starts off cool, heats up and then warms the muscles with a fiery effect.

“Quick! We have to get it off,” she says running out the room to the bathroom.

At this point the cooling sensation starts to subside and is becoming noticeably warmer. The Saffa comes scampering back with a wet facecloth but, alas for my genitals, she’s too late and it’s too little. Her efforts to wipe the ointment off fails and she’s really just smearing it deeper in.

A warm glowing sensation quickly intensifies into a burning feeling all over my cock. Within seconds my penis’ head is ablaze, my shaft is an inferno, my balls are jiggling about like they’re in a cauldron and my scrotum is shrivelling up like paper in a fire.


My heart-rate must be close to heart-attack territory and I’m hyperventilating. I don’t know what to do. Does water make it better or worse? Can anything make it better?

The Saffa is reading out the information on the little bottle of Tiger Balm, but I can’t hear her because of my internal screams. Dante’s Inferno has nothing on this.

Fuck! The conflagration is spreading to the skin around my groin and everywhere else is getting more intense, even worse! I get out of bed and feel like jumping up and down from the pain. The hottest chilli on earth being stuffed down my urethra would be less painful.

I can just hear it now: “Do you remember the time we got to go to the hospital with a sex-injury?”

After the longest minute of my life this hell starts to abate to a mere simmering barbecue of my penis and testicles.

“I’m so sorry,” The Saffa keeps saying but then she breaks out into a laugh.

I see the funny side of this and laugh along.

Eventually an acceptable numbness becomes a welcome respite that I can live with.

This passion-killer interlude leads to us lying in each other’s arms, laughing some more before falling asleep.

Sunday morning starts with sex again, which she initiates. Thankfully I don’t seem to have any nasty leftover side-effects from the Tiger Balm. I was very concerned about the future of my privates. Luckily I have no desire to father children.

This time she asks me to cum on her back. Easily done as we’re doggy-style and she’s on The Hook. The Saffa doesn’t mind at all being on The Hook. In fact, I suspect that she likes it because she cums hard like that.

After breakfast we make our way over to Portobello Road market. We catch a bus and sit upstairs taking in the sights of London. I don’t know it got there, but some Tiger Balm must have landed on my clothes because my lower back is on fire. I sit squirming on the bus to such an extent that a curious Japanese tourist took a photo of me. I can imagine her commentary back home: “Look, some crazy people on buses in London. Use Tube, safer.”

Yes, Tube safe, lube not so safe.

We spend the afternoon walking around Portobello Road, enjoying the sights of real crazy people selling weird things to people who must be crazy to buy any of it. It’s a perfectly sunny day, too sunny. Perspiration is mixing with the Tiger Balm on my back and it’s driving me crazy. The Saffa can’t stop laughing about it.

I made her tits bleed, she set fire to my balls. All square now?

What’s next with her?

Jerry Lee Lewis – Great Balls of Fire

Bye Busty & hello Saffa!

“I was just starting to fall for you,” Busty Czech laments in reply to me telling her that we won’t be seeing each other any more. It’s been a long Monday and I’ve spent it checking my thoughts about her and The Saffa one more time before deciding that I get a much better feeling from being with The Saffa.

I make the phone-call I’ve been dreading after 8pm. I find the usual string of words I’ve used with other women to let down Busty Czech as gently as I know how. I say what I have to as slowly and compassionately as I know how.

“I’m in shock. I didn’t see this coming,” she says as I scrunch myself up emotionally on the other side of the phone.

“Are you still coming on the trip with me on the weekend?” she asks.

“No, I won’t be. I’m sorry,” I say with a heavy heart.

“So I suppose you won’t be taking me to the airport either?” she continues, the true implications of my words still not having sunk in properly.

“No, I won’t be doing that either,” I reply, biting my lower lip.


“I think I know you well enough to know that you won’t change your mind,” she says.

I keep quiet. Why add to the damage?

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you can come on the trip but on a friend’s basis?” she asks.

If she knew there was another woman on the scene she’d go ballistic. I think it best that she doesn’t know because why add anger to the mix? There’s also no way I can go away on this trip because then I’d lose The Saffa for sure and she’s the one that I want.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I counter. If we did go away it would probably lead to loud screaming sex, our hearts in turmoil and an even more complicated situation for us both.

After a few moment’s contemplation “Oh, okay,” she says, seemingly resigned to our new fate.

The call takes a more practical route by way of me suggesting alternative logistics for her to get to and from the airports involved and dealing with her luggage that would be too much for her to handle by herself.

Her tone subsides to that of pained acceptance as I end the call. I know she’s going off to cry her eyes out on her bed now.

I have to stop doing this to women.

This was not the best way to have ended the day that was my birthday.

My next morning starts with my phone having an epileptic fit from all the messages The Saffa has sent me on WhatsApp, text and email overnight. I call her from my bed and tell her that I said adiós to Busty Czech. Her silent response hints at a sense of relief on her side, but maybe I’m reading too much into it.

I’ve been thinking about how The Saffa’s been perceiving matters between us thus far. She must really want me if she’s been so patient about my getting rid of the unwelcome extra person on the scene. I don’t think I’d have been as understanding as her. Maybe she has things to teach me?

We end up indulging in sexting with us sending photos from our phones that get both of us off. I confess that I initiated this. The Saffa is sitting in a bay window at her employer’s home. The old lady she’s looking after is still asleep. The Saffa is wearing only that blue silk robe that she suggestively takes off, one photo at a time.

The Saffa’s as naughty as me, possibly naughtier. She seems willing to follow my lead. By comparison she’s a lot more fun than Busty Czech, the latter is riddled with issues and negativity.

But is this love?

Whitesnake – Is This Love

Sea of Love

I’m meeting The Saffa at Piccadilly Circus, annoyed with myself that I hadn’t ended it with Busty Czech. Last night was a fun disaster, but I know the way forward now. I was anticipating seeing the delight on The Saffa’s face as I delivered the little speech I had prepared yesterday about how I had ended things with Busty Czech. Now that speech is redundant. I don’t know what I’m going to tell her now.

She’s standing under the big, bright lights amidst a throng of gawking tourists. Before The Saffa spots me I notice that her body language is tense; a clenched jaw, stiff spine and folded arms tell me all. Her eyes look a little red and sore. Has she been crying?

The hello kiss is perfunctory and the atmosphere between us is frosty as we start walking to get away from the crowds of tourists. Within a minute we are standing outside the Trocadero, facing off.

“Have you ended it with her?” she demands to know.

“No, not yet,” I answer.

“That’s it! I’m out of here!” she says and starts striding away from me.

Like a little schoolboy in a playground I run after her.

“Wait! Hear me out, please,” I implore as I hook her nearest arm.

The Saffa stops, folds her arms and frowns at me. I’m only going to get one shot at getting this right. Words please don’t fail me now.

“You’re the one that I want. I went to her last night to dump her and I just couldn’t time it right. I’m going to do it tomorrow,” I say.

“What?! You saw her last night?! I don’t believe you!” she retorts.

“Like I said, it was to say goodbye in a decent manner. She doesn’t deserve a crude phone-call or text message. The most important thing is that it’s you that I want,” I reply.

“I don’t know what to do?” she says.

“You don’t have to do anything. This is my mess and I’m dealing with it. Tomorrow she’s history. I promise,” I say as emphatically as I know how. I mean my every word. It pains me but I have to dump Busty Czech by phone.

“Hmm,” she mutters.

“Look, why don’t we just try and have a nice day together? I’ll show you some sights I think you’re going to love,” I suggest, hoping that her questions have been thwarted and that I can distract her so that she calms down. I don’t like seeing her distressed like this, but it’s my fault and I need to make amends somehow.

I take a step towards Leicester Square, turn towards The Saffa and smile, hoping that she follows my lead. Will she?

She hesitates, leans forwards as if to take a step, is thinking furiously, obviously in an emotional state, then finally takes a step to stand next to me. Inside me I let off the biggest sigh of relief I’ve ever felt. That was close, but I’m not yet in the clear.

We walk onto Leicester Square, welcomed by the cacophony of entertainment parlours, bustling restaurants, noisy pubs and grumblings of fleeced tourists. After a minute The Saffa unfolds her arms and I wait a few seconds until I gently take one of her hands in mine. She doesn’t pull away. Gently does it with her today.

We do a lap of the square and then I lead her to a bus-stop. We hop aboard the number fifteen bus which follows a route that takes in most of London’s famous sights as we make our way towards Brick Lane. I play tour conductor as she starts to relax. By the time we get off the bus near Brick Lane she’s her talkative self again.

She is amazed by the sights, sounds and smells of all that is on show at this street market on this perfect Sunday morning. We walk around the colourful, exotic markets and fragrant stalls, but I don’t remember seeing much; all I have eyes for is The Saffa. She is so mesmerised by what she is seeing (she’s a magpie for silver jewellery) that she doesn’t notice my staring at her. I just want to wrap my arms around her and hug her until she cries from happiness.

After sampling food snacks from around the world I lead us to another nearby area of London. For a laugh I take her to the sex-shop on Hoxton Square, but it is undergoing a revamp so only a few things in the basement are on show; very disappointing. We sit at a bar on the square, talking, just talking, laughing often. It’s how it should be. We could have sat there until dawn. I don’t think we’ll ever lack for conversation. We do it for each other mentally. It’s a good start.

However, a part of me is still holding back, reluctant to totally let go with her. After being burned by the other false starts, a little bit of me is scared of being disappointed again. There’s no rush, is there? I’m determined to let this play out in it’s own time, in it’s own way.

At the moment we’re like two otters playing together, entwined as one, twisting and turning through a warm sea…perhaps the Sea of Love?

We go back to where she is staying and working, looking after a kindly old lady. The Saffa and I go out on the patio to share a coffee and cake, but become embroiled in a silly, pointless disagreement over a mutual high school friend. I’m ambivalent about this female friend whom The Saffa adores and she gets upset over my not feeling the same way. This altercation spoils the day a little for me.

I’m learning that the way to clear the air with The Saffa is to distract her. I ask her to come with me to my car. She’s happy to do so and we catch a bus to where my car is parked in Hammersmith and I then drive her back home. Our kiss goodnight is a passionate one and we agree to get together next Sunday.

I drive back past Hammersmith and remember all the times I came to be with Busty Blonde. I swore to myself that after I had to hurt her by saying goodbye that I wouldn’t do that again to another woman. I feel I’ve let myself down, but at the same time how do you go about dating without letting people down if you decide they’re not right for you?

I don’t remember much of the drive home to my place; my head is filled with thoughts about The Saffa…and how I was going to have to hurt Busty Czech to be with her. Someone who was sweet and kind, in a delicate frame of mind, who did not deserve pain, but who isn’t meant for me.

This dating game can be brutal, it’s the nature of the beast.

Honeydrippers – Sea of Love