Category Archives: Dating tips

Date #56 – The Artist – Final part

It’s a bitterly cold Wednesday noon at the end of February 2015. I get to Tower Hill almost an hour earlier than our date, so I scout out the area and find a coffee shop near the Dickens Inn that I’ve never been to. I don’t want to spoil The Artist on the first date despite my wanting to make a good first impression. With time to kill I go to another coffee shop close to where we are to meet and I sit thinking about her and how this date could turn out. I’m really nervous and I don’t know why, but I suspect because I sense real potential with her despite the odds being against me. I know that in her country of origin – somewhere in central Europe – people are incredibly class and status conscious and if she’s of that mindset then we’re both wasting our time. Nothing ventured, nothing gained; it’s time to go find out.

As I sit nursing my over-priced coffee, I realize that this is the best I have felt about myself in several months. Something I’ve been wondering about is did my state of depression come about because I come off a high induced by copious amounts of exciting sex with glorified strangers? There was certainly a pervasive adrenaline rush that I was operating under for several years; I think of it as a prolonged sexualized state. I stopped the sex and the cold turkey stage was my depression?

I can’t think about that now, it’s finally time to meet The Artist. I make my way over to the exit to Tower Hill Tube station where I find a good spot to see and be seen. Thumbing my phone, I’m standing sending her a text message saying that “your knight in dented and tarnished armour is at his spot” when a crowd of people come through the turnstiles. I send my message and look up, wondering if she’s a new arrival. Out of the corner of my eye I fleetingly spot someone who might be her, but I don’t stare. It is her and she comes up to me.

The first impression of The Artist is not a good one. I had been wondering if she might be overweight, but the size of her shocks me. Then I realize that she’s wearing a poncho and her arms are by her side and that makes her look bigger than what she is. Her face is pleasant enough but not nearly as pretty as in all the photos I’d seen on the internet.

I kiss her hello on both cheeks out of habit, despite reading up the previous night that in her culture that that is not the done thing, but she seems happy enough about it. I’m wearing my regular first date outfit of blue jeans, white shirt and smart blazer. Without saying a word she slips a lapel of my jacket between her fingers and I think that she tries to say that I look very smart but I suggest that we get out of the way of the crowds.

“Are we going to St Katharine Docks?” she asks.

Fuck it. I was so hoping that it would be a wonderful surprise for her. So few Londoners even know it exists because it’s right next to Tower Bridge, an area heaving in tourists all year round so locals avoid it.

“Yes,” I say, with a scowl on my face.

“I’m sorry, have I ruined your surprise?” she asks.

“You’re no fun,” I retort and we laugh.

Her laugh is nothing special, but at least she has a sense of humour. People from her country are not famous for their sense of humour. I really can’t be bothered to conjure up an alternative plan on the spot so I decide to soldier ahead with my plan. I really want to see her in surroundings familiar to me, that will make it easier to see her in context.

“How do you know about St Katharine Docks?” I ask.

“My parents brought me here on holiday when I was a teenager and we stayed in the hotel there,” she replies.

“Oh, by the way, how do you pronounce your name?” I ask, not sure if it’s the French or German pronunciation. She tells me and it’s the German version.

“Do you know how to pronounce my name,” I ask, curious as to whether she knows how because native English-speakers struggle to get it right. She says it correctly and I’m impressed. She probably asked someone at work.

As we walk to St Katharine Docks the banter between us is relaxed with a healthy tinge of nervousness at times on both our parts. She’s very smiley and chatty, but I’m still nagged by a feeling of disappointment because it looks as if she made no effort to get dressed up for this date at all. I find that a little disrespectful. In the moment I realize that it’s perhaps not an entirely bad thing because if she was drop-dead stunning I would be so intimidated that my dating behaviour might be thrown off kilter.

We settle into our seats at a table in the coffee shop that I had scouted out earlier. Banter is incessant and comfortable, consisting largely of me asking questions and her doing the talking. She does like to talk. We order coffee and a tiramisu each. Most women on a date are very reluctant to eat anything, preferring usually something neutral to drink that they can nurse for a while. As they become more comfortable in my company they relent and order something, usually because hunger has caught up with them. Not so with The Artist, oh no, she keeps talking and still manages to finish her tiramisu before me. I don’t think anybody has managed to do that before.

As we talk it becomes evident to me that we are an intellectual match for each other. We both have an interest and ability to observe people’s behaviour. We both love history and travel, both have lived in several countries and speak several languages to varying degrees of fluency.

We have many other significant things in common in that we both come from unhappy childhood homes. Her mother died when she was 22 and my father died when I was thirteen. She is also an only child; I think we might be able to understand each other in a way few others can.

I find myself talking about the same old things that I have with the dozens of other dates that I’ve been on in recent years, but today it feels different; today it feels like it really matters. Swapping our life histories feels like the natural thing to do and I find hers mildly interesting. I’m paying attention because I know already that I want to see her again. From my side I feel some chemistry, but of course I have no way of knowing what she’s feeling.

As she speaks I become more taken with her appearance. I can see the good pictures of her on her profile, so if she makes the effort she can scrub up nicely. She has pleasant green eyes that seem soft and loving. Her skin is on the milky-white side but still touched by the sun, yet there are few blemishes. I don’t think that she’s the 38 years old that she states on her profile, she looks younger, but I’m not going to say anything, but will instead see how long it takes for her to come clean with me. Her golden-blonde hair up tight in a confused bun probably adds a few years. I bet she’s beautiful with her hair hanging down, just like in her profile photo that I’ve stared at so much.

So far I’ve come across with active interest and remember to go passive disinterested on her, so I deliberately turn sideways and lean back against the window behind me. She almost instantly leans forward, keeping the distance between us the same, which tells me that she’s very comfortable with me and wants to maintain the vibe.

I can feel the sun on my back and she gets some sun on the front of her, nevertheless I realize that is on the chilly side in this coffee shop, probably from the refrigeration equipment. It surprises me then to see The Artist every few minutes taking another layer of clothing off until she is only wearing a thin vest-like top. I make a concerted effort to not let her catch me checking out her breasts; I know it comes across as lame and immature to a woman notices a man doing that. I also know from female friends and Busty Blonde that their breasts are something they are particularly cautious about.

So it surprises me further when The Artist sits back in her seat, puts her arms around the back of her seat and essentially sticks her breasts out at me. I deliberately don’t look, struggling manfully to fight Nature and keep looking her in the eye. Only when she looks away a few times do I stare at what I consider an amazing rack; I would love to fondle and kiss them. How does she not fall over when she walks? Patience; she’s either subconsciously trying to attract me or is deliberately doing this for whatever reason. I would prefer it if it was the former because that makes it more sincere and powerful.

Conversation between us twists and turns easily and naturally. It becomes evident to me that we have a very similar way of looking at matters and interpreting them. I sense that she has a gentle nature, but more importantly I come to the conclusion that she is a Good Girl and a Giver. I can trust her and I already know from her life story that I can respect her. I’m starting to sense serious relationship material here.

Its been a couple of hours now and I don’t want this quick coffee date to end any time soon, but it’s getting cold in here and these seats are uncomfortable. I didn’t want to do this on our first date for fear of spoiling her if I thought that there would be a second date, but walking over to the Dickens Inn is the obvious thing to do. Will she want to do this? It’s a big assumption to think that she’s as interested in me as I am in her, but ‘he who fears rejection never knows love’.

“I’m getting hungry. How about we go share a pizza and a drink over there?” I suggest, nodding toward the Inn, holding my breath as I await her answer.

“Yes, I am too. Sounds like a good idea,” she says without any hesitation.

Oh yes, I think she’s feeling what I’m feeling too. Her smile and eyes hint at this. I also get the feeling that she wants to touch me; I don’t know why I think this, but I do. She goes off to the ladies and I guard her belongings that she has left at the table. I sit there in a mild stupor, contemplating the hereto unimaginable in that I might have finally found The One. Stop it, I’m being stupid, it’s only been a few hours…but I can’t help feeling this way.

Upon her return I say “My turn,” but I don’t go to the ablutions and instead go settle the bill for our coffees and cakes. I steal a glance her way and she’s sitting staring out at the marina, smiling to herself. She looks happy.

I return to our table and help her get her layers back on. She seems quite at ease with me doing so, unlike some of the other women I’ve dated who didn’t have a clue what was going on or didn’t like it. The Artist is as classy as I was expecting. Good, she might appreciate some of my old-fashioned touches and in the next few hours together I’ll know for sure, not just about that, but a host of other things too.

“We need to pay,” she says.

“I’ve already taken care of it,” I respond with a wry smile.

“Oh, well then thank you,” she retorts.

“You’re welcome,” is all I say. Hmm, she has manners too; that’s good. So many of my dates haven’t had the common decency to say ‘thank you’ for anything.

We get seated in the Dickens Inn at a quiet table away from the hubbub and my regular waiter gives me a knowing wink. He’s not done that before. Does he know something I don’t?

Pizza and wine is ordered quickly, something I pay attention to wondering if she’s a ditherer. To my delight she’s decisive and orders the spiciest pizza on the menu and asks the waiter for a bottle of tabasco sauce. She likes her food spicy, which pleases me because I know it’s a sign of her being an enthusiastic lover.

We make pleasant small-talk about our travels and I ask where she wants to go to next. It’s a ploy I’ve used in the past with other dates, getting them to project forward about something positive as this makes for a pleasant date. Today my question isn’t about mind games, it’s genuine interest. The Artist rattles off a series of places that I’ve already been to, but I say nothing, pleased again that she shares an interest in similar places. I can see myself going back to these places with her, especially China, Japan and Turkey.

We lose ourselves in conversation and an idea comes to me as we finish dessert. I do my old dating trick of presenting her my spoon laden with dessert to see if she’ll play along. She has the same dessert on her plate but to my delight leans forward and with a naughty tinkle in her eye takes my spoon in her mouth.

My heart thunders as I smile.

Another idea comes to me, all my moves are coming out tonight.

“What colour are your eyes?” I ask.

“Light green,” she says.

“I can’t see. Come closer,” I respond.

She leans forward again, leaning her breasts on the table.

“I still can’t see. Closer,” I say.

The Artist smiles, I think she’s rumbled my plan, but nevertheless leans over as far as she can.

I lean forward, my lips stopping just short of hers. I look her in the eye.

She almost stands up out of her seat, her elbows on the table propping her up and our lips meet.

Her lips feel like fine strands of silk.

She has no hesitation in kissing me, that’s good. As first kisses go it’s not bad, but not as good as I would like. Maybe I’ve been spoiled in the past?

The Artist smiles and sits back in her seat, there’s a hint of a blush.

“Did you write to me hoping that I would answer?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, with a coy smile.

The restaurant staff noisily start closing for the night and we realize that we’re the last patrons. I settle the bill while The Artist goes to the ladies. She makes a point of thanking me for paying when she returns to the table and realizes what I’ve done.

Walking back to the Tube station I stop her twice and under a clear moon above we embrace in increasingly passionate kisses. I don’t want this night to end. I want to talk more, get to know more about her, make plans for the future and walk around holding her hand. I resist the urge to extend the evening and risk spoiling it somehow. I’ve learned it’s best to end a date on a good note, leaving the woman wanting more. We say our goodbye at the Tube station, agreeing to be in touch again.

She is one of the prettiest women I have met for a date. I struggle to think of a woman I’ve met with bigger breasts than her. She is definitely my intellectual equal and we both love history. I think that she’s very sweet and has made her fair share of mistakes in relationships.

I’m disappointed by her poor dress sense for a first date; a shawl, a gilet and a poncho is not very elegant. In the grand scheme of things that’s trivial.

Can I live with her imperfections? Yes, at the moment they seem petty. Do I realistically think that I can do better than her? Possibly, but it will take a long time. Do I think I can fall in love with her? I’m inclined to say ‘yes’, but it’s only been one date.

I consider it quite an achievement to have gone on a date with her. I’ve felt a bit on the defensive the whole time since I first saw her profile because she seems a social class above me, now having met her I still feel that way. However, I want to see where things lead with her. There are two milestones in the future, the first is getting her to sleep with me and the second is to have a relationship with her. I’m pretty confident that I can bed her, but it’s too soon to say if we can have a relationship.

I am so taken with The Artist that on my train home I send a text message to someone whom I’m supposed to meet on the weekend saying that I’ve met someone else and that her and I won’t be meeting any time soon.

The Artist feels good and right, perfect even, but I’ve been here before.

Jeff Buckley – Hallelujah

Date #49 – The Cockaholic

I’m going to fuck her on our first date then I’ll never see her again! That’s what I’m thinking, that’s what this experience with The Saffa has made me feel entitled to do. Women just use men as playthings, outlets for their issues, solutions for their problems, items on their agenda. They abuse men, not caring for the consequences of their actions, not stopping for an instant to think of the damage they might be doing. That can work both ways.

My date for tonight, a match off Tinder, initiated our text conversation with “Your profile really caught my attention! :)”. It’s always a good sign when a woman initiates communication because it’s a giveaway that she is keen, almost desperate to meet. Of course she might be saying that to all the boys.

Her profile has no words and four pictures, one of them used twice. In one of her pictures there is a hint of decent breastage. Her hair is a light brown and not the typical blonde that I go for; I thought it time for some variety. She’s adequately pretty and in one of her photos she’s the tallest of a group of women. I’ve never fucked a tall chick; it’s been on my Fuckit List for a while.

I responded courteously and asked where she was. To my great relief she was in the next town over; nice and convenient if anything were to come of us. I suggested that we meet up and she quickly replied accepting this and offering to come over to my town. I suggested a good pub and cheekily offered to let her park at my apartment complex; the latter touch being a practical convenience for me as it would be easier to lure her back to my shag-pad.

She made a comment about being nervous, which I allayed. My experience tells me that she’s recently out of a long-term relationship, still a little cut up about it, has decided to go dating driven by her friends nagging her to “get out there”. No doubt someone said to her, “the best way to get over someone is to get onto someone else”. My gut tells me that she’s this type. I’m expecting her to be skittish in the beginning, therefore I must play it cool and let her warm to me.

First we’ll go to the pub, I’ll ply her with alcohol then I’ll get her back to my place on the pretext of watching Californication. After the second episode I’ll make my move and kiss her…then see what happens.

I have no real idea what to expect her to be like as her profile is blank. She could be everything that I don’t want. However, I feel that if she is attractive enough to me, I’ll try to fuck her tonight. She’s taken up my offer of parking out in front of my apartment block which also makes things so much easier seeing her off in the morning. For all I know she’s just out to get laid. Given her eager interactions so far I’m expecting this might be the case.

She reminds me of Wild Child of last year: lots of energy, chasing her tail in her own little bubble, but not relationship material. When it gets down to being physical is when she is likely to withdraw. Another woman she reminds me of so far is Krazy Girl – very keen to meet me. If she’s more like the latter then we’ll fuck on the first date, which would be new territory for me.

All that from just a few text messages? I’m probably wrong, but we’ll see.

She arrives on time just as it’s getting dark and I meet her in my car park, approaching her from the side. Her luxury German sports car looks out of place here. She doesn’t spot me approaching as I eye her up and down. Not as attractive as I would like, but good enough to fuck. I startle her with my “hello” and she backs away from me, but a few laughs later and we are smiling at each other. She is tall with the top of her head being in line with my chin, but she is wearing high heels.

From the speed and tone of her speech it’s clear that she is nervous, so I decide to calm her down by doing the talking initially. As we walk I get a good, positive vibe off her and we maintain eye contact for very healthy amounts of time. In the past, when dates have been uninterested in me they have usually avoided eye contact.

We walk into the pub where I had lunch with my Exgf yesterday. (More about that another time.) I lead her to a comfy leather sofa in a quiet corner away from the noisy crowd who are jostling for attention, like peacocks fluffing out their feathers hoping to attract a mate. I’ve got mine for the night, now it’s just a matter of slowly seducing her.

I lean back on my side of the sofa, our knees are almost touching. My adopting the passive-disinterested attitude from the outset leads to her sitting erect in her seat, paying rapt attention to my every word. She smiles continuously and I start to think of her as ‘The Smiler’. She laughs heartily at my weakest of jokes and I’m not sure whether this is out of nervousness or genuine appreciation. I don’t think it really matters because we have, after all, matched on Tinder where physical attraction is everything.

“So what exactly about my profile caught your attention?” I ask, doing a bit of research and also reminding her what she likes about me, ramping up the sexual tension.

“Your height. I like tall men,” she answers, her hands laced over each other, resting in her lap on new blue jeans.

Yes, she looks quite submissive. I can just imagine her naked in my lounge, squatting with her hands like that over her bare knees, her nipples erect, her eyes pleading as she opens her mouth and I feed her my cock.

“What else do you like about tall men?” I ask, flirting dangerously.

“Oh, you know,” she replies with a naughty smile and twinkle in her eye.

“No, I don’t . How about you tell me,” I coax, knowing full-well the effect of my words.

“I can’t do that here,” she answers, feigning indignation, her eyes darting towards the crowd.

“Where do you want to tell me?” I tease.

In her head I can just hear her brain saying “somewhere private”. I want her thinking about being private with me. First seed planted.

She’s silent and blinking at me while smiling. Good, she isn’t offended. I think her nipples must be hardening.

“Would you like a drink?” I offer.

“Yes, a cider is my favourite” she says.

“Mine too,” I say and I go get us our drinks.

The Smiler must be thirsty because she finishes half of her pint in two quick gulps. I’ve just had a sip, but it’s deliberate. As part of my plan for tonight I’ll get her slightly drunk which will lower her barriers and increase the likelihood of her spreading her legs for me.

We talk some more, I direct the topics making sure that they’re positive ones so as to set her at ease. By the time she’s finished her pint she’s also sitting back in her seat more relaxed, so much so that she has let her knees come forward and they’re resting against the side of my thigh. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or inadvertent but that all-important physical barrier has been breached. Getting a woman to be touch me first is a massive step towards the bedroom or lounge floor or back seat of a car.

Like so many of my dates she is a high-powered business professional. What I’ve learned is that such women use sex as a release from the stresses of their working life. Making decisions all day, every day leads to them wanting a man to take charge, to tell them what to do and they will gratefully, willingly comply. What’s a woman like her who can afford the most expensive of dating sites, a proper match-making service even, doing on Tinder? It just has to be for the sex. This date gets better by the minute.

Smiler is now becoming quite chatty and tells me that this is her first foray into dating in over two years. In my hands she is like a lamb to the slaughter. Inside my head I laugh to myself because this is almost too easy while at the same time I squirm out of guilt because of my intent. The bonus is likely to be that she is ravenous for cock. To quote one of my favourite comedians, “Her pussy is so disused it might be haunted.”

As time slips away and her laughter becomes more dirty and it dawns on me that I am now the smooth operator that I spied on a date more than a year ago with The Matron.

Back then I would never countenance doing what I am planning to tonight. Have I grown or degraded through online dating? Right now I think it’s the latter, but I don’t care. Love seems like a fool’s errand and the best that is on offer for me is the slippery, warm comfort of a new lover’s body under me.

Smiler finishes another cider while I’m still nursing mine which is now room temperature, almost as warm as the pub. The air is clammy with restrained excitement, testosterone and oestrogen as around us lonely, horny people find their target for the night and subtly makes their desire known. I watch as people with wedding rings make their illicit bargains with strangers and then leave. There are going to be several cars left overnight in the car park. The devil in me wants to come back in the morning and let the air out their tyres, but I reckon I’ll be pre-occupied then.

It’s time to close my own deal.

“What colour are your eyes?” I ask, remembering this ruse from my first date with Career Girl.

“They’re blue,” she says, as if I hadn’t noticed.

“I can’t see. Come closer,” I respond.

Smiler sits upright and leans slightly forward. I can see clearly, like I have been able to all night.

“I still can’t see, come closer,” I say, not moving in my seat.

She comes closer and our noses are almost touching, she’s struggling to keep her balance without falling onto me.

“Closer…” I whisper.

She smiles just before our lips touch. We kiss lightly, then tenderly, then more firmly. Yes, it’s good kiss, so she’s going to be a good lay. Second seed planted and it’s time to escalate.

I pull my head back and, as I expect, she has her eyes closed. They flicker to life, telling me that she wants more. Oh, I’ll give you more, more than you’re perhaps expecting. She smiles, leans slightly back and looks satisfied with herself. I wonder who’s playing who here? No, I’m in charge. This is my one-night stand.

“It’s getting late. How about we call it a night?” I say, spotting a look of confusion on her face as her latest smile disappears.

“Oh, okay,” is all she says as she gropes the sofa for her handbag, keeping her eyes on me.

My seemingly abruptly ending the encounter I know catches her by surprise. It’s deliberate because I want to knock her out any sense of safety that she is now feeling with me. I want her to feel suddenly off-balance and unsure as to what is going on, then I’ll lead her along the path I want her to follow. Third seed in place.

“Do you like chicken?” I ask as we leave the pub and get hit by cool, fresh air.

“Yes, why?” she counters.

“Better take a wing then,” I say, offering her my arm.

Smiler first guffaws, then bends over slightly as she laughs, laughing like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard before coupling up with me.

So easy, it’s all so easy.

Now for the acid-test moment, that instant when it’s make-or-break for my plan. It’s time to harvest the seeds.

As we approach the car park outside my apartment complex, I stop, we uncouple arms, she stops and turns to me.

“You know that show, Californication, I was telling you about earlier? Fancy watching the first two episodes with me?” I ask and swallow hard, biting my lower lip.

Smiler thinks about it, she’s no fool, she knows what can happen. She looks at her car.

“Your car will be okay,” I say and then take a step away from her towards my home, my sofa, my footstool that is waiting for her.

She hesitates, smiles impishly and then steps towards me.

To be continued…

Online dating profiles

I’m taking an hiatus from online dating until someone remarkable catches my eye. I’m reflecting on my two years on the dating scene. Two years of drama, craziness, varying degrees of sex, times of learning, episodes of amazement and downright determination.

I have some tips that I’d like to share with you. This is going to be the first of some of the lessons I’ve learned about modern dating. Today deals with dating profiles and the build-up to a date.

Online dating has a visual bias, there is no denying this. With just one look we can form an impression of someone, or worse, an attachment. We are likely to click on someone we like the look of because that is how we are attracted to someone in the real world too. It is no surprise then that people whose profiles have no photos included have a quieter dating life. That’s to say I’m talking about a conventional dating site and not esoteric sexual niche websites. If you are on a regular site and you never get messages, then you might get the impression that nobody likes you.

Nobody likes me.

Nobody likes me.

It might be that your profile isn’t working for you and it needs some attention and thought. A sense of rejection on a dating site should not discourage anyone or give them reason to embark on desperate measures to entice someone into their life.

Van for offine dating. Sweets optional.

Van for offine dating. Sweets optional.

Once you’ve spruced up your dating profile you’ll start to get attention and eventually somebody will seem worthwhile to meet for a date. You’re not attracted to everyone so don’t expect everyone to be attracted to you. Attraction isn’t a choice and you might be surprised by who finds you attractive. An open mind is key.

First date potential.

First date potential.

It is vital to project the correct image, so give some thought to the photos you’ll be using. Often your favourite photo might send out the wrong message if you’re not careful. Many people like to include their cherished pet in their photos in a hope to attract someone who has a liking for the same creature. Sometimes this can backfire.

A man's favourite pet.

A man’s favourite pet.

At the same time it is good practice to scrutinize the photos that someone has chosen to post on their profile. Look away from their face and see what the surroundings can tell you. You might spot a few warning signs. For example, they claim to be a non-smoker but all their photos show them holding a cigarette.

Check details in photos.

Check details in photos.

As a general rule I would advise against meeting someone if you don’t know what they look like. This applies to men and women. A look of surprise or disappointment on your face might not be the best start to the date.

Your next blind date?

Your next blind date?

Because of the nature of the internet being a relatively anonymous medium, there are people who abuse dating sites for their own ends. Occasionally you’ll encounter people who are not even the gender they claim and often they are after money.

Anybody can pretend to be somebody online.

Anybody can pretend to be somebody online.

If you’re a guy looking for a gal, with time you’ll learn that there is a code that women use in their dating profiles. Their narratives after a while start to have similar terms. With a bit of dating practise you’ll crack the code.

Women code for dating profiles.

Women code for dating profiles.

If you’re a lady then I must inform you that, sadly, not all men on dating sites are as they portray themselves to be. Men are likely to lie about their jobs, height and relationship status. This is not the norm, so don’t let a few bad apples spoil the cider.

Some men lie on their dating profiles.

Some men lie on their dating profiles.

I have noticed that there are far more attractive women then attractive men on dating sites. That can work in a chap’s favour, not because he might be handsome, but because he has the confidence that women appreciate.

Nobody is out of your league.

Nobody is out of your league.

I have it on good authority that modern online dating is also prone to some rather unusual behaviour. Sexting, the swapping of intimate photos, is becoming commonplace, so much so that some men consider it standard practice. Don’t let anyone intimidate you into doing this.

Sexting extortion

Sexting extortion

In the same vein there are women who are pretty explicit about what their needs and wants are. A camera-phone and mirror is often involved.

Lick it. Women can be explicit too.

Lick it. Women can be explicit too.

It’s a common and easy mistake to develop an online crush on someone before you’ve met them. Don’t spend too much time swapping messages and phone-calls because you might create a false impression of someone who is radically different in real life.

Not everyone on the dating scene is sane.

Not everyone on the dating scene is sane.

What matters most when going dating is having a clear idea of what you’re about and who you want to meet. Keeping that in mind should keep you out of trouble…unless trouble is what you’re looking for. ;)

Your self-perception is vital.

Your self-perception is vital.

Just please be careful not to fall for someone on the basis of just one look at their dating profile.

Happy dating!

The Grey Knight

Doris Troy – Just one look

Bitch profile dissected

I came across a pretty face on PoF, read her words then laughed to myself. I was having a moment of deja moo: I’ve seen this bullshit before. First I’ll show you her words, then I’ll show them again with the subtext garnered from my years of experience. This might be shocking to some but these are the things I’ve learned after having conversed with hundreds of women, dated almost fifty and tried to have a relationship with a few.

—————————————————————————————–

About Me

I am here beacuse my friend says it’s fun. We shall see. ;)

I am looking for someone who doesn’t like to make drama.

I ride my blue bike wearing my Vans shoes and my Burberry trench coat on my way to work, I hate public transport!

I always say what I want in general but sometimes I think first.

If all you can talk about is sex or if your lookig for a booty call, don’t even bother to message. I will find you boring straight away.

I work for a luxury fashion retail. I love good food, movies and talking to intelligent ppl.

First Date
Out for a drink or dinner when we could have a proper conversation. :)

—————————————————————————————–

Seems sweet, fun and harmless, right? Not so. Here’s what two years of interacting with women like her has taught me what lurks beneath the surface of her hastily contrived online facade.

—————————————————————————————–

About Me

I am here beacuse my friend says it’s fun. We shall see. ;)
[Spelling error indicates her disdain for all this; can't be bothered to check her writing. Doesn't really want to be doing this; it's half-hearted to appease a friend. The only way people get her to do anything is to nag her. Willing to deceive a friend. Judgemental – will swap endless emails with a guy and never go on a date with him. She will be picky and high maintenance.]

I am looking for someone who doesn’t like to make drama.
[Because she'll provide it all, I assure you. Has a turbulent history with men. English might not be her first language.]

I ride my blue bike wearing my Vans shoes and my Burberry trench coat on my way to work, I hate public transport!
[Fashion-slave; abhors practicality, snob; likely to die in cycling accident on way to work because she's always right.]

I always say what I want in general but sometimes I think first.
[Tactless, outspoken loudmouth who will embarrass anybody and everybody anywhere. Opinionated and headstrong. Major reasons for her being single.]

If all you can talk about is sex or if your lookig for a booty call, don’t even bother to message. I will find you boring straight away.
[She's getting irritated by having to write this, it's so beneath her, hence another spelling error. Eventually finds all men boring, another reason she's single. Hasn't had sex in a while, hence her bringing it up and being on this site. Probably needs a regular good shagging to calm her down.]

I work for a luxury fashion retail. I love good food, movies and talking to intelligent ppl.
[I'm demanding, hard work. My job defines who I am. Social status is important in my world, so you better have a good job. She doesn't earn that much hence being on a free site. Will ultimately be disappointed by calibre of men on PoF and will speak badly of online dating because of it. Bad grammar and text speak confirm her not being English. If you're good-looking, have money, can cook and are intelligent, I'll spread my legs for you.]

First Date
Out for a drink or dinner when we could have a proper conversation. :)
[You're paying mister but only after countless silly emails spanning weeks but will dash off to meet a guy if he's really good looking because she's shallow. She loves getting stuck into a good debate, probably likes to argue as a form of foreplay. On the positive side, she's clearly a sapiophile, so a brainy hunk will get her wet in a matter of minutes.]

—————————————————————————————–

Her only email setting contact criteria is that the man has a photo; looks matter a lot to her. This setting also hints at her not really expecting a long-lasting relationship, just a fling. This superficial airhead has no redeeming value to men other than as a brief sex toy, which will quickly become predictable and boring because she knows what she likes and that’s all she’ll do. She probably won’t give oral but will gladly accept it.

She has eight photos to her profile; the typical woman has just four. The more photos a woman has the higher the opinion of herself and vice versa. Self-esteem has bubbled over into self-obsessed with this girl. Any kind of relationship will be all about her. She’s a classic Taker.

Two years ago I would have thought her a sweet-hearted neophyte gingerly feeling her way through the world. She’s probably a recent arrival in London looking to broaden her social circle. Her job and its trappings have wowed her and she’s revelling in the experience of luxury. She knows what she likes and won’t be easily swayed. She has a mind of her own and isn’t afraid of expressing herself.

Such a naïve outlook has been replaced by my current more educated view of a woman such as her. There was a time when I would have approached her, but I’m wiser now and give such women a wide berth. Depending on the website, a quarter to a half of profiles will be like hers. This is not indicative of womankind, but says more about dating sites because women like her linger longer.

She’s becoming a typical London girl, portraying herself to anyone who will listen that she’s a “strong, independent woman.” There’s a special aisle in a supermarket designed just for her. It has wine, ready-meals and cat food, all located together for her convenience.

Undateable singleton aisle.

Undateable singleton aisle.

If I woke up next to this girl and she was sleeping on my arm, I would rather gnaw my arm off than wake her.

I find it interesting that the same world I have known for so long I am now seeing through different eyes. My education continues and I know it’s not complete.

Depeche Mode – World in My Eyes

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…

Travel Gal surprises

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued…

Date #41 – Busty Blonde

I was swapping messages with Travel Gal when someone else caught my eye. This new woman had words and ideas that intrigued me because I identified with everything she said. The only problem was that she was six years older than me. That was offset by the fact that one of her profile photos showed her in a bikini, sporting the biggest pair of breasts that I had ever seen on a dating profile. I could put the age-gap to the back of my mind and if she was young in spirit then it shouldn’t be a problem. Quite honestly, whenever I thought of her, the image that popped into my mind was that of the bikini photo. I couldn’t help wonder what those breasts would feel like in my hands. In a moment of inspired brilliance I dubbed her ‘Busty Blonde’.

Travel Gal was spending the next two weeks in southern Africa for work, visiting new hotels and game lodges that were hoping she would send business their way. I wouldn’t be seeing her for some time, which suited me fine because I wanted to meet some more women in the hope that I could make an informed choice.

Busty Blonde and I swap messages on the national newspaper’s dating website and we get along as well as can be expected via such a limited, tricky medium. I’m still thinking of Travel Gal’s snobbish way of speaking which irritates me, so I suggest to Busty Blonde that we have a chat on the phone. I have reservations about her because of the age-gap and I’m starting to believe that all women’s dating profile photos are at least five years old. I’m forming a theory that the older a woman, the more likely she is to use old photos.

The Wanderer is sitting on my sofa in my lounge as I withdraw to my bedroom to speak to Busty Blonde one week-night. It’s 8pm and she’s just got in from work. Is this why she’s single – a typical London Girl married to her job, no time for a relationship? Our chat is pleasant enough, but I’m struck by how old she sounds. It feels like I’m talking to a pensioner but I know that voice calls distort our speech which is why I’ve avoided screening calls in the past. Towards the end of the call Busty Blonde sounds serious and sceptical because of the questions she asks me about recent relationships. I find it difficult to discern what someone is saying when I can’t see their face or properly hear their tone. I decide to end the call before it spirals out of control and descends into nothingness.

I’m not too sure what to make of our conversation. It wasn’t sparkling and began to feel defensive for reasons unknown to me. The single greatest thing that comes out of it that I’ve learned that she’s Scottish. That gives some cause for optimism, given my track record with English women. I decide to suggest a date and do so via email, thinking that she’s probably not interested in a man so much younger, but I’m wrong when she responds suggesting meeting this Sunday.

Could she be The One?

It’s a typically overcast grey Winter’s day as I arrive at Tower Hill Tube station’s exit. Instantly I spot Busty Blonde standing waiting for me. The first impression is underwhelming. She looks her age, perhaps a few years more even and I’m not filled with any sense of desire. Lust at first sight is not to be ignored but today it’s missing. I’m not used to dating a woman with wrinkles. She’s wearing an expensive-looking long brown winter coat that covers everything so no sign of those massive boobicles. Busty Blonde gives me a wonderful smile as she recognizes me. At least she has a great smile.

I kiss her hello on the cheek and give her a smile of my own. She’s tall for a woman, coming up to just under my nose. Photos never really give a proper sense of proportion. I can only guess that like most women she prefers her man to be taller than her, which I am, but I’m not sure that I can pick her up if I needed to. On her profile she describes herself as ‘curvaceous’ which is refreshingly honest, but the term can hide a multitude of sins. Those boobies must have extra wobble to them.

As we approach the stairs that lead down to the pedestrian subway, I turn to Busty Blonde and say, “Tell me something, do you like chicken?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Take a wing then,” I say, extending an elbow to her.

She bursts out laughing and a second later slides her arm around mine, shaking her head as she does so.

“That’s so cheesy,” she says.

“Yes, I know, but it made you laugh,” I reply.

That moment was our ice-breaker, the instant from which a bond began to form, the moment when defences started to crumble. I’ve always used that ruse as a way to test a woman’s sense of humour, to see if she would appreciate mine because I can be quite punny. Now I think of it primarily as a way of getting a woman comfortable in my presence.

I lead Busty Blonde to St Katharine Docks, somewhere she had heard of but never been to, despite her having lived in London for twenty years and, as I would learn, worked only half a mile away from it. The world over people do not do touristy things in their own back yard. Instead they scrimp and save, fantasize and plan for the day when they get to see what others take for granted. Funny lot, us humans.

We sit at a table for two in the pizzeria restaurant of the Dickens Inn, somewhere I’ve had dozens of dates in the past year and half. The Slavic waiter who has almost always attended me and my date greets me with a raised eyebrow. Is he silently asking, “Where the hell have you been for the last two months? My tips are down because of you!” Or is he hinting that this date is a little old for me? Maybe he’s thinking, “Ah, the gigolo’s back”?

Busty Blonde and I get along like two horny rabbits, only having eyes for each other and thoroughly engrossed in what the other is saying. We’re an obvious intellectual match and have much in common. We both left high school and have made our way in the world by dint of hard work and having the courage to seize opportunities when they presented themselves. We’ve both achieved managerial positions because of our abilities and not our contacts. I respect her for that.

The afternoon rolls by as conversation wanders aimlessly and easily, lubricated by a bottle of South African chenin blanc. I pepper the conversation with open-ended questions, letting her tell me more about herself in a natural manner. She’s open and direct, just like me, so I appreciate that. Busty Blonde is also far more bubbly and positive than what I was expecting. She seems to one of those people who is permanently happy and positive.

After a couple of hours I come to the conclusion that Busty Blonde is a thoroughly good person, imbued with old-fashioned morals and values almost identical to mine. There’s still an innocence about her, an unblemished view of the world that I used to have until I started online dating. My antics and experiences from dating have taken that innocence from me and sitting there talking to Busty Blonde, I realize that it’s never going to return. It’s gone forever.

The sun comes out to bathe London in a hazy light. With lunch over and the date going well, we mutually decide to stroll along the Southbank. It’s a pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon, walking past buskers, street artists, scammers, galleries, ticket touts and people who have scrimped and saved to visit our back yard.

Busty Blonde and I walk and talk, eventually ending up in a quiet corner of a Thames-side pub. Another bottle of South African wine goes down easily while banter and laughter flows between us. I’m having a good time and so is she. To me it feels like I’ve reconnected with a long-lost friend, but there’s more it than just that. After months of disappointing experiences with other women, in mere hours it feels like she has lifted my spirits, brought me back to life. She exudes goodness and silly fun and for some reason that I still don’t understand, it makes me feel safe with her.

Her coat is slung over the back of a nearby chair and for the first time I get a hint of her mammaries. Even in the snug confines of her blue sweater they’re bigger than I expected. How does she not topple over? There’s a lot of bounce to the ounce there.

By now we’ve each the equivalent of a bottle of wine in us. Does she notice me occasionally peeking at her breasts? Or is she used to men doing that? Well, she did post that revealing bikini photo on her profile. On a dating site doing that is the equivalent of walking topless down a busy road; men are going to look.

Amidst a bout of laughter, under the slight affluence of incohol I lean over towards Busty Blonde, she responds instantly and we kiss. I do my usual thing of keeping my lips soft and using minimal force before being the first to pull away.

“Gosh, you’re a good kisser,” she remarks, blinking frenetically.

I just smile and continue talking about the topic at hand, as if nothing had happened. I’ve never really enjoyed kissing because it does very little for me physically, but I do enjoy the effect that my kisses have on women. It usually gets their sexual motor running. My having just kissed Busty Blonde sends the signal that I not afraid to escalate matters to the sexual level. Other women have told me that this is where many guys fall short because the woman was interested in having sex with a guy but would never make the first move for fear of seeming like a slut or coming across as desperate or gagging for it which usually leads to only a one-night stand. I’ve never been backward in coming forward so this has never been a failing of mine.

Something else I’ve learned courtesy of all my dates is that laughter mixed with alcohol turns a woman to putty in my hands. If she starts using the same words as me, parroting my exact words and ideas back at me, then she’s mine. Busty Blonde has been doing that for most of the date. I think it’s safe to assume that she’s keen on me.

The atmosphere between us has now been heightened but conversation is not affected by it. We talk some more before I lean over and we kiss again, this time for longer. This repeats itself periodically for the next hour or so. It feels like we could talk all night but I know not to let a good date end on a flat note by letting it go on for too long. Busty Blonde must be reading my mind because she starts saying that she needs to go home as tomorrow is going to be a challenging day at work for her. I didn’t ask what that meant but I was intrigued. In hindsight I should have asked.

By now darkness has spread itself over London, shadows smothering light, warmth giving way to cold. I don’t relish the thought of another Winter alone. What would Busty Blonde think or say if she knew that The Wanderer would be keeping me warm tonight?

I walk Busty Blonde to her Tube station and the banter between us just keeps flowing. This date has been a pleasant surprise, but I’ve learned not to put too much stock into a first date. We kiss one last time before she gets on her train. She beams at me once more from her seat before being whisked away.

Two fun dates in the space of a week. Maybe me and older women are a better match? Maybe I’m seeing things differently? Maybe I enjoyed this date with Busty Blonde because it felt like she had brought me back to life in some way? Whatever the reason, I want to see Busty Blonde and Travel Gal a few times more each. None of us have committed anything to each other, it’s ‘all just dating’. That’s an expression I saw recently that helps make me feel less guilty about dating several women at once.

With that said, is now a good time to mention that I also have the attention of two Russian ladies whom I’ll soon be meeting?

Evanescence -Bring Me to Life