Category Archives: Experiences

‘Did I date you – The Final Year’ is ready for you

The final part of ‘Did I date you?’ is ready for you.

The Grey Knight’s morals are further eroded by his raunchiest experiences yet, but does he find ‘The One’? The surprise ending will leave you blinking in astonishment.

If you have enjoyed this story why not tell your friends about it who you will thank you for doing so.

You can get ‘Did I date you? – The Final Year’ now via your preferred Amazon site:

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07Q8XVDLX
UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dpB07Q8XVDLX
Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07Q8XVDLX
Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07Q8XVDLX

Please send me your comments or leave a review.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Your Grey Knight

The desert train that rocked

A bright moon shines on a lonely train as it trudges across the semi-desert called the Karoo. It’s normally a cross-country chugger that takes all night to make its thousand mile trek from Johannesburg to Cape Town. Tonight what’s different is that most of the people on board are wearing uniforms, military uniforms. The few civilians will notice the mix of army, navy and air force uniforms, as well the difference in behaviour between conscripts and permanent force, between officers and the fodder.

I am amongst them in my air force blues, sitting in the crowded, bustling dining car. Opposite me are two army privates, conscripts like me, being sent to Cape Town. I make small talk with them over dinner in Afrikaans, my father’s language. They’re nervous about being stationed so far from home, so I try to calm their fears and regale them with sights to see and things to do in my home-town. They have far bigger things to be concerned about, but these farm boys are innocents.

It’s the middle of 1990 and the world is changing fast. The collapse of the Iron Curtain has caused ripples even down into this troubled toe of Africa. Us in uniform don’t know what to think or feel any more. The Communists have been freed and the man we were told to pretend we were shooting at in the firing range seems destined to be the next president. Everything we have been brought up to believe in and be prepared to die defending now seems questionable.

“Excuse me sir,” the rumpled conductor says in Afrikaans, appearing out of nowhere.

I’m eighteen years old; I’ve never been addressed as ‘sir’ before. It must be my uniform, he might be mistaking me for a policeman.

He beckons to me to follow him. Being a good little soldier I do so.

“You’ve left your sack in your compartment that has had a coloured man allocated to it,” he informs me.

This is still Apartheid-era South Africa; old attitudes and beliefs don’t die quickly. It’s only been six month since the unbannings and Mandela’s release. In that time public spaces and facilities have now been de-segregated. He might not have got the news.

“So?” I counter.

“Well, he might steal something. Are you carrying any weapons?” he asks.

“No, I’m not. I don’t see any problem though,” I reply.

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. They’re all the same, you know,” he sniggers and strides off.

I rejoin my new friends and we finish our dinner. It turns out that they’re spending the night in the compartment next to mine. Returning to my compartment I see that my sack crammed with military clothing has acquired some company. Two brutish-looking army military policemen are sitting where I had been alone before dinner. They glare at me and one moves his hip to show that he’s armed. I don’t like the look of them; I sense trouble.

Sitting opposite them is a pretty trainee nurse, her sparkling white uniform immaculately ironed. Small, shiny badges adorn her black cardigan. She flashes me a pretty smile, her eyes almost as dark as her hair, her skin almost as white as her uniform.

One of the policemen starts speaking to her in Afrikaans, to which she replies. His friend stares me down, unmoving. He looks like he’s used his gun and liked it.

I’m not welcome here. They have stripes and are MPs, best to make myself scarce.

I quickly step into the cabin and grab my sack off the top of the luggage stowage area above the fold-out seat that becomes a bed. Without a word I retreat, hearing the young nurse giggle at an oafish joke.

Luckily the compartment next door just has the two skittish army guys in it, so I join them.

As the stars blink, at an unheard of stop a few more civilians join the train. A priest enters our cabin, makes himself comfortable and begins preaching to us. I don’t care for his occupational hazard, but smile when appropriate. It’s time to sleep to I make my excuses in their bastard tongue and fold out the seat that becomes my bunk bed.

One of the army guys sees his opportunity and feigns sleep while his friend engages the newcomer in a theological debate. Sleep can’t come quickly enough but already I’m dreading the morning because we might all go to breakfast together. He’s old enough to be our grandfather so we can’t be rude to him. It’s not how we were all brought up in this fascist, police state that we all serve, one way or another. If you’re not resisting it then you must be collaborating.

My thoughts are disturbed by a rythmic thudding against the partition wall. It’s coming from the cabin next door. It could be something being rattled by the gently rocking train, but it isn’t. I think one of the policemen has literally charmed the pants off the young nurse. Now he’s fucking her and taking his time about it.

These sounds of lust unleashed is torture for me. I haven’t had sex since the beginning of the year. It was a farewell shag with my girlfriend. Little did I suspect that six weeks later she’d break up with me. To cool our collective ardour the military had been adulterating our food with what is known as ‘blue stone’. It’s an additive that suppresses a man’s sex drive. I think it’s starting to wear off because I’m now sporting a perfect erection.

The sounds of sex coming from next door are bringing back fond memories of teenage passion on sunny afternoons when we should have been studying for our final high school exams. I can still remember her perfume as well as the jarring smell of her pussy juices.

A stifled grunt signals the inevitable outcome has been achieved. The door in the adjoining cabin slides, muffled words are exchanged. Good, I can go to sleep now. The priest and his audience didn’t even notice.

“No, not you too,” I hear the nurse say in a pleading tone.

Her knee starts banging against the partition well. Wow, the second copper must have climbed on top of her.

“No, no, no, no…” she murmurs wistfully as the knee makes contact, harder and faster.

“Ugh, ugh, ugh,” is all I hear her say now. The other guy doesn’t make a sound.

If she puts up more protest then I’ll have to go to her rescue. She doesn’t.

I look around our dimly lit compartment. The priest is still at it, the guy below me seems asleep. I’m the only person who knows what’s going on next door.

After a couple of minutes this all becomes to much for sex-starved me. I’m so turned on, I have to go relieve myself.

Stepping out into the corridor I’m shocked to see one of the policemen standing by the other cabin’s door, talking to another soldier. They can’t help but look at me. They smile slyly.

I brush past them and go to the toilet at the end of the carriage. It takes mere seconds for me to jerk off. The thought of soggy seconds is revolting but my overhearing proceedings is the turn-on. I’ve never heard or seen people behaving sexually in public. This is Calvinist, repressed South Africa after all. Pornography has been banned for decades.

As I approach the cabins I see the second policeman exit and the third soldier enter that cabin. The copper is same aggressive one from earlier; he sneers at me.

I’m shocked again to see that a fourth soldier is standing in the corridor talking to the first copper. He’s got his hands in his pockets and he’s fidgeting. Jeez, is he waiting his turn?

It’s after midnight,I have nowhere else to go but to return to my bunk bed.

I listen as the third soldier fucks the young nurse. He knee must be numb. She doesn’t make a sound but he does as he pumps his cum into her.

Seconds later, without a word, he stumbles out. The door slides again and I hear a new voice say something to her. It must be the fourth guy I saw earlier. Is going to fuck her too?

Oh yes, he is.

She makes no objection to this next stranger.

Is he enjoying this?

And they just kept on coming.

By my count at least eight guys used the nurse that night. There might have been a ninth.

I saw her the next morning in the dining car. She was talking amiably to another nurse. At lunchtime the train halted at a siding next to a moonscape. A solitary pickup van had a weathered man under a wide-rimmed hat waiting beside it. His jet-black hair hinted at who he was expecting.

The nurse clambered down the stairs of our carriage, her black cape matching her hair and small suitcase. She traipsed over to the man, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a big kiss on a cheek.

As I leaned out the window I looked to the right along the length of the train. A dozen guys were hanging out of windows, waving to her, whistling and making caustic comments.

A jolt signified our departure as the van kicked up parched earth.

I had to lie there and listen to all this. She put up no resistance at all. Only her plaintive, meek protest at the second guy using her could count as reluctance. Other than that she just lay there and let them do what they wanted.

Did any of them fuck her in the arse? I don’t think so. In this society at the time anal sex was considered totally abhorrent. AIDS was still an uncertain thing.

Despite this, finding a condom in South Africa back then was a mission and very expensive. It was a deliberate government policy to make them so scarce as to be almost illegal or mythical. Population numbers had to be grown so as to deal with domestic and foreign menaces.

So, every single guy who fucked her didn’t use a condom.

‘Did I date you? – The 2nd year’ is waiting for you

The second installment of ‘Did I date you?’ is now available for you.

The second part of ‘Did I date you?’ takes the Grey Knight on a new series of bewildering dates that will make you laugh or nod your head in agreement, having been on a similar date yourself. He meets new women such as Randy Russian, Deranged Debbie, Angry Yank, The Bitch and many more.

His journey to find The One takes a surprise twist when notable women such as Krazy Girl from the first book reappear.

Despite keeping his eye on the prize, he can’t helped be sucked further into a murky world of easy sex and disposable relationships. He learns about the politics of sex and how to seduce women, but the cost is mounting. He even tries to have a relationship. Can you guess how that turned out?

It’s a story of our times, for our times. Make of it what you will, but don’t judge him until you know the full story.

You can get it now via your preferred Amazon site:

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07M75P34H
UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07M75P34H
Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07M75P34H
Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07M75P34H

Feel free to let me know what you think of it.

Your Grey Knight

Singles night

I have a dentist appointment in London in the late afternoon and just before leaving home I got an email from a dating site. It’s advertising their monthly singles evening in a pub in central London. I buy an off-peak train ticket to save money, deciding to kill time after the dentist at their ‘event’.

You can not imagine how far out of my comfort zone it is to walk into a setting like that, all those single people, oestrogen and testosterone in the air, booze-fuelled antics, all sorts of crazy people, knowing full-well that I never hit it off with anybody on that dating site, all the women off it who I had taken on a date were hard London women with clear agendas involving money.

I decided to push my boundaries as part of overcoming my Avoidant Personality Disorder. Having time to kill I tell myself that it’s okay to just sit quietly in a corner and observe the shenanigans. Treat it as research for my blog. Yes, research, there that feels better. I won’t strike up a conversation with a single woman. I’ll just sit and analyse the rabbits during mating season. I’ll leave at 7pm.

I get there just after the doors open at 5pm and there are three other women already there sitting chatting. I buy a cider from the bar and find my ideal spot where I can see everyone arriving and do my voyeur thing. I start thumbing my phone.

A few minutes later a voice asks if the seat opposite is free. I look up and there’s a cute little 30-something girly with light-brown hair blinking at me. She starts talking to me. We get along fine. She starts playing with her hair. I notice that she has a tongue-stud (which means cock-sucker extraordinaire). Despite sounding thoroughly English, she’s German. She has even lived in South Africa for a while and loves Cape Town. She wants kids. I’m actually not that attracted to her, good banter, but that’s all.

A fat, ugly English guy in a grey suit arrives and he buys a bottle of wine and stands at our table. I find that odd. The whole place is empty and he stands on top of us. He makes no effort to talk to us nor makes eye contact. Within 15 minutes he finishes the bottle of wine and goes back to the bar. The German girl says to me, “Did you see that?” and we laugh. I don’t want to spend the entire evening talking to her; it’s not what I came here for. So I decide to test something. I start telling her about my blog.

She asks me more probing questions about my blog, so I tell her, not really sure how she’ll react, but I’ve learned that women don’t like the idea of possibly being an entry in somebody’s public diary. I sense her withdrawing and it doesn’t take long before she says that she has to go home. I ask her her age and she tells me 33. By now other people had arrived and she could have tried her luck elsewhere in the room, but she left. I’m disappointed in myself that I might have ruined her evening.

As she’s leaving two other women come up to her and ask, “Are you leaving?” She says she is and they take the two seats opposite me. The one woman is a mixed race brunette and the other is a stunning milky-white-skinned brunette. The latter gives me the look women make when they fancy a man. I’m surprised. This isn’t what I came here for; I just want peace and quiet.

I ignore them and they start talking to each other. As they get seated the English guy returns with a bucket of ice and Moet champagne. Nobody says a word to him and he just stands there, but by now the place is nearly full so I excuse his presence. I notice the stunning brunette occasionally looking at me, smiling and then looking away. She is easily the most attractive brunette I have ever seen. She has beautiful blue eyes.

For more than two years all I have been interested in dating is blondes. It’s the default filter on all the dating sites that I’ve used. Now Life is teasing me with a beautiful brunette.

I’m intrigued. My people-watching idea becomes an afterthought. Has Fate handed me an opportunity here? Only one way to find out. How do I do this? A plan comes to mind.

The mixed-race friend is telling the stunner about her new boyfriend’s latest text message, complaining that she can’t figure out the sub-text to it. I see my chance.

“Excuse me, but if you would like some help in translation, I can help. I speak Man,” I say.

“Do you understand Australian Man?” The friend asks.

“Almost. I’m South African,” I respond.

“Oh my God! My best friend is South African!” exclaims the stunner.

From that moment on the three of us engage in good banter. I make a concerted effort to deliberately address the bulk of my interaction to the friend. I want to build anticipation in the stunner, who I am interested in, as well as not come across like any other guy by showering the prettiest girl with all the attention. She’s probably used to attention from men. I’m playing subtle. The friend leaves to go buy drinks and order food.

The Englishman to my left is making his way though his champagne and tries to strike up conversation with any woman who passes by on the way to the bar. I don’t know what he’s saying to them, but they all stop, pull a funny face, either say nothing or utter something short, then continue on their way.

Conversation with the two ladies in front progresses at a pace and the stunning brunette hangs on my every word. We swap names and she struggles with mine. She looks a bit young though. No more than 33 I surmise. It doesn’t matter to me as it’s not likely to lead to anything. This is just fact-finding of some kind, I tell myself. As we talk the stunner starts asking me all sorts of personal questions such as why did my last relationship come to an end, etc. I feel like I’m being interviewed for a job. I give the friend a bemused look and she just smiles knowingly.

I then turn the tables and start asking questions of my own, but being more indirect. I start guessing their nationalities because I detect an accent in the stunner. I start with the friend, making the stunner wait for my attention. I guess the Caribbean influence correctly but am off the mark; she’s quite a mixture. The stunner I initially think is Czech, which she instantly rebuffs, but I’m convinced of it. So I suggest Polish, to which she has an offended response. (Polish women have a bad reputation as sluts amongst the Eastern European women). Only someone from that part of the world will know that and react as she does, so my initial region is correct, but I still think she looks Czech. Then it dawns on me and I say it, “Slovak!” and her face lights up. The friend smiles.

I’ve been on dates with two Slovakian girls before and I found them delightful. Their culture is considered as stuck in the 1930s by the other Eastern European cultures (I’ve worked with many people from that part of the world.) I find that appealing, because my mother brought me up to be a 1950s gentleman. Only someone equally old-fashioned would appreciate my manners.

After a bit more of a grilling by the stunner do I realise that her and I are actually a good match in many ways. She doesn’t want kids, loves travel, has an intellectual/cultural bent, is amazingly 43 years old (the same as me)…and we fancy each other, but I’m trying hard to not let it show. I find my thoughts wondering if there is relationship potential here, after all, happiness is not a hair colour. The now-drunk Englishman lurches forward and says something to the friend. She pulls a quizzical face and moves back away from him. We resume our conversation.

I get a tap on my shoulder and turn to see the Englishman shouting at me, “You, sir, are a user!”

“Sorry, what?” I retort, shocked at the insanity of this intrusion.

“You’ve only had one drink the whole time you’ve been here. Look what I’ve bought in the same time. Don’t you know how to socialise?” he bellows at me at the top of his voice.

People around us are shocked and things go quiet.

“I don’t have to be drunk to have a good time. Now leave us alone,” I say as calmly as I can.

No, he won’t quit. He keeps ranting about how little I have spent compared to him. I realize that every women he has tried speaking to has rebuffed him. His ego can’t take it. His sense of failure compels him to assert himself somewhere, somehow and he’s seemingly chosen me because I’m close at hand. He keeps going on as loudly as possible about my ‘bad form’ and I can see that he’s not going to stop any time soon.

“Mate, what are you trying to do here? Are you trying to provoke me into going outside with you?” I say. That makes no difference and he keeps sounding off like a little baby sitting alone in the middle of a room all by itself. He keeps going on and on. You can’t reason with a drunk; my father taught me that.

In front of me is the type of guy who would have been a bully at school. Bullies only respect someone standing up to them. I’ve never been afraid of a bully, so I lean over into his face, our noses almost touching and say as menacingly as I know how, “I used to be a bodyguard in South Africa. You can’t imagine the things I can do to your corpse.” (Which I mean. Gore does not shock me; I’m desensitized to it from all the things I’ve seen in my life.)

I turn away from him and try to resume my chat with the two sweet women before me. Their faces portray absolute horror at this arsehole’s behaviour. I notice that people around us, men and women, have now scattered, anticipating a fight. This guy is big, but I’m taller, stronger and I’ve never lost a fight in my life because I’m always willing to go that one step further than the other guy. However, that’s not what I came here for. I’m not going to let matters degenerate into childish fisticuffs. I’m getting too old and wise for that shit.

He starts saying all sorts stereotypical rubbish about South Africans, being a bigot, revealing to all and sundry just why he is single. He’s making a complete arse of himself and some people are starting to laugh at him which makes him think twice.

People resume talking and his audience is thus gone, so he simmers down and finishes his last glass of champers. I’m keeping half an eye out for a glass or bottle coming my way from my left. I try to carry on as if nothing has happened, but the two women in front of me are in shock, their faces ashen. What was a pleasant evening for some is now destroyed. The stunner gets up and runs away. The drunk slob moves off too.

The friend says to me, “Jesus, that was intense. She’s gone off to have a cigarette now.”

My pumping heart slows down upon hearing that the stunner is a smoker.

This is how life fucks with me.

I think my facial expression showed what I was thinking and feeling because the friend says, “oh, she’s not a heavy smoker, only two or three a day.”

Her words don’t change my sense of disappointment. I make small talk with the friend, trying to calm her down which I succeed in doing. The stunner returns, reeking of smoke and visibly shaking. I succeed in calming her down too. I leave them to finish their food in peace and go to the bar to get myself another drink. While I’m standing in the queue, I feel a hand getting slapped down on my shoulder. I turn and its the drunk, argumentative Englishman; I’m ready to duck a punch.

“Mate, I just want to say, no hard feelings, heh?” he says with a bad slur.

He’s more drunk than I realized and he stammers so badly that I can’t make out anything he’s saying to me, but the tone is conciliatory. I discern him saying, “I’ll see you here in twenty years time,” which makes no sense to me, but I just smile, agree and make appeasing, passive overtones. He shoves a twenty Pound note in my hand and drawls, “Here, you’re a good chap. Buy yourself a drink on me,” to which I say thank you. He’s such a fucking idiot I may as well take his money. I don’t think he has much idea of what he’s doing or saying, but eventually he staggers off.

I return to the table and the ladies look pleased to see me. I guess they were checking out my body while I was standing in the queue. Until now all they could see was my torso and they had no idea how tall I was. The stunner gives me a beautiful smile and I look around the room of at least 200 people, mostly women and realize that she is the most attractive woman here. How lucky am I ?

Not so lucky.

To be continued…

Do you have Avoidant Personality Disorder?

This Grey Knight has a weakness in his suit of armour. It’s difficult to spot and few assailants have ever got close enough to exploit it, but those that have managed to have done great damage to me. You see, just beneath the surface of this imposing frame, not far from what seems like a normal, well-adjusted person is a crinkle in my psyche, an imperfection in my emotional make-up.

Like anyone else, I guess, all my life I’ve thought that I’m normal and that most people are just like me, except for a few oddballs and nasty people. All along I’ve lived with what I thought was just one of the negatives of human existence.

It was when I was watching a YouTube video with The Cockaholic that I learned of ‘Cluster B personalities’. My enquiring mind demanded that I know more. There are four types of these: Narcissist, Histrionic, Borderline and Anti-Social. I saw that in my dating experiences I had encountered several Narcissists and a couple of Histrionics. A friend in the know has suggested that Krazy Girl was of the Borderline Personality Disorder variety. All good to know.

What my reading on the internet then led to is ‘Cluster C personalities’ of which there are the ‘Dependent’, the ‘Obsessive Compulsive’ and the ‘Avoidant’. I am the latter.

My blood ran cold as I read a description of myself that I could never extol or describe any better.

I’ll quote Wikipedia:

Avoidant personality disorder (AvPD), also known as anxious personality disorder, is a Cluster C personality disorder recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders handbook as afflicting persons who display a pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy and inferiority, extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation, and avoidance of social interaction despite a strong desire to be close to others. Individuals with the disorder tend to describe themselves as uneasy, anxious, lonely, unwanted and isolated from others.

People with avoidant personality disorder often consider themselves to be socially inept or personally unappealing and avoid social interaction for fear of being ridiculed, humiliated, rejected, or disliked. As the name suggests, the main coping mechanism of those with avoidant personality disorder is avoidance of feared stimuli. Avoidant personality disorder is usually first noticed in early adulthood, with both childhood emotional neglect and peer group rejection being associated with an increased risk for its development.

People with avoidant personality disorder are preoccupied with their own shortcomings and form relationships with others only if they believe they will not be rejected. Childhood emotional neglect—in particular, the rejection of a child by one or both parents—has been associated with an increased risk for the development of avoidant personality disorder, as well as rejection by peers.

It goes on to list a variety of issues that afflict most people at some time, but with AvPD most of these feelings are permanent.

The ones that I’ve never felt are:
– Avoids physical contact because it has been associated with an unpleasant or painful stimulus
– Severe low self-esteem
– Emotional distancing related to intimacy
– Feeling inferior to others
– In some extreme cases, agoraphobia
– Self-loathing

What I feel on a daily basis is the following:
– Self-imposed social isolation
– Hypersensitivity to rejection/criticism
– Extreme shyness or anxiety in social situations, though the person feels a strong desire for close relationships
– Feelings of inadequacy
– Mistrust of others
– Highly self-conscious
– Self-critical about their problems relating to others
– Problems in occupational functioning
– Lonely self-perception, although others may find the relationship with them meaningful
– Uses fantasy as a form of escapism to interrupt painful thoughts

The World Health Organization’s ICD-10 lists avoidant personality disorder as anxious (avoidant) personality disorder. It is characterized by at least four of the following:
1. persistent and pervasive feelings of tension and apprehension;
2. belief that one is socially inept, personally unappealing, or inferior to others;
3. excessive preoccupation with being criticized or rejected in social situations;
4. unwillingness to become involved with people unless certain of being liked;
5. restrictions in lifestyle because of need to have physical security;
6. avoidance of social or occupational activities that involve significant interpersonal contact because of fear of criticism, disapproval, or rejection.

Every single one of the above applies to me. I’ll share how this all manifests itself in my existence.

I dread social settings. Being part of a group activity makes me go cold inside and my stomach tighten. I am at my best on a one-on-one basis. Even a third person being present makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Anything more than three people and I’m instantly in defensive mode, even if I’ve known the people present for many years.

When I’m walking around my town’s high street all the time I feel that most people are looking at me. I try not to make eye contact, so when I do I always easily see several people looking at me. This just reinforces my beliefs and feelings that I’m not like other people. I don’t see other people staring at each other, but there are always people staring at me. As a teenager I put it down to my gangly awkwardness, as an adult I ascribe it to my height, build and dark hair. I know that many women like tall and dark men, but the attention makes me feel uncomfortable.

I don’t like being the centre of attention. At school, when it was time to present anything in front of a class, I’d make sure I wasn’t there. I’m never the life-and-soul of a party (not that I’ve been to many) but am more likely to found in the kitchen or doing something useful for the group. I prefer to be in the background, orchestrating events and suggesting ideas.

I’ve developed coping mechanisms to deal with my feelings towards other people. I always walk fast because I feel that makes me less visible so people can’t stare. I never maintain eye contact with anyone, am sometimes thumbing away at my phone, thus looking downward, but my favourite escape that calms me is to be listening to music via an earpiece. That makes it all feel okay because it’s like I’m moving through my own private movie scene being accompanied by a soundtrack of my choosing. Sometimes at work I pretend to be listening to music, but it’s just a ruse to get people to leave me alone, freeing me from idle, puerile office banter.

My working life has been the biggest challenge, pain and disappointment of my life. I’ve always found myself in an office environment, a most unnatural construct for most people, but for me it’s a particular hell because I feel so visible and thus vulnerable. My coping mechanism has been to put my head down and work like a Trojan. This has had the unintended consequence of me being perceived as a good worker by my bosses. I’ve been rewarded with preferential treatment from them which has perpetuated the negativity of the setting because people now look at me with jealousy or disapproval. Yes, I’ve been relatively successful in my jobs, but I’ve always been the outsider, the lone wolf. I am now so accustomed to it that I prefer things that way, not because I like it, but because I know how to deal with it.

Better the devil you know is not my preferred way of doing things, but whenever I can I orchestrate things so that I work alone, preferably physically so. I commandeer a free space somewhere, put up a physical barrier of some kind and then I can’t see anyone’s judgemental eyes. I find it much easier to do my own thing than ask permission or seek forgiveness. I am not afraid to be unpopular in a workplace, because that just makes it easier to move on when the opportunity presents itself. Permanent employment has felt like a prison sentence to me, working on a freelance basis has proved more emotionally acceptable because I know exactly when it will be over.

This lack of fearing unpopularity has been a mixed blessing. Because I feel it almost inevitable in certain settings with people I do not know, it has lead to me being ruthless at times. I’ll even confess that it has made me a horrible person, a heartless bastard especially when in an all-male environment. I have had no compunction in resorting to bloody violence to get my way. Men really are like dogs in that we adhere to a pack mentality…and there can only be one top dog: me. I don’t fear violence, in fact, I like it because I know I will always win. There’s a certain look men give off when they realize that they can’t defeat me because I’m always willing to go one depraved step further than them. I’ve never started a fight, I’ve only ever finished them. Sadly, the few times my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend saw my vicious streak when I was provoked led to them losing some respect for me and having it replaced by a little fear. On a positive note, I feel that my days of brutality are well behind me; I’m now too old for that shit.

As I have got older these feelings of social inadequacy have grown and become more prominent in my daily existence. As I did away with my young man’s White Knight Syndrome, this avoidant mindset and accompanying behaviour pattern has grown. I can see that it’s getting worse as I experience more negative things at the hands of people.

Why am I like this? All my life I have felt like the outsider in any group setting. It all started when I was little.

My parents were badly married. My father was a raging alcoholic and often out of work. My mother was always at work during the day. They fought every dinner-time and all weekend. I was an only child, so when the fighting started I used to run away and hide in my own little world. My mother was overly protective towards me; overbearing and controlling in fact. She had me when she was almost 41 and I was her way of dealing with her shit life. I was the one thing she cherished…and could control.

When both my parents had jobs when I was under six years old, a maid would come take care of me and the apartment. She was under strict instructions to never let me outdoors. For years I would sit at the window watching the other kids play. A couple of times I sneaked out to play with them, but the maid caught me and took me back inside, fearful of losing her job. I think that’s how I developed my observant, analytical, voyeuristic streak.

Then one day my mother said to me that one of the kids had invited me to their birthday party. I was so excited. On the day of the party, I woke up early, relishing the chance to finally get to play with the other kids. My mother had bought a navy-blue trousers with harlequin waistcoat, white shirt and sky-blue bow-tie. (Yep, my mother dressed me funny.) By lunchtime I was tired and asked my mother if it was okay for me to nap for a little while and that she must wake me for the party.

She didn’t wake me and I slept the entire afternoon. I missed the party and I was upset. I convinced myself that now, for sure, the other kids would never want to play with me ever again. I resumed watching them from a distance, in my prison, overseen by the maid.

The city where we lived was a compromise choice for my parents because they had married across the cultural divide. In Apartheid-era South Africa, although both were white, my father was an Afrikaner and my mother of English descent, this was a socially inappropriate union. Their families shunned them and they moved to a city where nobody knew them, thus neither had friends or family in this neutral city. I have no recollection of us ever having visitors in the first 10 years of my life. Sadly I also have no recollection of ever being hugged or shown any kind of affection by either of my parents; they were too busy with their private war.

I can count on my one hand (and have fingers left over) the number of times I interacted with other children before I had to go to school at the age of six. On the very first day of school, my mother said to me, “I want you to be the cleverest kid in the class. I want you to get the highest marks for every subject.” I said, “Yes, mom” and I did exactly that for the next eight years.

All the other kids in my class were different to me. They also all knew each other. They went to pre-school crèche together, which my mother didn’t want me to. From day one I felt like the outsider, but it was in effect, just a continuation of what was the norm for me. I couldn’t figure out how to fit in, but I figured out how to excel and I became the class “brain”. Not the typical geek, because I was bigger than the other kids, so nobody picked on me. I just felt that collectively I was being shunned. Inadvertently I had made things worse for myself by becoming the “brain”, but I only figured that out in later years.

Because of my intellect, physique and forceful nature (courtesy of being a badly-socialised only child) I was the captain of every team in my school career. I was unknowingly a so-called “alpha male”, but largely because all the other kids were intimidated by me. It was easier to lead and browbeat kids into line, than to learn how to compromise and fit in.

My mother then decided that I should go to a different high-school than what my few primary school chums went to. So I arrived at a new school, at the age of thirteen, knowing nobody. Again they all knew each other, having been to the same primary school for the previous eight years. Again I was the outsider trying to break in. Teenagers can be nasty and very cliquey. My first year of high school was awful; nobody wanted to be friends with me. I remember a couple of break times taking myself off to the toilets and sitting in a cubicle, sometimes crying. Eventually a couple of boys warmed to me.

Then tragedy struck. My father dropped dead from a heart attack a week before my fourteenth birthday. That was 1st September 1985; it was a Sunday. On the Monday morning my mother went to the bank to tell them that my father had died. The bank manager instantly froze all the bank accounts and my mother had no cash. There were no friends or family to borrow money off of. There was no food in the house, as bad luck would have it. By the Wednesday night my dinner was a cereal with hot water. That’s how the next 10 years of hardship with my mother began.

We were literally left penniless. I stayed off school for a few weeks and when I returned all the kids ignored me. Nobody wanted to speak to me, they were all so uncomfortable around me, not knowing what to say. I became a social outcast and, as usual, it wasn’t of my making. The last few months of my first year of high school passed in splendid isolation.

My mother decided to move to another city, where her family was, who had promised to help out. So at the age of fourteen I went off to another high-school. And guess what? Yep, as usual, I was the outsider looking in. However, money was a massive problem for me and my mother. Her nephew (my cousin) owned a scrap metal yard and he gave my mother a full-time job as his book-keeper. I worked for him on weekends (occasional Sundays too) and all my school holidays. I skipped being a teenager and got thrown into the adult world. This made it harder to relate to kids my own age, teachers even; they were all so immature.

I had very few friends in high-school. My best friend was the class “brain”, but he was puny, so us two outcasts hung out together. I had very little to do with girls because I didn’t have time and I didn’t have money. I couldn’t take a girl back to my place, it was a dump and my mother was always there. I felt like no girl would be interested in me because I was so poor.

My stand-out moment in high school was the prom. I didn’t have the money to buy an outfit and one day in class several of the kids, all of whose parents were wealthy, belittled me publicly for claiming to not have the money for everything that was involved. This public grilling went on for ages. They just couldn’t understand that my mother and I didn’t have money. I didn’t go to the prom; the only kid not to go.

I would say that my teenage years were characterized by a feeling of never fitting in anywhere. I sometimes think I haven’t really outgrown that. Whenever I tried to join a group I was rejected, so I learned to reject groups. As a teenager I aspired to normality, decency and respectability. Respect is something important to me. I didn’t get much of it growing up, so I value it. It’s why I can’t love a woman that I don’t respect.

Because we didn’t have money, I couldn’t go to university. The law of the land said that I therefore had to do national service. I am a mixture of Afrikaner and English, so I was fluent in both languages and mindsets. When the other conscripts found out that I was not “pure”, I was shunned. I only had one friend during national service. I was a target for everyone else after that because nobody would side with me. I learned to really fight, physically and otherwise, then.

After that was over I had to get a job and in 1992, the world was in recession. My best friend’s father got me a job in the local municipality. At the time, Apartheid was collapsing and as a white man I was, once again, a target. Local government implemented affirmative action policies and I was told that no matter how hard I studied or what I did, I would not be promoted. My then girlfriend (now ex-wife) was facing the same limited options in her working life, although she was a qualified accountant. We decided to leave South Africa, the only environment we’ve ever known.

We arrived in England at the age of 25, never having been abroad and knowing nobody. Life was tough in the beginning. We both endured a lot of discrimination because we were immigrants. Once again, I was an outsider. We went through a lot together and it pains me that today we are not on speaking terms. I have reached out to her a couple of times asking if we could be friends, but she rejected the idea.

Of all the aspects of this Avoidant Personality Disorder I’ve been blind to, that what has sabotaged me the most, I would say emphatically is the mistrust of others. I can see that I have found comfort of being with woman such as my ex-wife, Sweet Thing, Busty Blonde and Busty Czech because I felt that I could trust them. (All of them are Cluster C – Dependent). As soon as another woman or date gave me any reason to not trust them then my Trust Demon took over and events followed an almost predictable, speedy downward spiral as I emotionally withdrew. At least I’m aware of this now.

The second greatest effect has been that of judgementalism. On the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator I’m an INTJ – Introversion, Intuition, Thinking, Judgement – one of the rarest personality types. It’s the last letter that has become exaggerated in my being. Because I fear being judged, I thus am highly judgemental of other people as a pre-emptive defence mechanism. I’ll reject them before they reject me.

When it comes to romantic relationships I need to feel I’m in control of the relationship, that makes me feel safe. Any hint of vulnerability and I fear being taken advantage of. This started at age six when the girl next to me would hold hands with me, then ask me to help her with her maths. I eventually realised that she was using me, so I stopped helping her. My only girlfriend I had in high-school cheated on me when I had to go away to do National Service. My ex-wife didn’t love me for the last five years of our relationship. My ex-girlfriend lied to me from day one and all the way through our relationship.

People have always been a source of anguish in my life, never a source of pleasure. However, aside from this and Avoidant Personality Disorder, my greatest positive emotion is that of wanting to give love. I think that my disorder has influenced this because not having received much love, there is an innate need within me to express it.

A case can be made that I’m now scared of women, but I don’t think that’s true. I just haven’t met the right one…The One. I realize now that I need to be with a submissive woman. I’ve been oblivious to this. This might have played a role in some of the experiences that I’ve had dating. Non-submissive women will have detected my wanting to be the senior partner in the relationship and that made me wrong for them. Some of the stronger-willed women and I clashed and would have continued to do so if a relationship were to have been mutually pursued. I think this is especially true of my ex-girlfriend and I who clashed daily. The Saffa (Histrionic) and Musician Gal (Narcissist) would have been a replay of that.

In the workplace I express, vent even, but in my private life I bottle my feelings up because that’s what a man’s supposed to do, don’t you know? Sup it up. Don’t show any weakness in front of the womenfolk because it rattles them. Be a man.

When my last job came to an end in August last year, I was leading a team of people who didn’t like me and ganged-up against me. It got ugly and became my worst nightmare. I felt humiliated and I walked out. I got a settlement payment from the company. I haven’t worked since then.

The thought of going back into an office environment nauseates me. I was never happy in my working life, always prostituting myself for the money. I have absolutely no interest in IT, an industry populated by ego-maniacal geeks fussing over petty things, always missing the big picture. (Ever wondered why software is like it is? Now you know.)

Since August last year my ‘working days’ have been me sitting at home by myself, happiest when writing my heart out, only going out to get food (listening to music) and the gym at lunchtimes (again with headphones on). There have been times when weeks have gone by without my talking to anyone. I can not remember another time in my life when I have been so happy. I have felt so calm and tranquil. I’ve loved it.

Don’t worry, I’m not some anti-social, rude, obnoxious, control-freak retard who wants to be a hermit. On the surface I must seem perfectly normal. I’m polite, considerate, humorous, easy-going and a whole host of other good things. I can walk into a job interview, make a positive impression, get interviewers laughing and talk myself into a job. I feel my fears and I ignore them, because my desire to succeed is greater.

It’s just that I am at my best when alone with only one person. If it’s a group setting then it is preferable to be with people whom I have known for a long time. In typical introvert fashion I feel exhausted after a lengthy social engagement, even if it is with people I’ve known for years. An extrovert feels energized by socialising, but I don’t, I need to recover and I seek out solitude and silence.

All I want is silence. That can’t hurt me, that I am comfortable with. I am at my absolute best when alone, with my thoughts. When given time, space and the tranquillity to express myself, to be creative because, like manic-depressants before lithium, it all feels bearable then.

I don’t think I’m disturbed, I just need silence and solitude more than most. My scars need time to heal.

Oh, how I crave silence, for it is then that I feel I am on the comforting edge of heaven.

Disturbed – “The Sound Of Silence”

Meeting Ann St Vincent

I met someone remarkable recently. She’s a fellow blogger who calls herself Ann St Vincent. ( http://annstvincent.com/ )I’m a follower of her journey because in many ways, seen from a high level, we have been treading a similar path.

We’ve both been trying to find meaningful love while trying to make sense of what is going on around us right now. Along the way we have both discovered that the way forward lies behind us. Until we make peace with our past the future will be a repeat of a sorry old scene that always ends the same way.

I’m aware that it is an easy mistake to form an impression of someone from their blog. We’ve been trading witticisms and barbed comments on each other’s blogs for two years, so when the opportunity arose to meet her, my trusty steed couldn’t keep me away.

A cool, blustery Saturday afternoon outside a bustling Tube station was the setting for our first face-to-face encounter. I wasn’t too sure what to expect. This would either be a waste of time or the total opposite.

My initial thought upon meeting is how tall she is for a woman. I wasn’t expecting that. The vibe she exudes is positive and energetic. Her intellect was quickly on show as her rapier-like questions poured down on as if fired by a battalion of archers hiding behind the ramparts of an internet firewall.

My plan for the afternoon involved taking her to St Katharine Docks to share a convivial drink on the balcony of the Dickens Inn. I know that she has read my every post so she might appreciate the significance of the setting where the majority of my dates have happened. Alas, the public transport system wreaked havoc on my plan and we ended up only halfway there, at Piccadilly Circus to be exact, when I had to conjure up an alternative plan.

I remembered a nearby funky pub where I took The Model for our first date. The rugby World Cup was on and an important game was being shown on a huge television that other patrons worshipped. I positioned myself strategically so that I could watch the game over Ann’s shoulder. If she was a talkative bore I could make the most of it.

I don’t know what happened during that game because Ann was sparkling company. We could have talked all night about anything and everything that the rising moon overhead cared to cast it’s gaze over. I was concerned that we would degenerate into swapping unpublished details about penile playthings, but that wasn’t the case. Instead we had great banter that made our time together fly by.

When I inevitably and sadly escorted Ann back to her lodgings for the night I got the feeling that she didn’t want to say goodbye. We fumbled our parting, but I know that we’ll see each other again.

Even after spending the time with her as I did, it still isn’t clear to me how her story will play out. Perhaps like mine?

What I do know for sure is that anybody who counts Ann as a friend should consider themselves lucky.

Claude Debussy : Clair de Lune

Prague pandemonium – Final part

At about two in the morning we were starting to flag. We were tired and our enjoyment level was starting to wane. The free drinks could not have been alcoholic as I still felt sober, as did my Czech friend, whilst my best mate is a tee-totaller who lived off colas. Nevertheless, satisfied with our time there, we called it a night and caught a taxi back to our city pad.

The following day, the Friday, we decamped back to the house in the countryside, with no intention of sampling the delights of Prague’s clubs again. On the Saturday at noon we were flying back home to London via lovely Luton airport. As the day wore on, however, my best mate and I found ourselves contemplating another night of naughtiness instead of sitting around in front of a television. Our friend had his son for the weekend, starting late on the Friday afternoon. The four of us went out to a local restaurant, but my mate and I couldn’t resist the pull of Prague’s clubs. We could watch tv at home. Our friend understood and we were sad to leave him to his fatherly duties.

We caught a train in to the city and had only one destination in mind: where we were the previous night. The club was open from eight in the evening until six in the morning. Out of sheer silliness my mate and I agreed to pull an all-nighter, just for the hell of it. I didn’t think we could do it.

The Nigerian cashier at the front door recognised us but laughed at my request for a repeat customer discount. The giant at the security area recognised us too. I got chatting to him and found out that he was Slovakian.

“My friend, have you ever played rugby?” I asked.

“No, what is dis?” came his brutish reply.

“It’s a game where big strong men run with a ball.” I explained. He seemed disinterested.

“In France they will pay you three hundred thousand Euros a year to play rugby.” I continued. His eyes lit up.

“Check it out. You are perfect for it.” I enthused, being serious, genuine and alive to the prospect of having security on my side.

“Okay, thank you,” he retorted as we headed for the stairs that led to our entertainment for the night.

Once downstairs my friend and I walked past a large table occupied by a dozen strippers. We later commented on how we could feel their eyes following us. The club hadn’t been open long and we had our choice of table, so we found a cosy booth with just two seats. It was on the top of a terraced step with an unobstructed view and closer to the stage than the previous night’s table. This was going to be our spot for the night.

A tall stripper with tattoos that covered her chest was performing an elaborate act high on the pole. Within minutes a pair of hands slid over my face, covering my eyes. I gently took the feminine hands and turned to see that it was Daria, the brunette stripper from the previous night.

“You come back so soon?” she enquired, with a touch of sincerity as she smiled at me. She had such a sweet nature.

“Yes, we missed you, Daria” I said laughingly. Daria laughed too. The tall blonde from the previous night that my best friend liked came over to the table, ignored me and started chatting to him.

I think that they were both genuinely surprised to see us again. A little banter ensued and the exchange ended with Daria saying with an American twang, “Hey, if you want another private lap dance later, I’ll give you a special nice one, okay?” as her cheeks rolled into little tight balls, almost as tight as her backside.

What did a “special nice one” entail, I wondered. I fell for her ploy: hook, line and sinker. I wanted to know more.

The evening followed it’s predictable course, which is what we came for. The same dancing professionals did their stuff, as impressive as the previous night. The strippers on the night were of a higher calibre in terms of technique. It seemed that on Friday nights, when the stag parties come to town, that the better strippers are allowed to ply their trade. Only a few faces from the previous night were familiar.

One new face stood out as she did her act on the stage before us. She had curly blonde hair, was taller than average, had big breasts (at least c-cups) and had more flesh than her colleagues. I’m not saying she was fat, I’d say she was denser, which I liked. When she came around to the tables after her performance had ended, I couldn’t say “no” to her offer of a private lap dance. As we walked to the big red curtain, Daria and I made eye-contact and she gave me a disappointed look. I mouthed to her “later” but she wasn’t convinced.

“Monika” was the name of the girl who led me behind the curtain. It was mentioned when she was on stage. I was looking forward to feeling her tits in my hands. There was another lap dance happening in the booth furtherest from us. All I could see was the back part of a profile of a girl as she was doing her thing on some guy. Once I was seated it all felt very private. Monika started her dance, swaying suggestively, moving her hips and shoulders in time to the music. She was quite pretty, knew how to pout and the sparkle in her eyes told me that she was enjoying herself. I learned that I liked it when a stripper maintains eye contact with me.

I don’t know why, perhaps it was a rush of testosterone, or a little bit of alcohol, but I unbuttoned my shirt. Monica froze and “Wow!” fell out of her mouth. I had been going to the gym almost daily for most of the year, ridding myself of the rage that I felt towards my ex-girlfriend. Having a stripper pause and involuntarily flatter me, stroked my fragile ego.

It was when she straddled me that I got a good look at them. Under each nipple was a scar that fell straight down. Her boobs were fake. They didn’t feel too good either, like water-filled balloons that had leaked. Disappointment. Daria’s breasts felt better. I said nothing.

Monika wrapped her arms behind my head and rubbed her breasts in my face. She leaned back, looked me straight in the eye and said “Slap me, hard.”

“Where do you want me to slap you?” I asked, masking my surprise, curious as to what I literally had on my lap.

“Anywhere, everywhere. I like it.”

So I slapped her.

I raised my right hand and swiftly brought it down on her left buttock. She caught her breath, stiffened her spine, let out a satisfied gasp and ground her hips harder into my lap. I raised my left hand and slapped her right buttock, slightly harder. She gasped and rode me faster, all the while her hands behind my neck.

I repeated what I had just done, faster this time, even harder and her exertions increased. Was she getting off on this? I kept in mind that her breasts were augmented, so I only lightly slapped the sides of them. She liked it. I slapped anything and everything. Occasionally I would grip the flesh where my hand landed. She liked that too. I liked how her body felt, shame about the tits. I could feel her skin becoming warm and clammy as she rode me in mock cowgirl fashion.

This little vixen had a pleasure-pain thing going on. I was happy to be giving her pleasure too. This was a memorable lapdance. Having slapped and groped all the parts of her body that my hands could reach, with the exception of the groin area and her face, I was starting to run out of ideas. My right hand found the end of her long, braided ponytail and I gently pulled on it.

“Hey, no!” came her startled response, with her slipping out of character for a few moments. I let go of her hair; she didn’t like that then. Was it an extension? She looked over at her colleague, fiddled with her hair and smiled. The “dance” resumed; both of us were perspiring.

There’s a passion in me that comes out when sufficient foreplay has happened.

I tightly wrapped my arms around her and stood up. She let out a sound of surprise, but didn’t resist. I stood there with her legs wrapped around me, her arms around my neck and her head next to mine. She was breathing heavily.

I just wanted that feeling again. That feeling of a man lovingly holding a woman against him, cherishing his prize. Not necessarily dominating her, but more protecting her. Showing her his physical strength and at the same time his strength of character, his self control, by way of not hurting her.

“Okay, time is up” is all she said after a few seconds. I had lost all sense of time. Monika lowered herself off me and smiled at me, a genuine smile. I had enjoyed that, more for her kinkiness than anything else.

She got dressed while I buttoned my shirt. There was a new couple in the booth immediately next to us, the other couple had already left. I hadn’t noticed any of them coming and going. Did that happen when Monika had my face in her ample cleavage? Is that why she did that? So that people couldn’t see each other? If that was the case, then I appreciated the consideration and attention to detail.

“I go shower now,” she said to me as we parted the heavy red curtains. I said “Thank you” and Monika walked off towards a door next to the bar area. I returned to my best friend, who was waiting patiently at the best table in the house.

“You were gone a long time. What happened to you? ” he asked.

“How long was I gone for?” I asked, still oblivious of time.

“That was over half an hour,” he said. Had I got something of a freebie off a stripper, I wondered to myself.

Normal service then resumed. Really good strippers, the best we had seen in Prague, did their thing on the stage before us. The professional dancers in their lavish costumes answered their calling. A groom on a stag weekend got dragged on the stage and was publicly humiliated for his friend’s amusement. Table dances happened around us and soft-sell girls offering their charms occasionally came to our table.

The tall blonde from the previous night ended up taking my mate behind the curtain. I was happy to see another side of him, a side he probably wasn’t aware of either. His divorce was the worst I had seen in real life. He was due some fun. He deserved it. He needed it.

While he was gone I found my thoughts wondering over to the Baltic Babe side of my brain. I wondered where she was, what she was doing, who she was with. What was I going to tell her about this week?

My friend returned, smiling and happy with what his money had bought him. The evening pleasantly trundled along and Daria caught my eye a few times, upon which we always smiled. I know, I know. She did that with all the boys.

It was well after midnight and the club had quietened down. The drunken, rowdy stag parties had left and a calmer atmosphere prevailed. I was getting a little bored. Daria’s enticing offer of a “special nice one” could no longer be ignored.

She was sitting at a table with five other strippers, engrossed in conversation. One of them, one I had never spoken to, noticed me as I walked up to them and she caught Daria’s attention. How did she know? I made eye contact with Daria and, without breaking stride, without saying a word, I cocked my head towards the red curtain. Daria smiled knowingly, got up and followed me.

We were both smiling as we took up our positions in the empty private area. Despite her fake boobs, I was looking forward to this experience. She seemed willing to do a little bit extra, but that was just sales patter, right? The customary fast-paced music with a driving beat started playing. Pretty little Daria started her routine. To make things interesting for her, I unbuttoned my shirt. My chest and stomach muscles caused her to stop momentarily and also just say “Wow!” Was this a learned response for strippers or was it sincere? I couldn’t tell.

“How do dancers know when fifteen minutes is up?” I asked, which caused her to resume her hipswaying.

“The girls listen to the music as they work a client. It’s usually four or five songs that make fifteen minutes. If a girl doesn’t like the guy, then it’ll be four songs and she’ll stop because he won’t know how much time has passed. On very rare occasions a girl will do more than fifteen minutes. Monika really liked you.”

I was surprised that she knew how long Monika and I had been together. I remembered how earlier in the evening when I had dismissed a brunette stripper by saying that I preferred blondes, that minutes later a blonde stripper approached me. It was becoming apparent to me just how much the girls spoke to each other, a veritable intelligence network, sharing commercial information for financial gain. A sisterhood of profit.

“I made Monika sweat. She asked me to slap her.” I shared.

“Oh, you know about that. You made her sweat? You did well.” she answered enigmatically as she took her bra off and proudly displayed her perfect but fake breasts.

“Do you like them?” she asked.

“Yes, they are very nice.” I lied. I was impressed by her good English though.

“They cost me five thousand Euros. They’re still a little sensitive, so please be gentle,” she implored. I agreed.

“My real name is Eva.” she confided. I felt honoured by her opening up to me, even if she was grinding her crotch into mine.

“How many nights a week do you work here?” I asked, now curious about the secret private life of a stripper.

“Weekdays I work as an event organizer for a commercial company. The pay is bad, so I do this job twice a week. My family think that I am with my boyfriend.”

“That must be tricky. You must be tired tonight seeing as you worked last night.” I said as I licked an erect nipple.

“I am a little tired. I’m hoping that the boss lets me leave early tonight.” she said as she rubbed her breasts in my face.

“Have you travelled much?” I asked for no reason in particular.

“I have lived and worked in Paris and Miami. Two years in America.” That explained her fluency in English.

“Wow! How did you manage to do that?” I was genuinely interested to know.

“I went with men who told me that they loved me. I believed them.”

I said nothing, feeling a little sad that a sweet person such as she seemed to be had had her innocence stolen. Before the conversation became too heavy for her, Eva pushed herself off of me.

She got down on her haunches and pretended to lick up the insides of my thighs. Her little pink tongue was out and she kept eye contact. Neither of us spoke. Was this going to be the “special nice” bit?

When Eva got to my crotch she pretended to give me a blowjob. She put her hand on top of my erection in my jeans, the only time a stripper had touched me there. She rested her hand there as she pretended to suck away at my invisible cock. All the time she kept strong eye contact with me, which was a massive turn on, because it felt so personal.

After a minute of her doing this, I asked “Do you like doing that?”

“When I’m in love” was her reply, her head bobbing away without missing a beat.

Eva proceeded to give me a better fake blowjob than some blowjobs have been in real life. That wasn’t difficult given that I had only been with three women in my life. However, my ex-girlfriend could suck the chrome off a towbar.

This sweet, pretty, naked little stripper with big, fake breasts and no more than 25 years old then mimicked swallowing cum out of my cock as it came in her mouth. She made approving, satisfied sounds and threw her head back, kept eye contact, opened her mouth and pretended to show me my invisible semen before swallowing it. She rubbed around her mouth and chin with a hand that she then slid down her throat and rubbed over her breasts.

Eva then smiled, stood up and climbed on to the bench, thrusting her bald pussy into my face. It wouldn’t have taken much for me to have leaned forward slightly, stuck my tongue out and licked her swollen clit. I had the good sense and self control not to do that. She had one hand on the ceiling and reached down with the other, using two fingers to separate her pussy lips, exposing her red, round clit. She then pretended to ride my face and do so until she made herself come. She was quite a little actress.

I tried pushing my luck by saying, “Why don’t you sit down next to me and show me how you play with yourself?”

“No, I don’t do that for anyone, not even a boyfriend,” was her irritated response. I had gone too far.

“Okay, time is up,” she said with a smile. I had lost count of how many songs it had been, but I knew it was more than five.

As was the norm we got dressed silently and walked to the red curtain, the doorway to another reality. I thanked her and all she said was “I’m going to see if the boss will let me go home now,” and off she went. I never saw her again.

“Are you paying these girls extra or something?” is what my friend said when I got back to the table. I smiled and didn’t care how long I had been away. I had enjoyed myself.

My friend went with the tall, blonde stripper one last time. Yes, the same girl again. That was so typically him – stick with what works. It was that thinking that had kept him in his shit marriage for so long.

When he came back we looked around to see that we were amongst the last patrons in the joint. It was almost six in the morning and we were tired, but happy. We left an almost deserted club and reached the cool, fresh air of a Prague Saturday morning. A few hours later we were asleep on a plane heading to England, unsure of what awaited us there…that crazy little thing called “Life”.