Category Archives: Online dating

Date #8 – From Russia with hair

Carefully thought-out poses of her skiing, snorkelling, cycling and dancing showed a young, attractive woman actively enjoying life. Curiously she was Russian, a Buddhist and claimed to play rugby. As an ex-South African I think I was taught to pass a rugby ball before I could walk. A stunning rugby-playing, Buddhist Russian I just had to meet.

I had blotted out the previous night’s date with Potty Mouth as I stood waiting for my date outside Covent Garden Tube station on a cool Friday night. As tourists marvelled at the historical sights and Londoners made for the pubs and restaurants, it occurred to me just how business-like our email exchange in the previous week had been. It was refreshing to have a woman agree to a date within three emails. I like decisiveness and detest wasting my time swapping endless emails that ultimately lead to nothing because the other person just can’t bring themselves to meet in person. That had been happening too often in the previous months.

When we spotted each other her face remained deadpan while I smiled. I kissed her politely on the cheek and said hello. She didn’t say anything in response and started walking off, her eyes said “follow me”, so I did. What the fuck?!

She led me to a small quiet pub and confidently she went inside, strode past strangely quiet drinkers at the bar and went up a flight of stairs at the back of the place. Intrepidly I followed this tall, blonde Russian who hadn’t said a word to me. Was I going to walk through a black curtain into a dark, smoky room where a guy with a Russian accent wearing a trench-coat and holding a briefcase was going to ask me if I was Red Bear?

The stairs led to another floor that had a small bar and six tables with chairs. One table was free and we headed for it. The others were occupied by couples that were on dates given their smart clothes and stiff body language.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked.

“A black Russian,” she said, finally speaking and doing so with a sexy, rasping voice.

I returned with our drinks and when I sat down she gave me a very pleasant smile. We began to chat and her English was nearly fluent. She was intelligent but a little dull for me. After an hour I decided that there was no chemistry between us.

Then I spotted something.

If she turned her head away from me and the faint light was strong enough, I noticed that she had blonde facial hair where a man would have side-burns. At first I thought nothing of it, but noticed it more and more and hopefully wasn’t staring at her.

Then I noticed her top lip…it had a very bleached moustache. When I was young enough to want to look older, I grew a moustache. Hers would have rivalled mine.

I subscribe to traditional gender stereotypes, especially the one that says ladies should have little hair on their faces. It just wouldn’t work if my girlfriend reminded me of Chewbacca. How Photoshopped were her photos?

The more I looked at her, the more I realized that she was the hairiest woman I had ever come across. How hairy was she under her clothes? I really didn’t want to find out. All attraction toward her flew out the window quicker than a bad wig flying off on a windy day.

Hirsute woman 2

We had another round of drinks despite me knowing that I didn’t want to see her again. I felt very sorry for her and wondered if her being hirsute was the reason that she was single. Behind the polite smile and clever conversation I got the impression that there was a very active brain whirring away. Undoubtedly she had an agenda of her own, but I didn’t really care what it was.

I walked the hirsute Russian to her Tube station and waited on the platform with her. As her train approached I said to her, “It was a pleasure meeting you. If you would like to see me again, send me a message.”

She smiled and got on the train without saying another word. Hello and goodbye didn’t come easily to her.

Nobody warned me that internet dating could lead to me discovering the missing link or sharing a drink with Yeti’s lovechild.

I’ve never ever heard from her again, but more than a year and half on at the time of writing, revisiting the Happy Humping Ground website, I saw that she had logged on recently and her pictures hadn’t changed

I was starting to believe that dating was a numbers game and after enough dates, I would find Her. I was looking forward to the next date that I had lined up for the following evening…with a German psychologist. Could she be The One?

LESSONS LEARNT: Pretty pictures on dating profiles are deceptive. Don’t go on a date just because you like the pictures.

Hirsute woman 5

Date #7 – Potty Mouth had to dash

I have a soft spot for pretty blondes and it gets harder every time I see one. I make no apologies for this, it’s the look I like. We all have a type.

Her profile appeared fresh in my weekly search on OKCupid and it was her pretty face and blonde hair that caught my eye. It was before the Intimate Encounter with Tech Titan and after Stupid Boy Crashed and Burned when I found her. We were an over 85% match, which is quite high on that site’s matching system. From her profile I saw that she was Australian so I kind of knew what to expect…or so I thought.

Our swapping of emails in the run-up to this date had been very positive. I approached her online and we had a brief exchange of messages before she went off to do a sailing course in Spain. I didn’t think I’d hear from her again, but she surprised me and a few weeks later she made contact. Very upbeat, positive emails flew backwards and forwards over a few nights before we found a mutually convenient date in our diaries. She seemed to have quite a busy social life. I was very keen to meet her because on paper/screen we had a lot in common and the written banter was good.

We met on a warm Thursday night in November outside Tower Hill Tube station. I instantly liked the look of her. She had a smiley face, flowing golden blonde hair and a hint of boobage. She was a little short for her weight, but I like a bit of cushion for the pushin’.

She had just flown in from Amsterdam after visiting a friend and was carrying a small backpack. I had just spent the day on a training course in London. She was in blue jeans and a black leather jacket. I was in a grey suit, white shirt and tie.

There is a steep flight of stairs that runs down from the Tube station to an underpass that opens out on to the Tower of London. I offered to carry her backpack which she gratefully accepted. Confronted by the stairs I offered her my arm with my “Do you like chicken? Take a wing.” line that made her chuckle. She took my arm nevertheless.

It occurred to me that my offering an arm was a great way to see if a woman was comfortable enough with me to get tactile within seconds of meeting me. Surely a woman would only do that if she fancied the man doing so? It warranted further investigation if there were more dates in my future.

I felt at ease with her as we walked and talked our way to St Katharine’s Docks. We must have made for quite a sight as we brushed past office workers outside the drinking holes that line the marina, what with me in a suit and backpack over my shoulder. By the time we got to be seated at a table in the pizzeria at the Dickens Inn, I had noticed that she said the word “fuck” quite a lot. She seemed to use it in almost every second sentence and it bothered me.

It bothered me because it wasn’t ladylike. I expect my woman to behave and speak like a lady. I speak and behave like a gentleman but in private and especially in the bedroom, then and only there, anything goes. I know that Australian women are famous for being boisterous and a little rough around the edges, but my date had a high-flying job that required a degree of sophistication and social graces. To continually hear “fuck”, “fucking”, “fuckit”, “fucker” and “fuckety-fuck” in almost every sentence was unpleasant for me.

In my mind I called her “Potty Mouth”.

Potty mouth 3

Despite her perpetual deluge of swearing we managed to make conversation and it was good. No topic was off-limits and I came to the conclusion that Potty Mouth was a strong-willed, confident and independent woman. I had no problem with that, but could imagine that many men might. I also learned that she came from a well-to-do family and that money had never been a problem for her. She had been to universities on three continents and yes, Harvard was one of them. All her profile photos were of her in a smart dress at some black-tie affair at an embassy, corporate or charity event. She was high-society, but her mouth was in the gutter.

I have a financial plan in my life that involves spending far less than I earn. I want to buy my own home, which has eluded me as events have always conspired against me when I was on the brink of doing so. I also have a responsibility in the form of an eighty-something year-old mother who I support. What would happen when the day comes when I have to tell Potty Mouth that we can’t go away to St. Tropez that year with Sir and Lady Jones because I had to pay for an expensive operation for my mother?

We shared a pizza and a bottle of wine, with me wondering if the alcohol would affect her swearing in any way. It didn’t, well, not that I could discern. The meal came to an end and I was in two minds about calling it a night. Before I made a decision, she spoke.

“Do you mind if we go for a walk somewhere? My fucking legs are fucking killing me,” Potty Mouth asked.

“Of course we can. It’s a lovely evening,” I answered.

“It’s because of all the fucking sitting I’ve been doing today. Sitting on the fucking bus to the airport, then sitting at the fucking airport, then sitting on the fucking plane, then sitting on the fucking train to get here. My legs are fucked.”


I paid for the meal and Potty Mouth didn’t seem to notice, nor did she say thank you.

We strolled around St Katharine’s Docks and I showed her the apartment behind the Dickens Inn that I had contemplated buying in 2004, when I was married and had money. Although she had lived in London for several years she wasn’t familiar with the area, so I couldn’t help but play tour guide until we found a pub to have a nightcap.

Her phone rang while we were enjoying a drink and she first checked to see who it was before answering it. I thought it a bit rude to answer a phone during a date and I think my face let her know it. Then I guessed that it was probably her ‘safety call’, a friend checking in on her to see that her date was safe. I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation that she had with her best friend who, as became obvious from the discussion, had just been dumped by her long-term boyfriend and was now homeless.

“Oh, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go to my friend’s place to help her pack and move her to my place,” Potty Mouth said without swearing. So she can do it.

“No problem. I understand. You’re a good friend,” I replied.

“Thank you for everything. I’m sorry to have to cut it short. I’ll be in touch,” Potty Mouth said as she kissed me on the cheek before slinging her backpack over her shoulder and scampering out of the pub into the darkness, leaving me to my half-drunk pint.

I liked the look of her, liked the vibe with her, we had lots in common, were similar in adventurous spirit, but good grief, she was the most foul-mouthed woman I had ever come across.

I was a bit disappointed, but never mind, I had three dates in the next three days lined up…