Category Archives: Online dating

Date #55 – The Nurse

I recognize a pretty face on Plenty of Fish (PoF) that I haven’t seen for a while. It’s not unusual for me to see faces disappear and reappear on PoF because I’ve been using it for over two years and people do embark on relationships that don’t work out. I’ve been there, done that too.

This returning face and I had swapped a few brief messages more than a year ago but she seemed evasive and I didn’t pursue matters because she was undecided about having children. Now on the back of discovering a hack for PoF, I’m getting more messages than ever before and while dealing with these I notice her memorable face. She seems to have moved from a town to the north of me to a town closer to the south of me. Most importantly in the process she has also decided that she doesn’t want children. Her profile is witty and she has a homely look about her that makes her seem different to the other faces on this dating site.

On a Wednesday night I write to her, commenting on a witticism in her profile and quite honestly expecting to hear back from her. After all this time and all these messages I’ve developed a feeling for when I know that I’ll get an answer. To my surprise she doesn’t answer.

Late on Friday afternoon I get a message from her, saying that she had responded on Wednesday night using her phone but then checking her PoF email on a computer she sees that her response was never sent. I find her story plausible but am also struck by her determination to be in contact with me. A little keenness on a woman’s part is always a good thing in my burgeoning dating book.

We start swapping messages and by Saturday lunchtime we’re talking on the phone. I’ve never been a fan of the so-called ‘screening call’ on the phone because I think that so much of communication is non-verbal that even a phonecall can be ambiguous. Also accents get exaggerated on a call, which might put some people off me. However, this one goes well and we seem to connect, discovering that she works in my town and that her father used to live in my apartment complex.

It also surprises me to learn that she works as a nurse in a school a couple of blocks from me. I thus think of her as The Nurse.

She tells me that when we first swapped messages on Pof that she was also in contact with a guy whom she ended up having a relationship with for a year. I ask about her now not wanting children and she says that that was always the case, but her friends had told her to put ‘undecided’. Just how much of her profile was created by this committee of well-meaning friends?

We talk for over an hour and there’s no shortage of banter, but I realize that The Nurse seems to attach a negative slant to every topic of conversation. I end the call by suggesting that we meet up one night in my town after work. She responds affirmatively and I leave it there, slightly concerned that she’s a Misery, but my curiosity is in charge.

The previous night I had met Tall Gal and tomorrow I’m meeting Cultural Allsorts, so my dating fortunes are still favourable. I’m not allowing my hopes to venture further than mild interest in The Nurse.

On Monday morning I get a text message asking if we can meet after work, at 4.30pm, to which I agree. I’m less than ecstatic, but at least its local and shouldn’t be too expensive. I’m not expecting much, it’s just unfinished business.

Could The Nurse be the One?

I walk the mile to the pub and it’s early February, so it’s chilly out. I hope that The Nurse offers to give me lift home. She’s there before me, sitting at a table for two and from the get-go I don’t like the look of her. The Nurse is a lot older than her photos; they’re at least five years old. I now think it the norm that women use old photos on their profiles, but I’ll never like it. When will this shit end?!

She’s got many wrinkles around her eyes whilst in her photos she has none. The Nurse is also gaunt and doesn’t look healthy. Despite this she has a remarkable rack, e-cup minimum, but ignoring this latter facet I’m underwhelmed. I know enough about women’s hair habits to know that she is probably largely grey under that carefully worked on, unnaturally glossy head of uniformly dark blonde hair.

I sit down at the table she has chosen and banter flows easily. I think my being relaxed makes chit-chat easy because I know that there’s no physical attraction from my side and therefore little hope of any kind of relationship. I’m treating this as a social outing now and my demeanour must put her at ease.

Exactly as I expected The Nurse attaches a negative slant to everything. She doesn’t moan but can’t help but present the negative side to any topic of conversation. The novelty of that wears off very quickly; ho-hum. She’s also a naturally highly-strung and intense person. Nevertheless her body language is positive, open and relaxed, occasionally she leans forward when talking to me. I’m sitting back in my seat and I know that I’m passive disinterested, leading proceedings by initiating topics of conversation and suggesting drinks or something to eat.

After a couple of hours of conversation it occurs to me that The Nurse is a mixture of three women whom I have dated in the past: Wild Child in appearance with a similar face and big tits, Lusty Lass in negative outlook and Pretty Teacher in intensity.

Having been on more dates than most people go on in their lives, after listening to The Nurse’s account of her upbringing, I can conclusively say that if a little girl goes through a turbulent childhood, her relationship history in adult life will be the same.

Her father was a philanderer and her own longest relationship has only lasted three years; most seemed to last less than a year. She speaks about some of her exe’s with an acidic bitterness, especially one whom she lived with for eight months of their three year relationship.

I think there must be a particular personality type that is attracted to nursing, or nursing turns women into this type. The Nurse is intense and highly strung, while the similarity in personality to The Pretty Teacher is striking. I wonder if she is OCD too?

I’ve come to expect some nervousness or guardedness in the first hour or two before a woman lets herself relax in my company, but this woman is being herself. The vast majority of people can not put on a positive, relaxed physical posture while being emotionally uncomfortable. Tonight’s date is physically at ease, so this is how she is when emotionally comfortable. No wonder she’s single again and had so many relationships. She’s what I call a Misery – she puts a negative spin on everything, chooses to share negative stories, has a generally dark atmosphere about her, it’s as if ominous rain-clouds perpetually follow her.

There is a growing collection of metaphorical red flags draping the table between us; you can’t see any wood. There isn’t any cause for optimism with her in any sense. I’m getting bored, such is my disdain for this person and, remembering the words of The English Shrink, I feel jaded by yet another disappointing date.

I decide to turn the conversation interesting over dessert. Well, interesting for me.

“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, not sure what her answer will be.

“I love spicy food. The spicier the better!”

I’m surprised, her answer tells me that she’s exciting in bed. She has a good body and nice tits, but I still have no interest in shagging her.

Like so many women on a first date, she declines having any dessert, but I decide to be naughty. I have a mouthful of the chocolatey tiramisu, she watches me slowly put the spoon in my mouth. I scoop some more up and rest my elbow on the table, extending the spoon just over halfway across the table towards her. She smiles and shakes her head, saying “No, thank you.” I ignore her words and keep my arm steady…and make sly eyes at her. She notices this and we’re at a little standoff, a clash of wills. I don’t move and we maintain eye contact without saying a word.

After a few more seconds she slowly leans forward, still looking into my eyes and puts her mouth around the spoon, closes it and gives me the kind of look with her blue eyes that I think she would if she had just taken my cock in her mouth. Slowly pulling her head back she releases the spoon and it’s clean. We keep strong eye-contact and don’t say a word. I can see she’s running her tongue around inside her mouth, savouring the taste of all that chocolate and cream, then without blinking slowly swallows, all the while maintaining strong eye-contact with me.

I love moments like that. I’ve done it with several other women and it is a turn-on for me in so many ways. First, it says that her will is weaker than mine. Second, she is prepared to submit to me. Third, it tells me that she probably has a naughty side. Fourth, it is clearly a simulation of oral sex and her doing that tells me she doesn’t mind or perhaps even enjoys doing that. I think it also stirs something inside a woman; some might get turned on.

We’re the last people left in the pub and the staff are starting to close up. “Shall we call it a night?” I ask.

“I think we’d better. I’ve got school in the morning,” she says.

I think we’re both surprised as to how long this first date has lasted. I go to the counter and settle the bill, which was £60, a lot more than I thought this evening would cost me. I go back to The Nurse and help her put her coat on.

“Aaw, you’re trying to be a gentleman,” she says with surprise.

“I’m not trying, I am,” I retort. She’s obviously not used to this kind of consideration by a man.

I escort The Nurse to her car which is parked next to another small car. There are no other cars around in the car park.

“Which of these is yours?” I ask, wondering if she’ll realize that I walked here.

“That one,” she answers, gesturing to the smaller, older one. “Look, there’s frost on the windows,” she says and gets a scraper out her car and begins cleaning her windows.

“Would you like me to do that for you?” I ask, again being the gentleman that my mother raised me to be. I’m also feeling a little surplus to requirements.

“No, I can manage,” she says. These thoroughly modern, independent English women insist on making life hard for themselves. “You really don’t need to wait around,” she chides.

“I’m not leaving until your car is running,” I respond with a smile.

Once she finishes clearing the frost she says, “Thank you for dinner. I’ll get the next one.”

I just smile and kiss her on each cheek. I don’t have the heart to say that there won’t be a next time. She obviously enjoyed the evening and wants to see me again, why spoil things now? I’d rather she fell asleep feeling good for a little while.

The Nurse gets in her car and closes the door. I watch her drive off into the black night. It’s at least -1C and I walk home.

She is a good person but not The One.

I’ve been here before, several times in fact. She is Tech Titan. She is Sweet Thing. She is Busty Blonde and Busty Czech. She is like all these woman who seemed promising while they thought I was their One. I know now that she isn’t going to be The One and that I should not go down a familiar road that leads to that dead-end of hurt and regret.

The next morning I send her my standard ‘thanks-but-no’ text message. At lunchtime she responds with “I enjoyed the evening with you too. That’s fine. Good luck.

The thought of The Nurse and her permanent negativity makes my spine shiver. I wriggle my shoulders to shake off the feeling of yuck that threatens to enshroud me.

I disable my profile on Plenty of Fish. I now think of it as ‘Plenty of Freaks’.

Diary of Dreams – Tears of Laughter

Date #54 – The Cultural Allsorts

I got thumbing through Tinder and one of the pretty faces that I liked was a match. I checked out her other photos now that Tinder only let’s you see their primary pic. The other photos did not inspire me at all, she’s a brunette who experiments with lighter hair colours, but she has a lengthy profile which in itself is novel for a woman on Tinder. Her words tell of someone multi-cultural, speaking numerous languages, is well travelled and interesting-sounding.

I decide to message her the next day and she responds. Over the course of the week we swap single messages at night, hers usually later than mine. We get a bit of banter going and she seems cheeky and fun. She was born in the Soviet Union and that has a curious fascination for me, always has ever since Baltic Babe. I become concerned that she’s fishing for a man with an EU passport but she tells me that has her own British passport. How did she come by that? Is she another Randy Russian who indulged in a marriage of convenience? She could be interesting to meet for a date. I suggest this and she agrees. Apparently fluent in six languages, I think of her as The Cultural Allsorts.

Could she be The One?

We meet in the concourse of a busy Tube station in the centre of London on a Sunday at noon. She asked for this location because she was having to go off somewhere else and could only spare me an hour. I’ve got to the point in my dating life when an hour is all I need to know whether I want to see someone again. A lunchtime coffee date works for me.

She is a quarter of an hour late which is never a good start considering she was impressing on me beforehand how short of time she was. At first sight I don’t like the look of her. Her photographs flatter her facially, although in a radical departure from convention, she is slimmer than in her pics. I had got there early and scouted around in the neighbourhood, finding several chain coffee shops that were relatively empty. Perfect for a quick and quiet conversation I thought.

Oh no, she had her own ideas about where she wanted to go and we ended up in the most upmarket coffee shop I’ve been to in my life. I’m open to new things so I didn’t mind. Coffee and cake, how difficult could it be? With her, very.

She was brought up in a Soviet Union republic and her family emigrated to America the first chance they got. Consequently she has retained the fussiness of Eastern European women and acquired the gastronomic moon-on-stick mentality of an American. I felt sorry for our young waiter whom she had running backwards and forwards to find out everything that she needed to know before making a decision. She reminded me of Baltic Babe; a pain to eat out with. This was not a good start.

Eventually she browbeat the hapless waiter into having the chef prepare something that wasn’t on the menu. I want and need to be with someone who is easy-going, a pleasure to be around, someone who invigorates me, not drains me. This woman will never be the wind in my sails, more like the torpedo in my hull.

“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, idly curious about her level of sexual energy.

“I love spicy food,” she replies.

Okay, good to know. I wouldn’t think her a sexual dynamo but you can’t tell from looks, but I’ve learned you can from how spicy a woman likes her food.

We start talking about travel, places we’ve liked and still want to visit. She has an affinity for Brazil and it strikes me that she could even pass for Brazilian. She has mixed colour hair and in most of her profile photos she’s a brunette. One of the reasons I wanted to come on this date is to see just how much of a difference there is with dating brunettes. My date of Friday night with Tall Gal, also a brunette, did not reveal much in that regard.

Expounding our work experiences reveals that we’ve worked for the same banks in London, just at different times. I get the impression that she’s a bit of an intellectual and academic. She works in high finance and is deliberately modest about that because she probably doesn’t want to intimidate men, who I think would be intimidated by her job. Not me though as it takes a lot to impress or scare me nowadays.

Of course Life doesn’t miss the opportunity to fuck with me. At the table next to us is sitting just the type of pretty blonde that I find irresistible. Her and I make eye contact a few times when The Cultural Allsorts is looking away. That’s the sort of girl I should be talking to. I’m still struck by how shallow I am; I want to look at the woman in front of me and go “wow” in my head periodically. I want to feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world to be with her. I am now quite aware that if the lust factor isn’t there, everything else doesn’t matter. I just have to fancy the women I’m sharing my life with. Please don’t judge me, instead feel sorry for me, because this issue has probably led to my passing over perfectly good women.

Earlier, on my train journey into London, a young couple sat in my four-seat arrangement. Her and I had made eye-contact the moment they got on the train and he led her to sit where they did. He sat next to me while she sat diagonally opposite me. They were obviously a couple but I caught her sneaking little peeks at me. She was lovely and just what I want looks-wise. It was flattering but again it reminded how important this factor is to me.

So now in the coffee shop is an even more attractive blonde. Is Life teasing me, taunting me or is it guiding me, reminding me? I see these pretty little blondes whenever I go out, but very rarely do I find them on dating sites. Where do you go to my lovely? What must I do to meet a girl like you?

Conversation with The Cultural Allsorts rolls around culture and history so it’s almost inevitable that I find myself regaling her with a bit of history that I know. In this instance it’s about Cecil John Rhodes and from the serious amount of ear-lobe playing that it results in it becomes evident that she is loving what I’m saying. Hmm, is she another sapiophile?

I don’t actually care and even if she asked me to go home with her right now, I’d decline the offer. I’m totally disinterested in her, not just because I don’t fancy her, but also because I don’t feel any kind of chemistry. Her demanding behaviour when it came to ordering food also told me all about her relationship style that I need to know.

Despite the waiter’s best efforts and kitchen staff’s willingness to please, The Cultural Allsorts has only eaten a quarter of what she asked for. The rest is going to waste. If I fancied my date I would employ impeccable table manners, but seeing as I knew that I would never ever be seeing her again, I asked if I could finish her food which looked sumptuous. My coffee and tiramisu had merely served as an appetiser.

The pretty blonde at the table next to us gets up to leave and knocks her empty coffee cup over onto the table. We all look and the blonde guffaws before saying something to me that I don’t hear properly because I’m just too damn busy making the most of the opportunity to look at her fully. If she asked me to go home with her I’d call a taxi cab and incentivise the driver to be speedy.

Although she only allocated me an hour of her day, the date has lasted more than an hour and a half. I guess she must be enjoying herself? Hard to tell really but then she says, “I’m sorry, but I really need to get going now.”

I help The Cultural Allsorts with her coat and say my usual, “My mother brought me up funny,” just in case she was a totally liberated Westernised woman who found such things as overbearing or chauvinistic.

“Your mother brought you up right. It’s good,” she says. I’m pleased to hear that my old-fashioned manners are still appreciated in some quarters.

We walk to the nearby Tube station and I decide to be naughty by standing on the escalator in front of her so that we’re of the same height. She takes a step back. Ah, she’s not attracted to me I conclude. That’s fine, I was wondering. At a second set of escalators I do it again and again she takes a step back. Inwardly I laugh to myself but continue making small talk with her.

We’re both using the same train-line but going in different directions. I politely kiss her goodbye on both cheeks and say, “It was nice to meet you,” which she parrots back to me.

On the train home I delete Tinder from my phone. No more Tinderellas for me.

The date wasn’t a total waste of time. I don’t think brunettes are any different to blondes. I liked the way that Life reminded me of my curious magnetic attraction to blondes and I shall revert to this being my primary selection filter.

A good thing too, because my date tomorrow night is with a blonde.

Peter Sarstedt ~ Where Do You Go To My Lovely

Date #53 – Tall Gal

It’s been more than two months since I’ve had sex and I’m as horny as hell. I know I pledged to only sleep with The One when I finally find her, but my resolve is being sorely tested by the ready supply of eager pussy to be found on the internet. I accidentally stumble across a way to game Plenty of Fish to get more traffic and approach emails from women. Consequently I get an email late on a Thursday night from a pretty brunette. I look at her profile and see that she’s 31 years-old and six feet tall. Those are two items on my Fuckit List, i.e. scandalously younger and how tall must a woman be to become impractical to fuck. I say thank you to Life for this opportunity and answer her email.

Witty, flirty emails ping-pong between us for an hour and it turns out that she has a thing for tall guys with my accent. She later makes a comment about “if you can keep me intrigued for that long” which tells me that she’s looking for fun and not a long relationship. I notice on her profile that her longest relationship has only lasted a year. She’s perfect one-night stand material and just in time too because I’m starting to forget what the warm wetness of a woman’s pussy wrapped around my cock feels like.

I end the interaction by challenging her to buy me a coffee in exchange for all the questions that she wants answers to. She claims to have plans for the Friday night and is going off to Spain for work on the weekend. We swap phone numbers and I leave it there, doubting I’ll ever hear from her again.

This interaction with her combines to make me think of the stunning brunette I encountered at the dating site’s drinks evening. Maybe my addiction to blondes has been the reason that I’m still single despite my best efforts. Maybe blondes and me just aren’t a good fit? Perhaps I should broaden my horizons a bit and see if the grass is better on the brunette side of the fence? At the same time I’m wondering if my belief that dates off free sites tend to be disappointing has any validity to it.

The next night, Friday, at seven o’clock she sends me a message on WhatsApp and I ask about her plans for the night and before I know it we agree to meet in a pub in my town in less than an hour’s time. I run around like a mad thing getting my place tidy in case we end up back here. As I’m getting dressed a good female friend contacts me via WhatsApp wanting relationship advice from me. In my current state I’m the last person to be giving anybody any kind of advice but I do my best. It’s amazing how there are bouts of silence, icy nothingness and then all these women come at once. I say this because there is another lady who made contact with me on Friday that I like the look and sound of, as well somebody else who I matched with late on Thursday night. Maybe there is something to astrology after all? Is my moon in Uranus?

Could tonight’s date be The One?

She gets to the pub before me and we find each other. Wow, she’s tall, the tallest girl I’ve ever met on a date. She’s wearing heels and is almost as tall as me. Fucking her might feel like copulating with a giraffe; long legs and limbs everywhere.

Naturally I think of her as Tall Gal.

She’s a pretty girl with blue-green eyes, round cheeks and a pleasant smile. We make a little small talk as we queue at the bar and after a couple of minutes pointless banter she says to me, “No, you still have your accent,” which pleases me because I know it’s something she finds attractive about me. Game on!

The pub is busy and noisy because of a major rugby match being shown on the giant television screens and we find the last available seats against a pillar. Not ideal as this is too noisy for a decent conversation and calm enough for me to evoke emotions of lust in her. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, curious about her sexual side.

“I love spicy food! The spicier the better,” she replies.

She likes the sound of her own voice and I just encourage her to keep talking. She’s probably nervous and it will put her at ease. I’m conscious of how little I feel; I’m like a cold-blooded Great White shark patrolling my turf out at sea. I smile politely and ask open-ended questions that sets her off. Over the course of the evening she hardly asks any questions of me.

“I worked on a resort that was popular with Russian tourists,” she says, recounting her work experience abroad.

“What did you think of them?” I ask.

“When they’re young, they’re stunning, but they’re all only after a man with money,” she rejoins.

It’s nice to hear someone else parrot the conclusion I have come to about Russian women.

“Don’t you think it’s understandable though that marrying up is their best chance of bettering themselves?” I ask, playing devil’s advocate in a test of her moral outlook.

“Yes, I do and I think that if I were in their shoes I would probably do the same thing,” she replies.

Her answer leaves me cold. She really couldn’t have said anything else to have put me off her. I still steadfastly believe that people should only marry for love, because that is what will make it work. Any other reason for marriage won’t last very long and if it does it won’t be a happy one. Why do people struggle to understand this?

On the plus side her answer just reinforces my initial idea that she either isn’t interested in a long-term relationship or just isn’t relationship material. This girl is just trouble, just dangerous for a man looking for love. I feel somewhat more justified in just wanting a one-night shag off her.

I change the subject slightly and she starts telling me about her longest relationship.

“He wasn’t from this country, he was much older than me and he had loads of money. We had a lot of good times together,” she says.

“Was the age gap a problem in any way at times?” I ask, wondering exactly what her pull towards older men is about.

“Yes, when we were out and about I was conscious of people staring at us. People probably thought that I was one of those Russian trophy girlfriends,” she says with a childish giggle.

“What was the attraction?” I ask, tying to get closer to the truth.

“We had a chemistry that I’ve never felt with anyone else before or since,” she answers, then continues,”I wonder if that amazing chemistry is what has kept me from meeting someone else? I can’t help but compare every guy I meet to my older guy,” she says with a frown.

My thoughts wonder over to the part of my brain reserved for Baltic Babe and the answer is ‘yes’. I’ve been guilty of that too and I realize that this Tall Gal is in no way causing me to feel another kind of attraction to her. It’s not because I find her unattractive – she is pretty – but I’m realizing that there’s also too much of an age-gap between us to give hope for a relationship. She speaks in a way about things that are new to her, but that I have already grown tired of.

“So what happened with your older guy?” I ask in an effort to complete the picture.

“He went back to his country,” she says with a sad face and looks away from me. Is she still hung up on him?

“Is that when you came back to the UK?”

“No, I stayed on but came back a year after that,” she replies with still a downcast look on her face and evading eye contact with me. I see what is obvious to me and press on it.

“Did you come back here because of another guy?” I ask as softly as I know how.

“Yes,” she says, still evading eye contact.

I change the topic by asking her about her favourite television shows and she starts rattling off a slew of depressing psychological dramas, murder mysteries and supernatural-themed shows. She starts telling me how she likes the gritty realism of the gory shows and the real-life application of horror moments. All that she speaks off is filled with negativity and the dark side of life. I could see that she could be a real drag to be around sometimes. Where have I felt this before?

Suddenly it hits me that Tall Gal is another Lusty Lass and Krazy Girl. A soft-hearted, sweet, well-intentioned young woman who is unlucky in love because she just doesn’t take a timeout for herself to get her emotions in order before embarking on a new relationship. She’s constantly on the rebound, carrying ever-increasing emotional baggage around with her. I start to feel sorry for her. Do I really want to be another guy who just uses her? Do I want to go back to being that self-appointed vengeful shit who avails himself of vulnerable women’s orifices? No.

Tall Gal unravels her scarf to reveal a bit of cleavage. It’s actually cold in here, so why did she do that? The pub erupts in celebration as a try is scored which causes her to look around. I take the opportunity to check her body out. She’s not as slim as in her photos with several rolls of puppy fat bulging under her white blouse. For a big girl and one carrying a few extra pounds her breasts are surprisingly small and no more than a B-cup. Am I that desperate to have sex that she’ll do? No.

I decide to employ my Golden Silence trick, in which I keep quiet for as long as it takes for my date to initiate a topic of conversation. Whatever they go with is usually what is on their minds lately. Tall Gal turns to me and I just smile, biding my time as I take a sip from my drink. As they all have, she eventually cracks and speaks.

“How many dates have you been on?” she asks. An interesting choice of topic. Is she genuinely interested in me that’s why she’s asking or does it bother her.

“I’ve been on more than most, I’m starting to realize. Why how many have you been on?” I retort before she realizes what I’ve done.

“I’ve been on five before tonight and that’s over three months,” she says proudly. Amateur, I think to myself.

“What have they been like?” I ask before she can say anything else. I’ve learned that no woman wants to hear that I’ve had more than fifty dates, so I avoid giving a direct answer.

“Well the second one was an absolute nightmare because he got totally drunk, but the others were okay. I was so nervous for my first one,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“That’s normal. Is this your first time you’ve been online dating?” I ask, suspecting I know the answer.

“Yes, I’ve always thought it an odd thing to do, but everyone is doing it nowadays so I thought I’d give it a go,” she replies.

Wow, you must be the last woman in the country not to have tried internet dating. And you’ve started off with Plenty of Fish?! Talk about a baptism of fire.

I start telling her of my memorable dates such as the Angry Yank and the Wild Animal Tickler. I tell her about the typical lies that women tell on their profiles (age, old photos, height, smoking, job) and she seems a little surprised at my words. I take her reaction to indicate surprise or curiosity. I’m wrong.

“Well, there is one thing I’ve lied about on my profile,” she says with a mischievous look in her eye. Here we go, what now?

“I’ve said that I’m a non-smoker, but I do, only a few a day, usually at the end of the day after work. I suppose I’m a social smoker,” she says matter-of-factly.

That’s it! I want to go home now!

I wasn’t feeling any chemistry with her, wasn’t exactly enjoying myself, didn’t really fancy her, didn’t want to have sex with her and now she turns out to be a smoker. Gross. Why am I wasting my time here?

She seems emotionally needy to me and that will eventually spill over into clingyness that leads to men rejecting her. She is going to keep getting hurt, but it doesn’t have to be at the hands of me. I don’t need more notches on my bedpost or stains on my conscience.

I decide that the best thing to do is to end the evening gracefully, not do her any harm emotionally and just let it be as positive an experience for her without her becoming invested in me. I want her to have the strength to keep dating because she might get lucky…and she’ll tie up some of my competition by keeping them busy or perhaps taking one of them off the market. All I need is an excuse.

She stifles a yawn and I call her out on it, for which she apologizes. Then she asks me what the time is and my exit is complete.

“It’s half ten. Shall we call it a night? You’re starting to yawn,” I suggest.

“Yes, I think we’d better,” she says.

Perfect. She now thinks it’s her idea to bring this date to an end. She feels she’s in control, just what I wanted, a nice way to end the encounter. I do my usual gentlemanly thing of helping her put her coat on and I escort her to her car. There’s an awkward silence between us and I get the impression that she’d rather I didn’t accompany her. I don’t think she wants to see me again.

We stand next to her car and I kiss her on a cheek and say, “It was nice to meet you,” and nothing more. I look at her and devilishly watch her squirm for words.

“Yes, it was nice to meet you too. I’ll be seeing you…you…” and she got caught up in her thoughts, thrashing about for something polite to say, definitely avoiding anything that sounded like commitment. I just keep quiet and smile.

“Some other time,” she says, her sentence trailing off on the vapours of her breath that drifted away into the cold February night air.

I say nothing, turn around and walk off.

That felt like a total waste of time, but if I didn’t go I’d always wonder.

Anyway, I have two more dates lined up.

Akon Ft Kardinal Official – Dangerous

Singles night – Final part

“Excuse me, sir, but I’ve had a complaint that you’ve been aggressive toward this gentleman,” I hear the venue manager say as I turn to face him. Next to him is the drunk who only minutes ago was making peace with me. I’m astounded, but before I say a word, half a dozen people spin around and start pointing fingers at the drunk, all talking at the same time telling the manager what had happened. Rarely have I felt so supported by total strangers. I didn’t have to say a word as the manager was filled in, who then turned to the drunk who started arguing with the manager who in turn eventually pulled a funny face and walked off.

I turned away from this lot, knowing that the less attention I gave this twat, the better for everybody. Why me? I was starting to wonder if he was jealous of me because the prettiest girl in the place was totally into me while no woman would even talk to him. He obviously has no idea what to say to women, thinks that splashing cash around will compensate for what he lacked (a personality) and has no self-control.

Conversation with the two sweet ladies before me resumed but they were nervous about his presence, their eyes constantly darting in his direction. They were not going to relax until he was gone. I was racking my brain about how to get rid of this guy.

Kaa-thud!

The drunk slams a bucket of ice with a bottle of Moet champagne on the table.

“Here you goes. Have this on me!” he bellows.

People turn to look, concern on their faces. I make make eye contact with some of them and smile, hoping it disarms them.

Again the drunk starts talking to me, saying I know not what because he can barely stand without swaying now. I’m not going to provoke anything, I’m going to let this play out and hopefully he gives me enough cause to get the manager to throw him out.

Instead he adopts his conciliatory tone again and keeps shaking my hand. “I’ll see you here in twenty years time,” he says again, but I don’t think anybody else watching understood a word that came out of his mouth. Eventually he stops repeatedly shaking my hand, grabs his bag and saunters off. Everyone around me heave sighs of relief, smile at each other and let their shoulders drop. People come up to me and congratulate me for keeping my cool. All I can think about is how the stunner feels about all this.

The good-hearted strangers leave me alone and I turn to my companions, half expecting them to have left amid the hubbub. They were still there smiling at me. The stunner’s eyes were twinkling. She’s lovely. That arsehole might actually have done me a favour of sorts.

A sense of normality returns to the night, to the table and the stunner is leaning in as close tot me as she can. After all the years of dating more women than most men ever dream of doing, well, I can read the signs when a woman is into me. The thing is that her being a smoker is a big obstacle to me. Maybe I can help her kick the habit by providing a little motivation?

The stunner starts hurling more probing questions my way and almost every time my answer results in her friend making an approving face as she turns to the stunner. The two of them live together and seem to know each other quite well. I’m enjoying their company. This night is starting to feel good again.

Out of the faceless crowd a drunken Irishman steps up to the friend and starts talking to her while pouring her a drink from the bottle that he has thoughtfully brought along for the glasses he’s carrying. The friend is shocked at his brazen audacity, her face screaming, “God no! Not another one!”

Is this the done thing with idiotic knobheads nowadays? They throw money and alcohol at disinterested women? I can see why so many of the women that I have dated have said that most of their dates have been horror shows. Ever since that very first ‘comedy night’ all those years ago it seems that my competition has not cleaned up their act. I feel sorry for women on the dating scene.

The stunner starts talking to her friend, in an attempt to rescue her from the unwelcome interloper. The guy’s speech is slurred and the friend has a new boyfriend. I feel sorry for her because she was being a dutiful wingman friend and was suffering for it. The stunner stops talking to her friend, leans over the table to me and says, “Please talk to her. She’s trapped.”

I think quickly and come up with a better solution.

“Now what would your boyfriend say if he saw you now?” I say loud enough for the latest drunken fool to hear.

My words hit him like a bolt of lightning, he seems to instantly sober up and stiffens his spine, collects the glasses and without a word walks off. At least he had the courtesy of leaving without any fanfare, pretty much like how he arrived.

The friend opens her mouth in amazement and we high-five. What is the stunner making of me I wonder.

I excuse myself and go to the gents. The guy standing next to me at the urinal starts complaining about how “hard these London women are”. Now that I know of which he speaks. My occasional peeks around the room showed me that some women had gone home first to get dressed up, which is not a bad thing, but it shows me how serious they are taking this event, like it’s a competition. I noticed very little hair flicking going on. I’ve only seen one woman making unnecessary physical contact with a guy by occasionally touching his shoulder if they laughed about something. I’m not getting the impression that any serious relationships are being forged tonight, which surprises me. I think it’s that ‘abundance’ thing of big cities, where people always think that they can do better than the person they have in front of them.

Returning to my table I’ve barely sat down when the stunner hits me with her latest question.

“Are you kinky?”

What?! Did she just ask me if I’m kinky? No, surely not. Did she say ‘thinking’? No, that makes no sense. Did she say ‘sinking’? No, that makes less sense. Her friend is looking at me with very serious eyes. This one matters; got to get it right.

“I’m sorry, it’s getting noisy in here. Can you repeat the question please?” I say.

She leans forward and says, “I want to know if you’re kinky,” with a deadly look in her eye.

Shit, I did hear right.

I think of a joke as a response. “Do you know the difference between kinky and perverted?”

“No,” they both say.

“Kinky is when you use a feather. Perverted is when you use the whole chicken,” I say, to which they laugh raucously. Job done?

“No. You’re not answering my question. Are you kinky?”

Bloody hell, she’s an intense little thing, but that means the sex will be good too. This is why I don’t drink much when on a date because it allows me to think clearly and quickly. I come up with, “I’m as kinky as you.”

That nothing answer seems to please her and she says, “Good, because I’m not kinky.”

I quickly introduce a new subject and lively banter between the three of us ensues. After a while the stunner looks at me and says, “So tell me, which one of us are you interested in?”

My strategy of giving most of my attention to her friend has worked perfectly. She can’t tell who I am interested in, which heightens the sense of intrigue in her. Seeing as her friend had a new boyfriend and would not be interested in me, it was illogical that I would be interested in the friend, but my deception was so complete that she couldn’t figure this out. I have learned to play women at their own game. The most important thing, however, is the fact that she asked this question, which confirms to me that she’s interested in me because she wouldn’t want to know otherwise if she wasn’t feeling some attraction to me. Right or wrong?

I look at her, I look at her friend, then say, “Well, she’s not available, so I guess I must be interested in you,” and look the stunner deep in the eye. In that moment all sound disappeared and everything that had transpired before in the evening was forgotten. We looked at each other like two tigers coming across one another in a clearing. Bubbles of oestrogen and testosterone collided and fused invisibly before us.

The friend then looks at the time on her phone and it’s almost 11pm. It’s been quite a night for all of us. Despite the drunken arseholes, it has turned out well, or so it feels. Now just the matter of closing the deal.

I say to the friend who is checking her phone, “Do you want to take my number down?”

The stunner immediately intervenes and says, “No!” so emphatically that I’m taken aback. The friend’s face falls and her eyes go big, she says”Whaat?!”

The stunner looks at me and says, “I’m old-fashioned. You must take my number.”

“Okay, I respect that because I’m old-fashioned too,” I say as I reach for my phone. Typically, for the first time ever, my phone’s battery is dead. I show this to the stunner and I say to her, “Sorry, but you’re going to have to take my number.”

She gives me a stare and I just smile back. Eventually she relents and gets her phone out. I give her my number and ask to check that she got it right. She phones it and gets my voicemail.

“There. Now you have my number too,” she says haughtily.

We gather our belongings and get ready to brace ourselves for the cold that is waiting for us outside. I lead the way, intending on walking them to their nearest Tube station. As we make our way through the crowd, strangers are patting me on the back, shaking my hand and saying nice things to me about how I handled myself earlier with the drunk. I’m not used to playing the conquering hero, but the timing is fortuitous because I’ve just met somebody unique who I am already looking forward to seeing again.

I feel a sense of appreciation towards the dating website because despite my years of subscribing and only having a few dates, they laid on something that I feel I got more than my money’s worth. I had a memorable evening for good and bad reasons, but I have no doubt that the good will be the prevailing memory.

Outside I offer to accompany the two ladies, but the stunner asks me, “Where is your station?”

“It’s one block behind me,” I say.

“No. Then you must go to that one.”

“I’m kind of old-fashioned too,” I respond, looking deep into her perfect eyes.

“Thank you, but it is not necessary.”

“Okay,” I say and watch them walk off.

The way the interaction ended, with her asking me not to come along tells me that I’ll never be seeing her again. I have enough experience now to know that somewhere towards the end she decided that she was no longer interested in me.

Was the evening a disaster and a total waste of time? No, I’m actually glad that I went. Firstly, I got to see what one of these events is like and although I’m no longer intimidated by such a setting, I have no interest in experiencing it again. Secondly, I got to see just how far my people skills in terms of conflict handling has evolved. Thirdly, I got far more attention from women than what I was expecting. Over the course of the evening I did notice several women repeatedly smiling at me, a come-on-over signal, but I wasn’t too interested because the stunner had my attention. There was a short, chubby little blonde who in particular stood out as being desirous of my attention. I’m still marketable, which is good to know.

The next day I go onto the dating website and find the stunner’s profile. Notably she has the premium subscription which tells me that she is being very picky and perhaps has trust issues because she has chosen to hide her online activity record so that nobody can see when she was last online. Why do that? The only other person who I knew did that was my best friend and he certainly was not relationship material. She has also told a few lies on her profile, such as her age and nationality. In truth I find her profile boring and uninteresting. If I was after a brunette, no matter how attractive she is, her profile would have put me off.

Nevertheless I send her a text message inviting her out.

She never replied.

Roxy Music – Same Old Scene

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…

Date #50 – The Lying Lithuanian

After The Saffa had pissed me off I went onto Tinder. One of the two faces who matched with me looked familiar. I was convinced that I had swapped messages with her on ‘Plenty of Fish’ (PoF) earlier in the year but I became bored with her one or two-word answers. Good banter via email has lead to good dates; poor banter has meant poor dates. I wondered if she was dealing with a torrent of emails from other guys.

Tonight I went and found what I thought was her profile on PoF. Comparing the computer screen and the phone in my hand I can see that they were both definitely Lithuanian from signs in the photos on their profiles. The facial similarities are clear but perhaps not the same person. A major difference is that on Pof the age is forty-one and on Tinder it’s thirty-five; both of which could be lies. The major similarity is that their profiles’ wording is identical. It’s a long-winded quote from a popular book. Coincidence?

Irrespective of all that, she was very pretty and I would love to see her face sucking on the end of my cock. This was Tinder – after the experience with the Brazilian on Tinder my hopes are very low.

I wrote to her and she answered with very short sentences. Becoming irritated at her poor writing in one of my final messages I suggested we get together. I was expecting silence or an excuse, but was pleasantly surprised when she replied with suggesting that we meet two days hence on Saturday.

I suspect culture and language will be a barrier, but quite honestly, my objective is just to have sex with her; in most of her photos she’s stunning. I’ve learned enough about other Eastern European women to know to not even contemplate a romantic relationship. I must just keep telling her how much money I have and how important I am at work and she’ll eagerly open her legs for me.

I know that I’ve forsworn Eastern European women, but this is unfinished business. I’ll always wonder, “what about that one who reappeared?”.

Could she be The One?

I’m standing outside Tower Hill Tube station and am amazed at the fact that this is now my fiftieth first date but I still feel the occasional butterfly in my stomach. However, the cause of my nervousness is largely because I feel like I’m cheating on the Saffa and the girl I just spent the night with, The Cockaholic.

The Saffa is suspicious of my movements and is clever enough to conjure up a trap for me. What if the woman I’m about to meet is a stooge for the Saffa? What if she doesn’t exist and the Saffa taps me on the shoulder instead, followed by a swift slap through the face. The slap won’t bother me, it’s more about her telling everyone who knows me in the old country that I cheated on her. Why the hell would that bother me? I don’t know.

I realize that losing The Saffa wouldn’t bother me at all. That tells me something. I’m putting myself through stress for what exactly? A lot of stilted conversation and occasional good sex, that’s what. Is it worth it? No. The bullshit drama that she is capable of just isn’t worth it.

I feel that old familiar sensation of eyes looking at me. I turn and it’s my date and…she’s so fucking fat!

She has rolls of fat in her neck, a belly protrudes from under the black raincoat she’s trying to cover it with but the buttons can’t close. Is she pregnant? No, just obese.

I don’t mind a bit of jiggle, a bit of cushion for the pushin’, but if I’m expecting a slender nymphette and ponderous heffalump is what appears, then I’m not happy. My Trust Demon rolls around laughing on the floor of his cage, slapping a thigh and holding a hand to his stomach as a tear drips from a beady eye. I don’t have a poker face and can only guess that, at best, I look surprised. She’s definitely not thirty-five either, more like forty-five.

Just another disillusioned or desperate woman coming across to me as deceitful, I think to myself, fully aware of my hypocrisy. I decide to be civil in case she has the most amazing personality going. I’m also starving, fucking The Cockaholic has taken a lot out of me and it’s not just my sperm. I know that this date is going nowhere, but I’ll be a polite gentleman over lunch, eat my food while I ask her open-ended questions which might get her chatting.

“Do you like chicken?” I ask her after the customary polite kiss on the cheek. At least I think it’s her cheek, it could have been a roll of fat on her neck.

“Yes,” she says, looking at me quizzically.

“Then take a wing,” I say with my cheesiest of smiles.

She laughs and links up arms with me as we make our way down the stairs. Once on the concourse I relax my arm, expecting her to do likewise, but she holds on. Not since the Lusty Lass has a woman held onto my arm so tightly, not wanting to let go. What a shame I don’t fancy her, otherwise it would have been a great start.

My usual waiter at the Dickens Inn raises a disapproving eyebrow as he leads us to a table on the balcony overlooking the marina. I know, I know, not the hottest date I’ve brought in here. Is that a look of pity I spot on his face? Or is he concerned about the strength of the chair she’s just forced herself into? Am I going to have to extricate her out of it later? Or should I leave her trapped and then run?

In the spirit of making the best of this we order wine and pizzas. I direct the conversation and we get talking about how dating in London is difficult. I get more than I bargained for.

“I had a twenty-two year-old toy-boy once. I didn’t want him to know my real age, so I had a fake Facebook account. That’s what the account Tinder has picked up. It says I’m thirty-five, but I’m not. I actually forty-one,” she says.

“Wow! Really? You don’t look it,” I say, to which she smiles, not realizing I think that she looks forty-five or older. Then my brain kicks in and I remember the PoF profile that I thought was hers and suddenly she starts to remind me more of that profile. Details of that PoF profile come flooding back: Scorpio, accountant, forty-one, fat face.

“When I arrived in London nine years ago, my English wasn’t very good and he was from my country so it was easy to see him,” she elaborates.

Right, so those pictures I was drooling over are nine years old!

This was a serious case of deja moo – I’ve heard this bullshit before. What does she think she’s playing at? Is her modus operandi one of using her oldest, best photos to lure men onto dates then once they’re on the hook count on her personality to win the day? Why do women not realize that this is a flawed strategy because once trust is broken it ain’t coming back? Stupid girl.

Deja moo - the feeling you've heard this bullshit before.
Deja moo – the feeling you’ve heard this bullshit before.

This flagrant deceit towards another man instantly evokes my Trust Demon again; he snarls contempt. Before I get a chance to form any kind of opinion of her, any interest in her is finally crushed by her innocent admission of being a vain, manipulative, dishonest person.

I now think of her as ‘The Lying Lithuanian’. I think I’m being kind with this moniker.

Ah, I mustn’t lose sight of her being on Tinder. Maybe she’s just looking to get laid? Conventional wisdom says that fat girls don’t get sex as often as skinnier girls, or this that just a scurrilous rumour put out by Weight Watchers?

We talk and eat some more. Despite my hunger and her doing most of the talking she finishes her pizza before me. I think her errant glands have had some help in getting her to be almost as wide as she is tall.

“I’m studying to get a British qualification in accounting,” she says confidently, as if she’s trying to impress me.

I couldn’t care less, but seeing as she’s chatty I seize the opportunity to confirm a suspicion.

“What star sign are you?” I ask.

“Scorpio. Why?”

“I think some star signs make natural accountants,” I tell her. She seems to believe me.

Yep, you are who I think you are. She clearly doesn’t remember me.

Her English is adequate at best; most of my humour is wasted on her, unfortunately because laughter is what binds a couple together. In her defence I must say that even a native English-speaker would miss some of my humour. I couldn’t help but compare this aspect with The Cockaholic who not only caught all my humour, but loves it.

By the end of dessert I’m shocked to realize that she’s totally into me. I went passive-disinterested on her because it was a genuine response. It has had the usual effect of the woman playing with her golden-blonde hair, perpetually smiling at me, making sly glances at me, pointing her knees at me and paying absolute attention to anything that I care to say.

A part of me reckons I could tell her anything and she would nod her head in agreement. Did I want to see her head nodding and bobbing off my cock? No.

Earlier I had looked at my watch as I got off my Tube train and it was 2.30pm. It’s now 5pm. These two and a half hours felt like an eternity with her.

I also get the feeling that she’s a bit of a Misery, a downer to be around. I’ve met her type in the past: finding solace with takeaway meals, wine, chocolate, ‘Sex and the City’ and probably a collection of vibrators. What is it with some women who have such negative centres of energy?

I could invite her to my place, pour her some chilled wine, show her Californication, make my move and fuck her silly on my sofa while videoing it all. Been there, done that. Getting tedious now. Fuck off, stupid girl. I’ve had enough and want to get out of here.

I make my excuses about needing to get home. It’s true, I’d rather be washing my belly-button fluff than spend another minute with her.

“Would you like to join me for a walk around a park?” she asks as we head for the Tube station.

“No, thanks,” is the brutal best I can muster.

This was the shortest date because I simply wasn’t enjoying it. Yes, she was intelligent and friendly, I’m pretty sure that she fancied me, but the reality is that I didn’t fancy her, but more the younger, slimmer version of her. The thought of having sex with her made me uncomfortable. Having The Cockaholic and The Saffa on my cock is good enough for now.

The next day I sent her a text message complimenting her to start with then saying that I didn’t think that we were right for each other, then wishing her all the best for the future. A couple of hours later, while I was “entertaining” someone else, I get a lengthy reply from her that barely made sense it was so badly written. In essence she was saying that I was being too hasty after such a short date, which told me that she saw potential with me. My silence might help her understand that I’m just not interested in her.

I’m interested in The Cockaholic and have to say goodbye to The Saffa.

The inexperienced, White Knight me would have wasted time on this stupid girl. This Grey Knight swings his sword, slashes through the bullshit of another deranged woman, fending off her blubber with his shield, is entertaining some lusty wenches while keeping his gaze firmly on the prize that is love.

They say men can’t multi-task.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Maybe it’s time I realize that I really should stay away from Eastern European women. 2) Tinder can be gamed by having a fake Facebook account.

Pink – Stupid Girls

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…