Category Archives: Sex

Date #56 – The Artist – Final part

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We need to pay,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My heart thunders as I smile.

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

“What colour are your eyes?” I ask.

“Light green,” she says.

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

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

“I still can’t see. Closer,” I say.

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

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

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

Her lips feel like fine strands of silk.

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

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

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

“Yes,” she says, with a coy smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeff Buckley – Hallelujah

Date #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 #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


As I sit contemplating suicide it occurs to me that my greatest successes in life were preceded by intense struggle and total uncertainty. Each time when I had got to a point where anyone else would have given up, I made more of an effort and I broke through to the other side known as success. Perhaps I was now at such a point in my life, that now was the time to try one more time, to keep going when there seems no point.

I remember two people’s stories who have inspired me over the years: Abraham Lincoln and U.S. Grant. It’s not their presidencies that impressed me, but more the story of their lives before they were famous. Lincoln had lost every election he stood for before becoming president. Grant was an alcoholic failure who drifted around until he saw his time and opportunity.

Was it a case of their having true grit or just no alternative? I think it’s the latter. Courtesy of my depressed state I can clearly see that they too must have arrived at a point whereby it seems that all is lost, so there is nothing to lose by keeping on trying. If that’s the case, I can do it too!

Thus I resolve to take a deep breath, put the boxes of ibuprofen away and think things through, trying to find clarity that somewhere along the way got lost amidst an unblinking computer screen and copious amounts of sex. I switch off all my dating profiles and stay away from dating sites for days on end until I have things straightened out in my head and, more importantly, in my heart.

Over the course of a week’s focussed, intense contemplation I make a series of realizations.

Firstly, everything I have done in my adult life has been for love. All aspects of my life are layers to a pyramid that has love as its pinnacle. That might not be the best approach to life and I think it’s driven in part by my Avoidant Personality Disorder. However, I am too old to change. There just isn’t time for cognitive behaviour therapy that lasts years. Much better to just proceed as normal and hope for the best, hope for The One.

My second insight is that I’ve been looking for love in the wrong places. The type of women I have met through dating sites is not the typical woman. The typical woman I have encountered is emotionally messed up and not capable of a relationship. Very few of them have love in their hearts. These are lesser women; it’s why they’re on these sites and are there for so long. No man will put up with their craziness, bitchiness and/or selfishness.

I am now thoroughly disenchanted with online dating. It seems to be the domain of deranged, emotionally unhealthy women. It has so negatively affected my view of women that I find myself wondering if any good women exist, instead of all these self-seeking charlatans.

I review and analyze my history of dates on my dating spreadsheet that I primarily created to help me with my writing. It becomes obvious that my best dates came off the national newspaper’s dating site with my Happy Humping Ground site second-best. I realize that Plenty of Fish in particular is where the most undesirable women end up. That and other free sites is where the bulk of my bad dating experiences have come from. It has distorted my view of women.

Thirdly, reflecting on my own behaviour towards women, I feel ashamed. I am used to being better than I have been. However, some lessons have been learned. Only a man who doesn’t respect women and will therefore treat them badly, will be with a woman that he doesn’t respect. A man who respects woman will only be with a woman he respects. I can not attach value to a woman who does not value herself, a woman who cheapens herself by doing anything with any guy. I am worth a lot, I have a lot to offer and only to someone deserving, because otherwise they will only squander what I have to give them.

Fourthly, I have greater insights about women that should better prepare me for the future. I’ve learned that when a woman says that she is “fussy”, it means that she’s not seriously looking for a relationship and more than anything else is on a big ego-trip. All those men running after her and getting them to do things to please her. Wow, that must be wonderful for the ego!

From young women are told that they are the weaker sex and that they’re not as strong as men. That sets off a life-long desire for power over men in many a young mind. It’s inherent in human nature that anything gained easily is not valued. So, any man who easily gives a woman her sense of power, he is quickly discarded. Play hard to get with a woman and she wants you. I’m starting think that for a relationship to work, the woman must want the man more than he wants her.

Some women seem to think that to get a husband all they need to do is open their legs. What they don’t know is that, the sort of man who falls for that, will divorce her if she opens her mouth. To find a prince, a woman needs to kiss a few frogs, but not fuck the whole pond!

In this current younger generation of liberal democracies, girls have been told that they are the same as men and men have been told to be nice to women. So men come across as grovelling weaklings and women despise them for it. There is thus a bigger disconnect between the genders than ever before. Men are confused about their exact identity in society and women are told that they can have it all.

I watched ‘The Counselor’ the other day and Javier Bardem’s character says something profound:

Men are attracted to flawed women too of course, but their illusion is that they can fix them. Women don’t want to fix anything. They just want to be entertained. The truth about women is you can do anything to them except bore them.” ― Cormac McCarthy, The Counselor: A Screenplay

Lastly, from my own shameful experiences, as soon as a man thinks he’s being played, he takes it as permission to become a player. “Take me seriously and treat me respectfully, or I will look for someone who does and I shall treat you like a piece of meat in prison until then” is the resulting attitude. A gender difference related to this I’ve noted is that women have affairs to get back at their men, while men have affairs to get away from their women.

I’m left with a few questions bugging me. First, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever love someone else again. Second, just how many women’s lives do I want to fuck up? I suppose these questions will only be answered with time.

How am I to be from now on?

I’ve resigned myself to singledom for the foreseeable future. I’ve realized that I’m just not going to fall in love with anyone while I feel so shit about myself. I’ve based this on the understanding that I’m far more primitive than I had previously realized; I am a caveman. I only feel good about myself when my financial position is strong. The more money I have the better I feel about myself. It’s easy to dismiss this outlook as narcissistic, but the reality is far more complex. I can only feel that I am at my best, a real man, if my bank account is a source of pleasure. On the back of that I feel I shall have the confidence to be the best me I can. It’s hard to fall in love with someone else if you’re not in love with yourself first. It’s also hard to do the things in a relationship that require money when you’re worried about making the rent.

I’m so stressed about my financial situation that I have very little interest in sex right now. No desire, no urge, not a nothing. I’ve never been like this before. It’s a strange sensation. Is this what eunuchs or lesser men feel? Despite that, all this random sex with virtual strangers has got to end because it’s doing me no good. It’s been messing with my brain. I’m not going to have sex with another woman until my feelings for her are clear. Yes, the next woman I’m going to sleep with is going to be The One.

That’s it. I’m not running from myself any more. If I lose myself then it’s all been for nothing.

I need to fix my working life, get over my Avoidant Personality Disorder, look for love in the right places, not get sexual so quickly and somehow believe in a better future.

I’ve got nothing to lose, because I’ve pretty much lost everything already.

Naughty Boy – Runnin’ (Lose It All)


Sunday morning we’re both awake before sunrise and the banter is light and easy. The Cockaholic’s eyes sparkle and she says, “I’m sorry, but please forgive me for doing this,” and pushes the covers off of me and starts sucking on my morning glory. Not a bad way to be woken, for sure, but I would much prefer it to be with a women who is crazy about me and not crazy at me.

I feel it’s too risky to cum in her pussy; I don’t want to get her pregnant, so I cum in her mouth. As always The Cockaholic happily swallows my load without a break in her rhythm. She is the happiest cock-sucking, cum-swallower I’ve ever encountered. I think there are men who would put up with her for just the phenomenal blowjobs.

A little later I’m licking her clit and fingering her g-spot. Suddenly The Cockaholic lifts her head, looks at me and says, “You have a fucking gorgeous body.” Yes, it’s nice to hear, but I’m surprised at her timing of this declaration of undying lust. Where did that come from? What is she thinking about as she lies there? I don’t think I’ll ever understand the workings of any one woman’s mind, especially after this one’s cold, aloof behaviour of last night.

After breakfast we speed off in her sports car to a nearby town to visit the Christmas market around the cathedral. She’s a speed-freak and takes unnecessary risks, swearing at any other motorist who dares hoot at us. In this moment she reminds me of Pretty Teacher. On the drive over she starts snapping at anything I say. After a while I’m reluctant to say anything. The Cockaholic has become hard work again. Sitting at traffic lights I decide to tell her how I’m feeling, that she’s changed and I don’t know why. She responds angrily with, “Do you want me to drop you off here?”

That killed my feelings for her – stone dead. The fact that she was willing to discard me like a bag of unwanted rubbish at the side of the road is a gross insult, laced with disrespect and contempt. We see out the rest of the day in muted hostility. I can’t figure out what has brought on this attitude. I’ve said and done nothing to deserve it.

We silently walk around the Christmas market, there’s the smell of warm, mulled wine and sweet frying onions in the air, children’s laughter serenades us as a contented buzz envelopes us, but it all feels like a straight-jacket to me. My stomach is clenched tight and my brain is racing, my heart is filled with familiar bitter feelings.

I’m going off The Cockaholic and find my thoughts wandering over to finding a way to say goodbye to her. Instead of staying over like I do every Sunday night, I make polite excuses and go home. Although I can’t wait to get the hell away from her, I make a point of leaving in a civil fashion, to keep my options open. I now have enough experience to not make any rash decisions, but to take a moment or two to think things over before taking irreversible action.

Monday night I phone her, hoping to have a civil chat, but she starts fretting over trivial things and making mountains out of molehills. I become exasperated and simply say her name in an attempt to calm her down, to which she becomes indignant and we essentially put the phone down on each other. I don’t understand why she’s pushing me away, constantly being at odds with anything I say, quick to take offence, constantly feeding back negatively. Until recently she was so positive, letting nothing phase her. Whatever her reasons, I frankly don’t care. I don’t need this. I just don’t feel enough for her to take on board and work through this shit.

I’ll say goodbye to The Cockaholic this week.

As far as I’m concerned I’m totally single again, so out of curiosity more than anything I re-install Tinder on my phone and start flicking through faces. My search area is narrow so it doesn’t take me long to spot a profile that I’m convinced is The Cockaholic putting on a disguise. She’s wearing a broad beach-hat, has a large scarf draped around her neck and the photo is taken from a distance in low light. Nevertheless I recognize The Cockaholic from her distinctive body shape and hint of a smile. The distance is two miles further than her home, but that would place her at naughty best friend’s place. Has this friend been influencing her, given that she’s an expert at sneaking around? I don’t actually care any more.

The Cockaholic mentioned on Monday night that she was having dinner with someone on Tuesday night. The way she said it made me suspicious. I suspect that it’s a date and, quite frankly, I couldn’t care less. Neither of us make any attempt to communicate with the other on Tuesday. I phone her at 9.30pm on Wednesday night, knowing that she’s always home by then, but my call goes to her voicemail. At lunchtime on Thursday she sends me a text message saying that she only got my message then. I suspect that she was out again, perhaps sleeping over at some guys place. She was very quick to jump into bed with me, so why not someone else?

The Cockaholic promises to call me tonight; I’ll say goodbye to her then.

11th December – Thursday
I’m expecting this break-up to result in one of three responses: 1) She’s shocked and disappointed 2) She’s not shocked nor disappointed 3) Tells me that she’s met someone anyway. My instincts tell me that’s it’s most likely the latter.

I’ve just got off the phone from The Cockaholic. I said to her, “I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re not right for each other”. Her initial reaction was a curt, emotionless “Okay”. That was it. I pry for further words, but she didn’t want to discuss it or say anything else. It was option 2 – she wasn’t shocked or disappointed. The Cockaholic didn’t seem upset at all, more blasé and indifferent. I said a few nice words to be civil and soften the blow in case she was upset in some way. My words seemed to have zero impact. Less than a minute later we said goodbye.

Despite everything I think she’s a good, decent person, but just devoid of the appeal and magic that I want, expect and need from a relationship. I think her insecurities will wreck any relationship. I know that I have my own trust issues, but I’m aware of them and I try to keep them in check. Experiences like this are not helping soothe them though.

The more I think about what happened between us and her sudden change in behaviour, the more I think she had started seeing someone else. It would be churlish of me to be indignant, after all I wasn’t exactly honest with her in the beginning. It seems almost fair that she wasn’t honest with me towards the end. There’s an irony there that amuses me somewhat. Easy come, easy go – Tinder hey-ho and heave-ho.

The very next night, a Friday, The Cockaholic sends me a text message just after 10pm that simply says, “Hahahaha.

At first I thought that she sent this to me by mistake, but then I see another angle. The way I know The Cockaholic, it’s her saying that she’s having the last laugh. I take that as final confirmation that she has been seeing someone else or has just met someone interesting for a date or a shag. Good luck to her…and him.

This encounter has left me a hollow feeling inside. I know that my intent was bad, that The Cockaholic was supposed to just be a one-night stand, but I liked her, well, the initial her. I guess I got literally sucked into a so-called ‘situationship’ with her. Then it quickly turned sour and I think it’s because she developed suspicions about my whereabouts which led to her choosing to pursue a course of action which was not warranted. Perhaps it was for the best.

I’m surprised by how little I feel about this, it scares me.

Is it because I wasn’t that taken by her to start with? Is it because I’m starting to expect all encounters to end in failure? Is my heart hardening? More importantly, am I capable of love any more? I don’t know.

All that coupled with the recent revelation of The Saffa’s duplicitous actions while I was still interested in her has reinforced this hollow feeling. I understand now that the source of her self-induced drama was exaggerated by guilt from her sneaking around too.

I find myself sitting listening to Robbie Williams’ ‘Feel’ over and over again. The words are about me and I don’t know what to do about that.

Who or what am I going to meet next? I’m developing a sense of trepidation…

Lessons learned: 1) Beware a jealous, insecure woman because she’ll make your life hell and ruin the relationship. Don’t make excuses for her behaviour, they don’t change, don’t be a diaper for her issues, just move on. 2) A mutual lack or erosion of trust kills a romance quicker than acid. 3) No matter how good the sex, it’s only a matter of time before it all ends. 4) Some women are ‘anacondas’ in their relationship style. At first they’re all sweetness and light, but slowly they tighten the noose and try to control their man. 5) When a woman’s behaviour suddenly changes for the worse, then something serious is going on, perhaps another man. Passive-aggressive behaviour might be driven by guilt.

Robbie Williams- Feel

Forgotten cocks

It’s now early December and it’s funny how, with enough time, things make more sense. I take myself on a training course in London for four days and it includes a Saturday and a Sunday. The Cockaholic is unimpressed that I won’t be seeing her for that weekend, but it can’t be helped. My financial situation is becoming a problem and I need to keep my skills fresh to be marketable. I also decide to meet The Saffa for dinner on the Sunday night as she has asked to meet, wanting to give me a Christmas present. I decide not to tell The Cockaholic about this innocent rendezvous, her previous reaction to my meeting Busty Blonde taught me not to even mention the existence of a previous woman.

Each night after the surprisingly intensive course I get home and phone the Cockaholic for a chat. It’s my way of soothing her insecurities. On the Sunday I even call her at lunchtime during the break, but my phone battery is running low so I curtail the call, leaving just enough battery for a short call if needed.

After my course I meet with The Saffa to swap Christmas presents. We meet outside Tower Hill Tube station and The Saffa seems happy to see me. We go to The Dickens Inn to have pizza and a drink. It’s a surprisingly pleasant interaction. She tells me that she’s started seeing a guy and she tells me his name. I instantly realize it’s one of the guys that I was suspicious of when we were seeing each other; his name was tagged in several photos on Facebook with her. I feel that I was right in my assessment of what was going on, what was causing all the unnecessary drama in her head and heart. She was probably seeing me on weekends and him on weekdays. This was causing conflicted emotions in her, tinged with guilt and leading to her abhorrent behaviour.

I like to think that my reading of women’s games has improved considerably. I fall silent, imbued with a sense of disappointment in her, but after a few drinks The Saffa is overly chatty and she doesn’t notice.

“We haven’t slept together yet,” she says in a typical moment of brutal tactlessness.

“And?…” I coax.

“Well, the thing is, I have managed to glimpse his cock and it’s small,” she says.

I just laugh and then we fall silent.

“I miss your cock,” she says.

A stranger sitting at the table nearest us turns his head slightly, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s been little more than a month,” I say with a chuckle.

“Ja, but I miss it. It’s the best cock” she says.

The stranger’s ears are on fire and he has to take a sip from his drink. I just smile, wondering why she’s telling me this. What’s she up to now? My silence spurs her on.

“You know that I was crazy about you, don’t you?” she blurts out.

“We weren’t meant for each other, “ I shoot back, intent on killing any hopes for a reconciliation that she might have.

“Ag, it doesn’t matter, man. We’re already talking about moving in together after Christmas,” she says.

A matter of weeks ago she was crazy about me, is missing my cock while being on the verge of moving in with another guy? What would he think and feel if he knew that barely a month ago she was asking me to fuck her in the arse, asking me to pump cum into her arse? That in a restaurant she said to me that she misses my cock? That she was concerned that he has a small cock?

What I’m learning of women is that I’ve been him, this new guy who is equally unwitting, equally naïve and innocent, just another soon-to-be forgotten cock that was in her holes when it suited her. I think I’ve been that guy with a few women now, the last to know and just another forgotten cock.

The evening flies by with her talking at me and over me. How I don’t miss that…or her. I give her a small present, she reciprocates and we wish each other a merry Xmas, then we head off to our divergent lives…and lies.

I’m standing on a train platform waiting for my train home and I decide to use up the rest of my phone’s battery on a call to The Cockaholic. After the evening’s revelations I feel the need to hear her voice, perhaps in the hope that there’s reassuring signs that she’s somehow The One for me. She answers swiftly, seems pleased and surprised to hear from me, we chat briefly before my phone dies.

First thing on the Monday morning after recharging my phone overnight I send The Cockaholic a text message apologizing for the rude interruption to our chat, but I get no response. In the evening I call her, intent on having a friendly chat, but she’s anxious about something, I can tell. Eventually it comes out after a few frosty minutes.

“Why were you able to call me on Sunday night when at lunchtime you said your battery was dying?” she says.

“I kept some battery for emergency purposes. Waiting for my train home I thought I’d give you a call because I wanted to hear your voice,” I reply.

“Hmph,” is all she says.

The road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions…and half-truths.

The next week with The Cockaholic is difficult. She seems quite hyper on the phone mixed with a bit of passive-aggressive behaviour and at times I just didn’t want to talk to her. I think she’s showing her true colours now, that of being a stressed-out adrenaline junkie who likes to have a night out once a week and get drunk. Every week since I’ve known her it seems she has after-work drinks one night of the week. Today I’m wondering who those drinks are with.

I arrive at her place on Saturday afternoon and from the get-go the atmosphere between us is strained. I notice that The Cockaholic is reluctant to make eye-contact with me. Something’s going on, but instead of confronting her, I choose to follow a smoother route and just let things play out.

A classic example of the sort of thing that was happening is the following. A few weeks earlier she had bought a coffee machine for me; she doesn’t drink coffee. I was touched by her generosity. The machine uses capsules and I have the same machine at my home. Today my favourite coffee capsule ran out at her place, to which she says to me, “From now on you can bring your own bloody coffee.” I was astounded. The tone and choice of words was uncalled for and not in keeping with what was said or had happened beforehand. What the hell is going on in her head?!

After a testy evening with a frozen atmosphere between us, we wind up in bed and the sex doesn’t take long to kick off. I initiate it to test her emotive state and, to my surprise, The Cockaholic goes along, as if nothing has happened between us. It starts to feel like angry sex and maybe that’s a turn-on for her. At one point I’m fucking her doggy-style, her favourite position (and mine too) when she suddenly shouts out, “Fuck me, you bastard!”

I laugh to myself, but can’t help but wonder where that comes from. I make her cum and it seems to pacify her. I choose not to cum; I’m slipping into self-preservation mode. We fell asleep with me holding her in my arms. As The Cockaholic falls asleep with little twitches of her body and inaudible murmurs, I lie there wondering what the hell is going on…or who is going on…and am I the last to know?

Del Amitri – Always the last to know

Head games

On Saturday I go around to The Cockaholic’s place at 4pm and she’s happy to see me. We spend the evening chatting, watching a movie, sharing a pizza and ciders. We go to her bedroom and she immediately sinks to her knees, undresses me and starts happily sucking away on my cock, making sounds of approval. The Cockaholic totally enjoys sucking my cock. I ask her about this and she answers, “well, it’s so smooth and it fills my mouth perfectly.”

A few days later we’re chatting on the phone and she tells me that her contraceptive injection is wearing off and that she had started spotting and felt bloated. We didn’t speak more of this other than her saying “if you now don’t want to come around on the weekend, I’ll understand”. It is, of course, a test of my intent with her, but I genuinely want to see her. We don’t have to have sex, I enjoy being with her.

“I’m not spending my time with you just for the great sex,” I tell her and I hear her smile on the other side of the line.

I’m pretty pleased with myself for having so deftly deflected this so-called ‘shit-test’ but then she hits me with something new.

“Umm, if you don’t mind, can you only come around after lunchtimes on Saturdays?” she asks.

This instantly strikes me as odd. What’s going on here? My Trust Demon snaps out of his sleep and jumps to his feet, fists clenched and eyes glowing.

“Sure, no problem. Is there a particular reason?” I counter as calmly as I can.

“Umm, yes, this is a bit awkward…but my best friend stays over on Friday nights,” she says.

Best friend, huh? My silence speaks for me.

“Okay, the whole story is that she’s married and having an affair with a guy she works with who is also married. The only time they can get together is Friday nights and the safest place for them is my place,” she says with a pained tone in her voice.

This is too ludicrous not to be true, I decide. A part of me is impressed that she’s as good a friend as to allow her place to be used as an illicit love-nest, but at the same time I’m unimpressed that she has a best friend like that. Again I say nothing.

As instructed I arrive after lunchtime on Saturday. The Cockaholic seems pleased to see me. As we walk to her lounge I take a quick look into her spare bedroom, the one the illicit lovers are supposed to be using. It only has a single bed in it. So are they using the same bed that we sleep in? Or is her story total lies? I don’t know what to think.

We spend the afternoon and evening watching funny videos on YouTube. The following one stood out because it told me of something I didn’t know about myself, but I’ll tell you more about that another time.

Hitler, dating & Cluster B personality disorder

As is becoming our routine we end up in her bedroom with her lustfully going down on me. We agree not to indulge in full intercourse because her contraceptive is wearing off. I’m also keen to not impregnate a woman I’m not sure about. She sucks on my cock for well over an hour before I cum in her mouth, something she clearly enjoys given the sounds she makes. The Cockaholic takes her time after I’ve cum to keep lovingly, tenderly sucking on me. I’ve never experienced anything like this.

I let my fingers do the walking in her lady-garden and she has a shuddering orgasm. We lie in the afterglow, chatting amiably when she tells me that she has a sister whom she hasn’t spoken to in over ten years. The details indicate petty sibling rivalry and it shows me that she has a steely side to her personality in which she can be quite nasty. I’m not sure what to make of this revelation, so I just keep quiet.

4th November – Tuesday
I call The Cockaholic at 9.30pm but I get her voicemail. She calls me back at 11pm, but I struggle to make out what she is saying; she’d been drinking again. One night last week she went out for drinks with colleagues after work and called me from the train, but she was tipsy. I don’t like talking to drunk people. It brings back awful feelings from when I was a little boy and my father was drunk and, although he made no sense, he forced me to sit and listen to his gibberish. I hated that as a kid and I refuse to put up with that as an adult. This seems to be a weekly thing in her working life. Nevertheless I’ve just lost a bit of respect for her.

I text her, offering to collect her at her station if she had too much to drink, but if she didn’t want that then she should please text me when she got home safely. I get no response, but the next morning at 8.30 she sent me a text message saying that her battery had died and she went straight to sleep once home. Plausible, but it doesn’t sit well with me. It reminds me of Krazy Girl and her lies about her phone and her movements. My Trust Demon has been stirred.

5th November – Wednesday
I go into London with The Cockaholic and at a train station we walk past my ex-wife whom I’ve not laid eyes on since September 2006. It was a surreal moment; she blanked me while I had a good look. She’s put on weight, wearing contact lenses, had heavy make-up on, was walking with a stoop and, to my mind, made for a very sad figure. I wonder what she thought when she saw me and especially with another woman, a vivacious one at that. It couldn’t have been pleasant for her, especially the surprise factor. I know that she is now remarried and trying to have a child. It’s a strange feeling seeing her suddenly like that.

The Cockaholic and I have dinner at a Thai restaurant that I have chosen, which we both enjoy. Then we walk around Soho gawking at gaudy sex shops and step into one that had an eclectic mix of posters and memorabilia. After a few giggles in there we join the queue to get into the venue for the night which is hosting a burlesque show. I’d got the tickets a week ago, thinking this might be a test of her moral fabric. She seemed very comfortable with it all and was excellent company all night. All things considered, I think that she’s a lovely person.

Could I fall in love with The Cockaholic? I think that if I let myself go that I could. She’s not the best-looking girl that I’ve dated, but we have good fun together. Looks fade after all, it’s what is left that matters in the long run.

Back at my place she spends the night and almost dutifully sucks me off in the morning. In turn I played with her clit until she came. Sometime this week she’s getting another contraceptive injection, then normal play-time can resume.

I think that we both like giving our partner pleasure. When it was time for her to go, I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted her to stay so that we could just enjoy travelling through time together.

I’m going to an industry trade-show in London on Saturday, so I make arrangements to meet Busty Blonde. Earlier in the year I had promised to go with her to an exhibition at the Imperial War Museum commemorating the outbreak of World War One. I also wanted to check that she was alright, that our break-up hasn’t destroyed her. I guess I wanted a sense of closure and to appease a burdensome sense of guilt. I naively tell The Cockaholic about this and she listens in silence.

After my work-like appointment I go off to meet the woman whom I should consider an ex-girlfriend, but for some reason I don’t think of her like that. I feel it’s because I never fell in love with her. Busty Blonde is her normal, cheery self which makes me feel better about myself and after a couple of hours we head our separate ways. At dusk I head home to collect my car and go around to The Cockaholic’s where she initially seems relieved to see me. I guess she was feeling a little insecure and jealous; women can be very territorial and suspicious of other women. I say nothing about her feelings and am my normal self.

It’s now another week on and my instincts tell me that The Cockaholic isn’t being totally honest with me about something. This weekend she has gone away to Brussels on a Hen Party which I am fine with, but it’s her change in behaviour on the phone at night since the previous weekend that has rankled me. On the Saturday that I saw Busty Blonde, I eventually later got the impression that The Cockaholic wasn’t happy about this; her demeanour was cold. She is definitely the jealous, insecure type. I’m also starting to see that she has control freak tendencies in her.

The following Saturday I arrive at her place at lunchtime, The Cockaholic seems a little off towards me. She tells me that her two naughty friends (who are having an affair) and her went to a local pub the previous night. She makes a point of mentioning an incident with another guy in the pub, by way of accidentally insulting him. The whole story doesn’t make sense and it strikes me as odd. I get the feeling that she didn’t tell me everything.

She’s unavailable on Friday nights and Saturday mornings, she goes out drinking at least once a week, her phone has battery issues and her best friend has dubious morals. This all doesn’t feel right and that feeling is growing.

My Trust Demon is running around in his cage, he’s in a rage and I don’t know what to do about it at this stage.

Foreigner – Head Games