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.
I’m thoroughly miserable. Nothing gives me pleasure and I don’t yearn for anything, not even kinky sex with a new lover. I’ve lost my spark, my drive, my interest in everything. I don’t see the point of any of this any more. I’ve not had a history of a life-long battle with depression like some people have. Yes, I had some ups and downs as a teenager, but who didn’t? I’m feeling things that I’ve only ever felt once before.
I was on a 5-star luxury tour of Italy with my ex-wife and we were both between new contracts. On the last day of the tour we got an email from our landlord in which he gave us a month’s notice to vacate our home because he was selling it. The news hit my soul like a fiery sledgehammer and I was lurched into a deep depression that lasted for months. It was the feeling of vulnerability and helplessness that dragged me under. It was a paralysing Novocaine for my soul. Until then her and I had been through a lot of challenges together and we came out smiling every time. This time was different. What snapped me out of it was seeing her collapse to the floor, clutching my jeans at the knees, sobbing her eyes out as she begged me to get a job, any job. We had just finished moving into our new home, a rented one again and it had been an exhausting process for both of us. I did as she asked and things got better from there. Now that feeling was back and with a vengeance.
I think it’s only when we’re depressed that we see things clearly. When nothing and nobody gives us pleasure only then can we see what’s really going on around us. There’s a simplicity and clarity that is lacking at other times, those times when we’re like everyone else. We can see the everyday, mundane things and question their validity and usefulness. We can look at things we’ve repeatedly done and ask why we’ve done this, for the first time thinking about it, really thinking about and seeing the familiar in a new way. It’s not necessarily a better way or just an alternative viewpoint, it’s seeing everything in a different context that makes it all seem illogical to the point of insane.
You see people mindlessly, cheerily going about their lives, doing the same things over and over, hardly ever thinking about it. There is much to be said for blissful ignorance, for it frees you from the burden of true consciousness. Being fully aware of the absurdity of modern life can drive a thinking person crazy.
If you were to think about it, you would realize that there is no point to life. That realization hits us all at some point, but how we react to it is what matters. It can paralyze some people, liberate others and do absolutely nothing either way for some of us.
Life is the biggest joke going because no matter what you do, you die. Nobody survives life. Whether you do or you don’t, it doesn’t really matter because the end result is the same. You dream, you struggle, you sacrifice, you suffer, you hurt and, no matter what, the result is the same for all of us. It’s a difficult phase, that bit between birth and death.
The problem comes when you believe everything is futile, that there’s no point. Nothing gives you pleasure and nothing matters. That’s when a negative spiral kicks in and you get dragged under into a world that feels lonely, cold and overwhelmingly intense.
What has brought this on in me this time?
First, I’m feeling angry towards women. I feel that they’ve been toying with me, using me, wasting my time and money, exploiting me. Some of their bad ways have rubbed off on to me and I’ve hurt two good women: Busty Blonde and Busty Czech. I feel that my dating experiences have degraded me, made me into a worse person than I was before I started out. If I knew that things were going to turn out this way, would I have bothered? Probably not.
This latest episode with the MILF of Xmas is yet another disappointment in what has proven a lengthy procession of disappointments. It feels like the Cunt Carousel has spun me around one more time and thrown me off into a puddle of mud, a puddle made up of dog faeces, pussy juices and urine. It’s the type of puddle that dries in the park, then families come and sit on while I watch them when I’m in the gym. Shit everywhere; it’s all just shit.
Second, my working life is a disaster. It’s been almost a year and a half since I walked out of my job. The duplicitous nature of everyone I worked with has scarred me. I have no faith left in people. Mark Twain said, “The more I learn about people, the more I like my dog”. I agree with him although I don’t have a dog. I have no desire to get back into the so-called “formal” workplace. The thought of sitting in an office surrounded by snakes in suits makes my stomach turn. I’ve half-heartedly applied for dozens of jobs in the past year because I need the money but haven’t been called for an interview once, despite reworking my resume several times. It feels like my industry is done with me, more than I feel done with it.
On the back of that, while the job search was running in the background, I decided it prudent to start building a business of my own. Working for a salary provides a living, but making profits can lead to a fortune. I’ve poured my energy into resurrecting an online business, but that effort didn’t result in a fraction of the money that I am beginning to need. I had an idea for an eBay business that I threw myself into, but that also proved a fruitless waste of time. A sense of desperation started creeping in and I resorted to an old hobby of mine that has proven a financial roller-coaster: day-trading. I may as well have blown that money on Lotto tickets.
Women perceive themselves through all the roles that they fulfil in life and chastise themselves about the one that they are doing worst at. Men are very different. We largely see ourselves through our work. That thing we spend most of our waking time doing is what defines us. If we’re unhappy in our work, then we’re unhappy in our life. I’ve realized that many of the dates that I went on were doomed because I was using dating as a crutch for a frustrated working life.
Third, which is related to my aforementioned second point, is the fact that my finances are running low and I’m starting to panic about it. I’ve been living off my savings as frugally as I can since the day I quit my job because I knew it might be some time before I had money coming in again. That “some time” has proven longer than I can afford. I’ve only got money left to last me for a few months. The pressure of this is starting to rot my brain some days.
Fourth, I’ve had a falling out with my best friend. We’ve been the best of buddies since we were fourteen, or so I thought. Then one day I saw a posting on Facebook about fake friends. You might have seen it, it starts with “friends don’t get jealous…”. That stunned me because it encapsulated his behaviour towards me over the years. He was never to be seen or heard from when I was having a rough time, except the time I left my Exgf and he let me stay for two months. Other than that he was visibly missing when my life was shit. He is also the biggest liar I have ever known, a side to him that has grown over the years and has increasingly bothered me. In recent years the friendship had degenerated into him being an ask-hole in which he would phone me up to debate a problem he was having and then he would do exactly what I suggested should not be done. When his son was kidnapped a year ago by his ex-wife (the boy’s mother) I volunteered to fly at my own expense to snatch the boy back, then drive across two continents to return him home. That was the plan if the various legal routes failed, of which one didn’t. My “friend” would never have even thought of doing that, let alone have the balls and brains to make it happen. The final straw was an incident just before Christmas which showed me his true colours and his attitude towards me. This acidic revelation about his true nature felt as great a betrayal as my ex-wife’s lies. It has rocked my faith in all people. It has shaken my faith in myself because how could I have been so blind for so long?
Lastly and perhaps most importantly, I’m now seriously doubting that The One exists. Why should she? Is it all just an illusion, a foolish notion that I’ve allowed to take on life-consuming importance? If I didn’t have this quest, what would I have applied myself to? I honestly don’t know. Trying to find Her gave my life some meaning. It gave me a reason to get out of bed each day. Scouring screens of pretty faces was often the highlight of my day. Now I don’t see the point in all that any more and I’m left feeling empty. My dating life has been a crutch to lean on when what truly ails me was left unattended. All along my life has lacked purpose, I can see that now, but I don’t know what to do about it. It’s hard to find a purpose when nothing gives you pleasure, people are a source of pain and you’re about to run out of money.
I’m tired of living a life predicated on being too dumb to steal and too proud to beg. I’m tired of aspiring to things that are not likely to happen for me. I totally get why some people resort to a life of crime, but that’s not for me. Apparently “hope to a man is like winding is to a clock”. I’ve run out of hope. This clock is broken. There’s no helping hand to put it back to working order. I feel totally and utterly defeated by life and now I hope for nothing.
I’ve hit an all-time low.
Today I bought boxes of ibuprofen after doing a circuit to the supermarkets in my town. Collected into a neat little pile they stand proud on the stool in front of my sofa, the stool that I’ve fucked so many women on. I’ve lost count of how many it was. What does it matter? What does all of this matter? If I do something or I don’t do something, what does it matter? It’s just me, this tottering tree in an unfeeling, deaf forest. Nobody cares. I don’t matter to anyone. If I’m here or not, it doesn’t matter; I don’t matter. I won’t be missed. I don’t think many people will attend my funeral.
I’ll leave my front door unlocked. The smell will eventually become too much for my neighbours. No, that’s not fair to them; they don’t deserve to find me like that. I know, I’ll leave a cryptic message on Facebook after midnight. The next morning somebody will figure it out and come around. Should I be like Benny Hill and surround myself in money or some things equally garish? Unused condoms? Should I be well-dressed? A gentleman should always look his best.
The boxes of pills before me silently shout at me, crying out for attention, imploring to be used in one reckless gush. They seem stronger than me.
Scraggly birds outside in a naked tree start making a noise under the dark sky. An angry magpie is arguing with an indignant pigeon. They must have an IQ of what, three? Collectively? What do they have to look forward to? Why do they bother? It’s near to freezing now and icy drops of rain are spitting on them, but they don’t notice or don’t care. They too seem stronger than me.
This Grey Knight has a weakness in his suit of armour. It’s difficult to spot and few assailants have ever got close enough to exploit it, but those that have managed to have done great damage to me. You see, just beneath the surface of this imposing frame, not far from what seems like a normal, well-adjusted person is a crinkle in my psyche, an imperfection in my emotional make-up.
Like anyone else, I guess, all my life I’ve thought that I’m normal and that most people are just like me, except for a few oddballs and nasty people. All along I’ve lived with what I thought was just one of the negatives of human existence.
It was when I was watching a YouTube video with The Cockaholic that I learned of ‘Cluster B personalities’. My enquiring mind demanded that I know more. There are four types of these: Narcissist, Histrionic, Borderline and Anti-Social. I saw that in my dating experiences I had encountered several Narcissists and a couple of Histrionics. A friend in the know has suggested that Krazy Girl was of the Borderline Personality Disorder variety. All good to know.
What my reading on the internet then led to is ‘Cluster C personalities’ of which there are the ‘Dependent’, the ‘Obsessive Compulsive’ and the ‘Avoidant’. I am the latter.
My blood ran cold as I read a description of myself that I could never extol or describe any better.
I’ll quote Wikipedia:
Avoidant personality disorder (AvPD), also known as anxious personality disorder, is a Cluster C personality disorder recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders handbook as afflicting persons who display a pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy and inferiority, extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation, and avoidance of social interaction despite a strong desire to be close to others. Individuals with the disorder tend to describe themselves as uneasy, anxious, lonely, unwanted and isolated from others.
People with avoidant personality disorder often consider themselves to be socially inept or personally unappealing and avoid social interaction for fear of being ridiculed, humiliated, rejected, or disliked. As the name suggests, the main coping mechanism of those with avoidant personality disorder is avoidance of feared stimuli. Avoidant personality disorder is usually first noticed in early adulthood, with both childhood emotional neglect and peer group rejection being associated with an increased risk for its development.
People with avoidant personality disorder are preoccupied with their own shortcomings and form relationships with others only if they believe they will not be rejected. Childhood emotional neglect—in particular, the rejection of a child by one or both parents—has been associated with an increased risk for the development of avoidant personality disorder, as well as rejection by peers.
It goes on to list a variety of issues that afflict most people at some time, but with AvPD most of these feelings are permanent.
The ones that I’ve never felt are: – Avoids physical contact because it has been associated with an unpleasant or painful stimulus – Severe low self-esteem – Emotional distancing related to intimacy – Feeling inferior to others – In some extreme cases, agoraphobia – Self-loathing
What I feel on a daily basis is the following: – Self-imposed social isolation – Hypersensitivity to rejection/criticism – Extreme shyness or anxiety in social situations, though the person feels a strong desire for close relationships – Feelings of inadequacy – Mistrust of others – Highly self-conscious – Self-critical about their problems relating to others – Problems in occupational functioning – Lonely self-perception, although others may find the relationship with them meaningful – Uses fantasy as a form of escapism to interrupt painful thoughts
The World Health Organization’s ICD-10 lists avoidant personality disorder as anxious (avoidant) personality disorder. It is characterized by at least four of the following: 1. persistent and pervasive feelings of tension and apprehension; 2. belief that one is socially inept, personally unappealing, or inferior to others; 3. excessive preoccupation with being criticized or rejected in social situations; 4. unwillingness to become involved with people unless certain of being liked; 5. restrictions in lifestyle because of need to have physical security; 6. avoidance of social or occupational activities that involve significant interpersonal contact because of fear of criticism, disapproval, or rejection.
Every single one of the above applies to me. I’ll share how this all manifests itself in my existence.
I dread social settings. Being part of a group activity makes me go cold inside and my stomach tighten. I am at my best on a one-on-one basis. Even a third person being present makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Anything more than three people and I’m instantly in defensive mode, even if I’ve known the people present for many years.
When I’m walking around my town’s high street all the time I feel that most people are looking at me. I try not to make eye contact, so when I do I always easily see several people looking at me. This just reinforces my beliefs and feelings that I’m not like other people. I don’t see other people staring at each other, but there are always people staring at me. As a teenager I put it down to my gangly awkwardness, as an adult I ascribe it to my height, build and dark hair. I know that many women like tall and dark men, but the attention makes me feel uncomfortable.
I don’t like being the centre of attention. At school, when it was time to present anything in front of a class, I’d make sure I wasn’t there. I’m never the life-and-soul of a party (not that I’ve been to many) but am more likely to found in the kitchen or doing something useful for the group. I prefer to be in the background, orchestrating events and suggesting ideas.
I’ve developed coping mechanisms to deal with my feelings towards other people. I always walk fast because I feel that makes me less visible so people can’t stare. I never maintain eye contact with anyone, am sometimes thumbing away at my phone, thus looking downward, but my favourite escape that calms me is to be listening to music via an earpiece. That makes it all feel okay because it’s like I’m moving through my own private movie scene being accompanied by a soundtrack of my choosing. Sometimes at work I pretend to be listening to music, but it’s just a ruse to get people to leave me alone, freeing me from idle, puerile office banter.
My working life has been the biggest challenge, pain and disappointment of my life. I’ve always found myself in an office environment, a most unnatural construct for most people, but for me it’s a particular hell because I feel so visible and thus vulnerable. My coping mechanism has been to put my head down and work like a Trojan. This has had the unintended consequence of me being perceived as a good worker by my bosses. I’ve been rewarded with preferential treatment from them which has perpetuated the negativity of the setting because people now look at me with jealousy or disapproval. Yes, I’ve been relatively successful in my jobs, but I’ve always been the outsider, the lone wolf. I am now so accustomed to it that I prefer things that way, not because I like it, but because I know how to deal with it.
Better the devil you know is not my preferred way of doing things, but whenever I can I orchestrate things so that I work alone, preferably physically so. I commandeer a free space somewhere, put up a physical barrier of some kind and then I can’t see anyone’s judgemental eyes. I find it much easier to do my own thing than ask permission or seek forgiveness. I am not afraid to be unpopular in a workplace, because that just makes it easier to move on when the opportunity presents itself. Permanent employment has felt like a prison sentence to me, working on a freelance basis has proved more emotionally acceptable because I know exactly when it will be over.
This lack of fearing unpopularity has been a mixed blessing. Because I feel it almost inevitable in certain settings with people I do not know, it has lead to me being ruthless at times. I’ll even confess that it has made me a horrible person, a heartless bastard especially when in an all-male environment. I have had no compunction in resorting to bloody violence to get my way. Men really are like dogs in that we adhere to a pack mentality…and there can only be one top dog: me. I don’t fear violence, in fact, I like it because I know I will always win. There’s a certain look men give off when they realize that they can’t defeat me because I’m always willing to go one depraved step further than them. I’ve never started a fight, I’ve only ever finished them. Sadly, the few times my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend saw my vicious streak when I was provoked led to them losing some respect for me and having it replaced by a little fear. On a positive note, I feel that my days of brutality are well behind me; I’m now too old for that shit.
As I have got older these feelings of social inadequacy have grown and become more prominent in my daily existence. As I did away with my young man’s White Knight Syndrome, this avoidant mindset and accompanying behaviour pattern has grown. I can see that it’s getting worse as I experience more negative things at the hands of people.
Why am I like this? All my life I have felt like the outsider in any group setting. It all started when I was little.
My parents were badly married. My father was a raging alcoholic and often out of work. My mother was always at work during the day. They fought every dinner-time and all weekend. I was an only child, so when the fighting started I used to run away and hide in my own little world. My mother was overly protective towards me; overbearing and controlling in fact. She had me when she was almost 41 and I was her way of dealing with her shit life. I was the one thing she cherished…and could control.
When both my parents had jobs when I was under six years old, a maid would come take care of me and the apartment. She was under strict instructions to never let me outdoors. For years I would sit at the window watching the other kids play. A couple of times I sneaked out to play with them, but the maid caught me and took me back inside, fearful of losing her job. I think that’s how I developed my observant, analytical, voyeuristic streak.
Then one day my mother said to me that one of the kids had invited me to their birthday party. I was so excited. On the day of the party, I woke up early, relishing the chance to finally get to play with the other kids. My mother had bought a navy-blue trousers with harlequin waistcoat, white shirt and sky-blue bow-tie. (Yep, my mother dressed me funny.) By lunchtime I was tired and asked my mother if it was okay for me to nap for a little while and that she must wake me for the party.
She didn’t wake me and I slept the entire afternoon. I missed the party and I was upset. I convinced myself that now, for sure, the other kids would never want to play with me ever again. I resumed watching them from a distance, in my prison, overseen by the maid.
The city where we lived was a compromise choice for my parents because they had married across the cultural divide. In Apartheid-era South Africa, although both were white, my father was an Afrikaner and my mother of English descent, this was a socially inappropriate union. Their families shunned them and they moved to a city where nobody knew them, thus neither had friends or family in this neutral city. I have no recollection of us ever having visitors in the first 10 years of my life. Sadly I also have no recollection of ever being hugged or shown any kind of affection by either of my parents; they were too busy with their private war.
I can count on my one hand (and have fingers left over) the number of times I interacted with other children before I had to go to school at the age of six. On the very first day of school, my mother said to me, “I want you to be the cleverest kid in the class. I want you to get the highest marks for every subject.” I said, “Yes, mom” and I did exactly that for the next eight years.
All the other kids in my class were different to me. They also all knew each other. They went to pre-school crèche together, which my mother didn’t want me to. From day one I felt like the outsider, but it was in effect, just a continuation of what was the norm for me. I couldn’t figure out how to fit in, but I figured out how to excel and I became the class “brain”. Not the typical geek, because I was bigger than the other kids, so nobody picked on me. I just felt that collectively I was being shunned. Inadvertently I had made things worse for myself by becoming the “brain”, but I only figured that out in later years.
Because of my intellect, physique and forceful nature (courtesy of being a badly-socialised only child) I was the captain of every team in my school career. I was unknowingly a so-called “alpha male”, but largely because all the other kids were intimidated by me. It was easier to lead and browbeat kids into line, than to learn how to compromise and fit in.
My mother then decided that I should go to a different high-school than what my few primary school chums went to. So I arrived at a new school, at the age of thirteen, knowing nobody. Again they all knew each other, having been to the same primary school for the previous eight years. Again I was the outsider trying to break in. Teenagers can be nasty and very cliquey. My first year of high school was awful; nobody wanted to be friends with me. I remember a couple of break times taking myself off to the toilets and sitting in a cubicle, sometimes crying. Eventually a couple of boys warmed to me.
Then tragedy struck. My father dropped dead from a heart attack a week before my fourteenth birthday. That was 1st September 1985; it was a Sunday. On the Monday morning my mother went to the bank to tell them that my father had died. The bank manager instantly froze all the bank accounts and my mother had no cash. There were no friends or family to borrow money off of. There was no food in the house, as bad luck would have it. By the Wednesday night my dinner was a cereal with hot water. That’s how the next 10 years of hardship with my mother began.
We were literally left penniless. I stayed off school for a few weeks and when I returned all the kids ignored me. Nobody wanted to speak to me, they were all so uncomfortable around me, not knowing what to say. I became a social outcast and, as usual, it wasn’t of my making. The last few months of my first year of high school passed in splendid isolation.
My mother decided to move to another city, where her family was, who had promised to help out. So at the age of fourteen I went off to another high-school. And guess what? Yep, as usual, I was the outsider looking in. However, money was a massive problem for me and my mother. Her nephew (my cousin) owned a scrap metal yard and he gave my mother a full-time job as his book-keeper. I worked for him on weekends (occasional Sundays too) and all my school holidays. I skipped being a teenager and got thrown into the adult world. This made it harder to relate to kids my own age, teachers even; they were all so immature.
I had very few friends in high-school. My best friend was the class “brain”, but he was puny, so us two outcasts hung out together. I had very little to do with girls because I didn’t have time and I didn’t have money. I couldn’t take a girl back to my place, it was a dump and my mother was always there. I felt like no girl would be interested in me because I was so poor.
My stand-out moment in high school was the prom. I didn’t have the money to buy an outfit and one day in class several of the kids, all of whose parents were wealthy, belittled me publicly for claiming to not have the money for everything that was involved. This public grilling went on for ages. They just couldn’t understand that my mother and I didn’t have money. I didn’t go to the prom; the only kid not to go.
I would say that my teenage years were characterized by a feeling of never fitting in anywhere. I sometimes think I haven’t really outgrown that. Whenever I tried to join a group I was rejected, so I learned to reject groups. As a teenager I aspired to normality, decency and respectability. Respect is something important to me. I didn’t get much of it growing up, so I value it. It’s why I can’t love a woman that I don’t respect.
Because we didn’t have money, I couldn’t go to university. The law of the land said that I therefore had to do national service. I am a mixture of Afrikaner and English, so I was fluent in both languages and mindsets. When the other conscripts found out that I was not “pure”, I was shunned. I only had one friend during national service. I was a target for everyone else after that because nobody would side with me. I learned to really fight, physically and otherwise, then.
After that was over I had to get a job and in 1992, the world was in recession. My best friend’s father got me a job in the local municipality. At the time, Apartheid was collapsing and as a white man I was, once again, a target. Local government implemented affirmative action policies and I was told that no matter how hard I studied or what I did, I would not be promoted. My then girlfriend (now ex-wife) was facing the same limited options in her working life, although she was a qualified accountant. We decided to leave South Africa, the only environment we’ve ever known.
We arrived in England at the age of 25, never having been abroad and knowing nobody. Life was tough in the beginning. We both endured a lot of discrimination because we were immigrants. Once again, I was an outsider. We went through a lot together and it pains me that today we are not on speaking terms. I have reached out to her a couple of times asking if we could be friends, but she rejected the idea.
Of all the aspects of this Avoidant Personality Disorder I’ve been blind to, that what has sabotaged me the most, I would say emphatically is the mistrust of others. I can see that I have found comfort of being with woman such as my ex-wife, Sweet Thing, Busty Blonde and Busty Czech because I felt that I could trust them. (All of them are Cluster C – Dependent). As soon as another woman or date gave me any reason to not trust them then my Trust Demon took over and events followed an almost predictable, speedy downward spiral as I emotionally withdrew. At least I’m aware of this now.
The second greatest effect has been that of judgementalism. On the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator I’m an INTJ – Introversion, Intuition, Thinking, Judgement – one of the rarest personality types. It’s the last letter that has become exaggerated in my being. Because I fear being judged, I thus am highly judgemental of other people as a pre-emptive defence mechanism. I’ll reject them before they reject me.
When it comes to romantic relationships I need to feel I’m in control of the relationship, that makes me feel safe. Any hint of vulnerability and I fear being taken advantage of. This started at age six when the girl next to me would hold hands with me, then ask me to help her with her maths. I eventually realised that she was using me, so I stopped helping her. My only girlfriend I had in high-school cheated on me when I had to go away to do National Service. My ex-wife didn’t love me for the last five years of our relationship. My ex-girlfriend lied to me from day one and all the way through our relationship.
People have always been a source of anguish in my life, never a source of pleasure. However, aside from this and Avoidant Personality Disorder, my greatest positive emotion is that of wanting to give love. I think that my disorder has influenced this because not having received much love, there is an innate need within me to express it.
A case can be made that I’m now scared of women, but I don’t think that’s true. I just haven’t met the right one…The One. I realize now that I need to be with a submissive woman. I’ve been oblivious to this. This might have played a role in some of the experiences that I’ve had dating. Non-submissive women will have detected my wanting to be the senior partner in the relationship and that made me wrong for them. Some of the stronger-willed women and I clashed and would have continued to do so if a relationship were to have been mutually pursued. I think this is especially true of my ex-girlfriend and I who clashed daily. The Saffa (Histrionic) and Musician Gal (Narcissist) would have been a replay of that.
In the workplace I express, vent even, but in my private life I bottle my feelings up because that’s what a man’s supposed to do, don’t you know? Sup it up. Don’t show any weakness in front of the womenfolk because it rattles them. Be a man.
When my last job came to an end in August last year, I was leading a team of people who didn’t like me and ganged-up against me. It got ugly and became my worst nightmare. I felt humiliated and I walked out. I got a settlement payment from the company. I haven’t worked since then.
The thought of going back into an office environment nauseates me. I was never happy in my working life, always prostituting myself for the money. I have absolutely no interest in IT, an industry populated by ego-maniacal geeks fussing over petty things, always missing the big picture. (Ever wondered why software is like it is? Now you know.)
Since August last year my ‘working days’ have been me sitting at home by myself, happiest when writing my heart out, only going out to get food (listening to music) and the gym at lunchtimes (again with headphones on). There have been times when weeks have gone by without my talking to anyone. I can not remember another time in my life when I have been so happy. I have felt so calm and tranquil. I’ve loved it.
Don’t worry, I’m not some anti-social, rude, obnoxious, control-freak retard who wants to be a hermit. On the surface I must seem perfectly normal. I’m polite, considerate, humorous, easy-going and a whole host of other good things. I can walk into a job interview, make a positive impression, get interviewers laughing and talk myself into a job. I feel my fears and I ignore them, because my desire to succeed is greater.
It’s just that I am at my best when alone with only one person. If it’s a group setting then it is preferable to be with people whom I have known for a long time. In typical introvert fashion I feel exhausted after a lengthy social engagement, even if it is with people I’ve known for years. An extrovert feels energized by socialising, but I don’t, I need to recover and I seek out solitude and silence.
All I want is silence. That can’t hurt me, that I am comfortable with. I am at my absolute best when alone, with my thoughts. When given time, space and the tranquillity to express myself, to be creative because, like manic-depressants before lithium, it all feels bearable then.
I don’t think I’m disturbed, I just need silence and solitude more than most. My scars need time to heal.
Oh, how I crave silence, for it is then that I feel I am on the comforting edge of heaven.
The MILF of Xmas is a package deal; the kid thing will take a lot of thought on my part. I don’t know if I can handle that; I don’t feel emotionally equipped for it. I spend many hours on Sunday doing research on the internet about dating a single mother. The general consensus from other men on forums is ‘don’t’, but she doesn’t seem like the typical single mother I’ve read about.
The MILF of Xmas and I speak on the phone on Sunday night and we have good banter. It feels as good as the previous night’s date. I ask her to phone me on Monday night once she’s finished work.
We swap email addresses during the day, but she doesn’t phone me on Monday night. I send her a link to a YouTube music video that we discussed on Saturday night. I get no response and put it down to her being busy in the run-up to Xmas and having a child to look after. Or does this mean she’s about to start playing games? Do the power games now begin; seeing who calls whom first? Or is this really the effect of a child being involved?
It’s Tuesday, the day before Christmas Eve and she surprises me at 11am by messaging me on WhatsApp asking about my day. I respond neutrally and realize that it is now school holidays, so she should be off work and having to look after her son. She then asks if we can get together in the afternoon. I’m elated!
Seeing as I made the effort to visit nearer her town, she says she’ll come visit me in mine. Oh, how sweet. Her fair-mindedness is not wasted on me. I run around like a lunatic cleaning my home, then I go to the shops to buy a couple of Christmas presents for her. I wrap them with a smile on my face; I hope she likes them. It’s obvious to me that she can’t wait to see me again and is using swapping presents as an excuse. Obvious, right?
The MILF of Xmas arrives mid-afternoon, I meet her in my car park and I’m glad to see her. I hand her the Christmas presents, but she offers nothing in return. I’m surprised but tell myself that she just really wanted to see me. I feel proud to have her by my side as we walk along my town’s high street to a quaint family-run coffee shop. She’s so cute; she couldn’t hurt a fly.
We settle down to coffee and cake and begin chatting away, but I get the impression that she has something on her mind. I use my old tactic of just falling silent, waiting for the woman to choose the next topic of conversation as it usually reveals what is foremost on her mind. I wasn’t expecting what I got.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” she begins.
I put my fork down and look deeply into her blue eyes. This sounds serious.
“I’m actually seeing someone else right now,” she says.
Her words are like a dagger in my soul, it thrusts in and slowly starts to twist.
“I see,” is all I can say, as my heart plummets to my feet and my blood runs cold. Suddenly the table between us feels as wide as the Grand Canyon and she’s standing on the other side.
“We met through a mutual friend in October. Last week I decided to go onto Tinder to see who’s out there, which is when I came across you,” she says.
Every word she utters feels like a blow from a scalding hammer. I feel deflated and disheartened, but I try to not let it show. I knew that she was too good be true. However, there’s more.
“My trip to my parents this coming week with my son includes him,” she says.
I fall silent. I don’t know what to say and it feels like I’m shrinking in my seat.
“The thing is that I find him boring. We don’t have chemistry. You and I have the chemistry I want,” she says leaning towards me with a pleading look in her eyes.
I nod in understanding because of my experiences with Busty Blonde and Sweet Thing. If that chemistry isn’t there in the beginning, it’s never going to be there. Furthermore if it wasn’t for my situation of a few months ago with Busty Czech and The Saffa, I would be hopping mad and would want to walk out of the coffee shop. However, I have enough life experience now to understand how these situations can come about because I was in one very similar. I’m sure that there’s more to it than she’s telling me.
“Have you slept with him?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies instantly.
Why did I ask that? I guess I need to know how serious it is. We fall silent for a few uncomfortable seconds.
“What would you do if you were in my position?” I ask.
“Hmm, I would say for you to get back to me once the other person is history,” she says.
I think about it for a few moments, my brain races and I quickly conjure up a plan.
“No, I’m not going to say that. I’m a much smoother operator than that. What I will say is that I’m prepared to keep seeing you, but the longer it takes you to get rid of the other guy, the less likely I am to keep seeing you.”
“Oh, okay,” she says with a puzzled look on her face.
“I’m not going to pressurise you. I’m not going to give you an ultimatum. That’s not a nice way of doing things,” I say with a smile.
The MILF of Xmas smiles back.
What she doesn’t realize is that I’ve just given her a test. If she’s good and decent enough for me she’ll say goodbye to the other guy as quickly as possible. The right thing all along is to have ended it with him before meeting someone else, but she didn’t. I can’t get all righteous and judgemental about it because I’ve done the same thing.
The question that needs answering is that of: does she feel enough chemistry and attraction with me in order to let go of the safety blanket that is the other guy? Is she rather going to cling to a little bit of something rather than risking everything in exchange for a shot at everything else she’s ever wanted?
I decide to go on the offensive. She’d asked me a question on Saturday night that didn’t sit well with me.
“Why on Saturday did you ask that if I lived where I did that it meant that I was a high-income earner?” I’m concerned that she has gold-digger tendencies. Some of my friends say that all women are gold-diggers, it’s just the extent that varies. I’m curious to see how she reacts to my question.
“I asked because I’m a very low earner. I can’t keep up with you if you are. You’re used to the finer things in life and I can’t afford those,” she says without a moment’s hesitation.
I find her answer charming. It’s nothing like what I was expecting. I remember that on Saturday she told me that she thought that I was posh. I thought it time to dispel any misconceptions that she had about me and to see for myself whether or not her actions matched her words.
“After we’re done here we’re going back to my place. Then you can see how modestly I live. My place is nothing special and it’s quite basic. Then you’ll see that I’m not posh,” I say emphatically.
The MILF of Xmas smiles; she seems pleased with that.
She pays for our cakes and coffees, something that I would have been uncomfortable with in the past, but her news makes it easier for me to let her pay.
Back at my place I show her around and she doesn’t say a word nor does she show any kind of reaction to my home. As she stands next to my sofa that I have fucked countless women on, she looks so different to all of them. She looks so cute and wholesome. I find her irresistible.
I walk over to her, stoop down and start to kiss her as slowly and gently as I know how. I hear her take deep breaths in through her nose and her eyes are closed. Our lips lock and we slow kiss; I can almost hear her heart beat. After a few seconds our tongues touch and we tease each other. It feels like we’re high-school teenagers kissing for the very first time…and it feels good.
We stand there kissing for several minutes and I can’t help but to start kissing her neck and throat. She loves it; the guttural sounds she lets off tells me so. I push my hands under her coat and she doesn’t resist. I wonder how far she’d let things go if I pushed my luck. Her body feels small and tight; it also feels good. I resist the temptation to feel her breasts.
I stop, not wanting things to get out of hand. I can envisage her laying naked on my sofa with me on top of her, dwarfing her, fucking her, making her cum with a scream that would startle the neighbours. No, that is not the right thing to do here. I put her coat back in place and offer to walk her to her car.
At her car we kiss passionately once more and she drives off. An hour later she sends me a message on WhatsApp: ‘Thank you for meeting me.‘ I’m not too sure what to make of that. I respond with ‘Thank you for being honest with me.‘ She replies ‘It’s the least I could do.‘
The fact that she felt the need to come clean with me counts as a good thing in my book. It shows some moral decency while also showing that she’s taking me seriously. Nevertheless, I feel uneasy about her now.
Christmas Eve I wake with a familiar empty feeling inside me. The MILF of Xmas is not everything I thought she was. I’ve made a fool of myself again. I believed what I wanted, based on the little I saw on Saturday. I should know better by now. I’m just going to leave her alone today.
Am I doing it again? Am I pursuing someone who just isn’t right for me? How do you ever really know until it’s too late?
Is she perhaps appealing to my White Knight Syndrome? I think not. I just find her so damn cute.
Xmas Day I decide to withdraw a little. I don’t want to pressurise her in any way. I also don’t want to let myself get carried away with someone who, in all likelihood, is putting on some kind of act that I’ve seen so many other women do. I know that I should phone her, but decide to merely send her a WhatsApp message. She responds within minutes with a positive and enthusiastic tone, thanking me for her presents. I then send her an email with a link to the Lily Allen video of ‘Somewhere only we know’. A quarter of an hour later she responds with a message saying, “That was beautiful, thank you 🙂”
I leave it there, letting her get on with her day. I wonder if the boyfriend is there; probably.
Boxing Day I send The MILF of Xmas a WhatsApp message wishing her bon voyage. She responds with a polite thank you. I decide again to leave matters there. I’ve initiated the last three interactions. Let’s see how long it takes before I hear from her again.
A couple of times over the week that she’s gone she posts a few photos on Facebook. Yes, I found her on Facebook and her profile is totally wide open. Her son looks like a happy little guy. The photos on there are mostly of her ex-husband. He’s about my size, so she likes her men big. The guy she’s with now is a younger, scrawny version of me. Other photos show a normal, wholesome, family-oriented life.
Shortly before midnight on New Year’s Eve I get a mysterious message on WhatsApp. It’s from a number I don’t recognize, but it’s from a Spanish phone number. There’s no salutation or signature. They wish me a happy New Year and promise to “chat soon”. I can only surmise that it’s The MILF of Xmas, but it feels so generic. I latch onto the idea that it might be the boyfriend who has checked her phone, seen my number and is trying to pose as her to glean information. I have no idea why I came up with that idea, but I think it’s because of all the shenanigans over the last few years that has lead to being able to think like that. I respond the next day with a courteous “Thank you, you too.”
New Year’s Day The MILF of Xmas is getting back home on New Year’s Day. I’ve decided to not make contact, but to instead see how long it takes before I hear from her. As I write this, it’s going on for lunchtime on Friday 2nd January 2015. I’ve still not heard from her. I’m actually not too fussed about hearing from her. In the past week I’ve become increasingly uncomfortable with this situation. The central thought that comes to mind when I think of her is her child. I’m not sure I’m up to the task of being involved with a single mother.
If matters were to proceed, then my preferred scenario that I would want is to hear her say that she told the other guy about what is going on and he didn’t go to Spain with her; but I know that he did. A slightly less acceptable scenario is that she went away with him and at some point came clean with him. Anything other than that is unacceptable to me. Anything else just reeks of weakness or, worse still, just using him, deceiving him.
I wonder how this other guy would feel if he knew what was really going on, what she truly thought of him. He was blissfully ignorant of himself being in one corner of a triangle, she’s in another corner of her own making and me, well I’m on the other side from them both. Perhaps bliss is ignorance.
I know that this situation isn’t what I want and that I should let it slide. Letting it peter out is the smoothest course of action.
To this day I have not heard from her.
I’m left feeling disappointed, surprised and slightly bitter by this turn of events, but I think I dodged a cannonball.
Lessons learned: 1) Things are rarely as they seem. 2) Life as a single mother is complicated and it takes a special kind of man to become involved with one. I am not that kind of man. 3) My ability to read women is not as developed as I think.
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.
I phone The Cockaholic late in the morning and she sounds upbeat. Although her flight only got in at 1am, she is keen to see me. I need to get to the bottom of whether or not she was with her mother on her trip, or with some other guy or an ex-boyfriend. I’ve decided I’m also going to have fun with my phone. I’m going to film her as she sucks on me and I’m going to indulge in dirty talk. Then I’ll start asking her questions about her sexual history and see what ensues. Yes, I have a voyeuristic streak and having video mementos of lovers in action is something to be experienced to be fully appreciated. Of course nobody else will ever see my growing collection.
Going round to The Cockaholic’s is easy, taking less than ten minutes to drive there. I’ve never had anybody as quick to get to before. It might be a blessing and a curse; the latter because it will be tempting to visit each other. She is pleased to see me and I notice that her one eye is larger than the other; it must be what happens when she’s excited. I have seen that before when she was sucking my cock, just like with The Brazilian.
We eat and chat and the hours fly by. We have chemistry, that’s for sure. There’s that rare energy between us and we key off each other. I don’t feel bored like I did with Busty Blonde or exasperated like I did at times with The Saffa. I am aware that it’s still very early days and time will tell how compatible we are. I must say that it is very pleasant interacting with somebody as positive as her…and she does love sucking my cock for hours on end, literally.
After lunch we go for a walk and end up going through her town’s centre. She has never been into a pound-shop before, so I take her into a few. She marvels at the low prices, but disses the clientele. I detect a bit of a snob in her, which I find ironic considering her humble origins; her father was in the army and was stationed around Europe, so she grew up in army housing. So many of us are trying to get away from our childhood.
In situ I decide not to confront her about who her companion was last week. I might be getting paranoid after all my bad dating experiences and accusing her, even slightly, might derail things between us. This knight decides that silence is the best path to the truth. She might come clean if there is a reason to do so, or she might let more clues or details slip. I’ll bite my tongue while she bites my cock.
Back at her place we chatter away and before we know it darkness has descended on the world. At about 7pm she starts pulling my trousers off.
“I didn’t think we’d make it until 2 o’clock before I did this,” she says laughingly. She totally fancies me and it feels good.
Again she does the licking of my arse thing, but this time for much longer and making approving sounds. She does like licking arses it seems. We end up in her bedroom where she happily sucks away at my cock for hours. She’s insatiable. I end up giving her the biggest orgasm yet. She’s a shivering, sweaty heap when I finish her off and lie half on top of her.
She goes down on me again and this time I get my phone out and start videoing everything, being sure to indulge in copious amounts of dirty talk that she participates in. She’s fully aware of what I’m doing.
“You like sucking cock, don’t you?” I say.
“I love sucking your cock,” she answers, looking at the camera.
“How old were you when you sucked your first cock?” I ask.
She thinks about it for a few seconds, drops my cock out of her mouth, says “Twenty three” and resumes sucking.
“Did you make him cum?” I ask.
She shakes her head, keeping my cock in her mouth.
“Do you like making a cock cum in your mouth?” I ask.
She replies with a satisfied “Mmm” sound.
“Do you like the feeling of cum in your mouth?” I continue, curious as to how she’ll answer.
“I love having your cum in my mouth,” she says.
“Do you like swallowing cum?”
“I love swallowing your cum,” she replies, looking at the camera, then resumes sucking away on my cock with renewed gusto.
After a few seconds of her slurping and gurgling on me I decide to see if I can get on camera something naughty.
“Do you want to lick my arse?” I ask her.
“Definitely!” she answers,
I raise my knees and she lowers her head. Somehow I’m able to lower and hold my phone down next to her head, capturing her first sucking then licking my arse.
“That’s it, lick my arse,” I exclaim.
The Cockaholic rhythmically and slowly licks away at my anus, as if she’s licking an ice-cream on a hot day.
“That’s what you like doing. Do you like licking my arse?” I ask.
“I do,” she purrs.
“Stick your tongue in my arse,” I instruct and she instantly complies.
After a couple of seconds she repositions herself onto her side and gets comfortable; she’s intent on doing this for a while. I feel her lips suctioning onto the perimeter of my anus, then her tongue starts pushing into it.
“That’s it, stick your tongue into my arsehole,” I say for some unknown reason. People say the silliest, weirdest stuff during sex.
For about a minute she keeps doing this, then detaches her lips and starts licking my butthole like a puppy licks a jam-coated finger. She’s in her own private Nirvana, a place only she understands, a place she enjoys more than anything else.
“You love licking my arse, don’t you? You love sticking your tongue in my arse, don’t you?” I say to her.
A lustful, deep-throated “Mmm,” is her response.
After just over a minute of this tongue-in-arse routine, she pulls away and starts licking and kissing my balls. The thought of faecal bacteria on my manhood makes me shiver inside, but what’s going on outside me is more enticing.
“Do you want to be my cock-sucking slut?” I ask in a moment of oxytocin-driven rudeness.
“Oh, yes!” she answers and latches onto my cock..
“That’s it, suck my cock. Make it bigger, then I’ll fuck you with it,” I say.
“Mmm,” is all she says as she eagerly sucks on my penis.
“I’ll fuck you doggy-style,” I murmur.
“Mmm,” she utters.
“Do you want me to fuck you doggy-style?” I ask, not sure how she’ll respond. She might be turned off by all this and react negatively, so I have to proceed cautiously with my naughty talk.
“Yeah, now,” she implores.
I take a moment to think about how I want this encounter to end.
“Do I have to beg you?” she asks.
Huh? Where did that come from? What’s that about? I don’t know what to make of it, I’m so taken by surprise. I move on, passing on the opportunity to find out more about her psyche.
“Do you want me to put a thumb in your arse while I fuck you doggy-style?”
“Mmm,” The Cockaholic moans.
“Or do you want me to put my cock in your arse?” I ask, pushing my luck here, wondering how she’ll react to that idea. So much of sex involves the brain, getting the other person mentally turned on too, getting them to imagine things they ordinarily might not, or even better, suggesting a secret desire or fantasy of theirs.
“Let’s save that for next time,” she replies, catching me by surprise again.
“I think you want it,” I say, recovering quickly.
“Not when I’ve just had such a big orgasm,” she counters, continuing to suck my cock.
Huh? I thought she hasn’t done anal before? How would she know what’s right or wrong after an orgasm? She just became more intriguing.
“I think you’re looking forward to feeling my cock in your arse,” I say, continuing to push my luck.
“You want to feel my cock cumming in your arse, don’t you?” I continue.
“Ooh, mmm,” she moans some more, indicating approval.
“Say please fuck me in the arse,” I instruct.
“Please fuck me,” she answers.
“No. Say please fuck me in the arse,” I repeat.
“Mmm,” is all she says.
“Do you want to feel me cum in your arse?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs.
“Do you want to feel my cock pumping cum in your arse?”
“Do you want to feel my cum, hot and sticky, in your arse?”
“You’re going to have to put it in me now,” she says.
I spin The Cockaholic into doggy-style position as it’s her favourite. She’s so turned on from going down on me and perhaps from the dirty talk that it takes less than a minute for her to cum again. Earlier she mentioned that she’s never had a facial, so I straddle her face as she sucks my cock and I finger her pussy and arse. She’s quite okay with my fingering her arse, claiming never to have had that done before me but enjoys it nevertheless.
After a while I cum all over her face and The Cockaholic laughs about it. She goes to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror. It’s several days’ worth and her face is messy. After she washes it off we cuddle up in bed and I switch my phone off, noticing that its 2.49am.
Monday morning she and I wake at what seems like the same time, probably the sound of an ambulance’s wail disturbing us both. It’s 7.14am. She almost immediately rolls down to my crotch and starts giving me a blowjob that naturally leads to my cumming in her mouth and her gratefully swallowing my load. Not a typical start to my Mondays.
Minutes later she makes me a coffee and a flask of juice for my day ahead that I watch her prepare. The Cockaholic is a very giving person, so unlike the vast majority of women whom I’ve dated more than twice. I could get used to this, but I’m aware that as with The Saffa, with the passing of time her random acts of affection might diminish and be replaced by something less likeable.
Until then, if that were to happen, I like being with her. It feels good, but I’m aware that I’ve been in this position before. There’s another feeling, a hollow one, that I know all too well and it’s growing.
There’s something missing: love.
Yes, we’re having fun, yes, I like her, but there’s no sign of love on the horizon. I think it’s because there’s a trust issue that I need to resolve. Is it just in my head or is there something going on that I don’t know about?
The Saffa sends me WhatsApp messages on the Monday night, but I ignore these as I’m being pleasantly distracted by The Cockaholic’s oral fixation. Over the course of the week The Saffa and I speak only once a day, either in the morning or the night, not three times a day like we used to. It’s all very civil, tinged with a sense of nervousness; where that comes from I don’t know. Is it from my sense of guilt? No, it’s her demeanour. Does she suspect something? I don’t think so.
She’s right, the romance is over, which is a shame because I love the romance. It might be fair to say I live for the romance. I hadn’t got enough of it with her and now it feels like the hard, steady grind of loveless, pointless relationship is all that awaits. The wheels have spun off and this cart is on its rickety chassis, sliding down a stony hill.
The Cockaholic has gone off to Spain with her mother for a week, I know in that time I must end things with The Saffa. I want a cleaner conscience as matters progress with The Cockaholic. On the Sunday morning I meet The Saffa at my station for what I expect will be he last time I’ll see her. After everything we’ve been through I think I owe it to her to let her down in person.
It’s dreary Autumn morning, rain is imminent, which adds to her sombre mood. We kiss hello, but its feckless. We end up back at my place, intent on going to visit another nearby town, but we don’t. After less than an hour of preparing a curry for lunch, her sipping wine and two episodes of Californication, she’s frisky. Her period is due in the coming week and I’m learning that, like most women, the week before her period is when she is horniest.
It isn’t lost on me that this is just like when I wanted to break up with Busty Czech in that sex got in the way. One last fuck, why not? Yes, I’m doing it again, caving in at the merest whiff of pussy. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m a satyr.
The Saffa complains of a trapped nerve in her right shoulder, so I get my massage oil…and the tube of KY jelly that she had left behind previously. My mind conjures up a naughty idea.
I give her a decent back massage and minutes later she’s sucking on my cock. We strip off in my lounge, try a bit of conventional sex, but I’ve got anal on my mind. She seemed up for it in the past and I never know when I might get another chance to do it properly, so I start talking dirty about it.
“Do you like sucking on my cock?” I begin.
“I love it,” she replies.
“Imagine feeling it in your pussy,” I continue, warming her brain up.
“Mmm,” she mumbles with my cock in her mouth.
“Now imagine feeling my cock in your arse,” I say, planting the idea in her head.
She doesn’t say anything, but just looks at me with her baby-blue eyes and smiles whilst maintaining suction. The Saffa ‘s almost as good a cock-sucker as The Cockaholic, but the latter still has the edge.
“Imagine feeling my cock pumping and squirting cum in your arse,” I say, going for the kill.
“Oh, fuck…” she utters.
“Imagine feeling my hot, sticky cum in your bum,” I say, hoping that this closes it.
“Oh, ja, let’s do it!” she says, dropping my erection out of her mouth and standing up.
Ah, she’s up for it, so I get the KY jelly and lubricate her arse with one finger. I smear some over my cock and we try doggy-style. I slide my cock into her anus slowly and and give a few gentle thrusts before she complains of the pain. She suggests missionary position which is weird to me, but we’re so close so we try it.
It works. After about thirty seconds of gentle ass-fucking, she’s relaxed and enjoying it. After about another minute she’s quite happy to parrot, “please fuck me in the arse” repeatedly, exactly as I tell her to.
“Please choke me while you fuck me in the arse,” she blurts out, throwing her arms up next to her head.
I oblige and The Saffa closes her eyes in utter satisfaction.
The Saffa’s arse feels like the tightest pussy I’ve ever penetrated, yet so smooth from the lube, thus giving me an exquisite sensation. My hips speed up and I can feel the lubricant wearing thin. I let myself cum, exploding ejaculate into her rectum, while still choking her. It’s difficult not to tighten my grip at a moment like this, so I let go for her own safety.
After a few seconds my orgasm subsides and I want to pull out, slowly edging my cock out of her arse.
“No, don’t. Stay. I want to feel it some more,” she says, snapping out of her own world and looking me in the eyes again.
For half a minute I press my fists into the sofa either side of her head as she savours whatever she’s feeling. She starts stroking my arms and chest, gripping various muscles, just like Krazy Girl used to. It’s nice to feel appreciated.
We takes turns going to the bathroom and end up watching more Californication with the slightest hint of excrement and ammonia in the air.
It’s getting time for her to go back, I start making noises about this, but true to form, The Saffa starts sucking on my cock. I don’t care if she gets into trouble at work; she doesn’t, so why should I?
She diligently sucks me off while I look down at her, thinking to myself about my cock having been in her arse a couple of hours ago.
Her train departs my station when she should have been reporting for work.
On the Tuesday night she phones me and within minutes we’re embroiled in a pointless argument about her work. Again she is rubbing her employers up the wrong way over a new issue and it shows her callous disregard for other people. Her psychopathic lack of empathy reminds me of my Exgf far too much. It’s especially the “fuck them” attitude that bothers me. It hints at what she’s like in a relationship – it really is all about her options.
The conversation gets heated, she keeps talking over me and The Saffa yet again abruptly hangs up on me. I decide that it’s for the last time, so in the morning I send her this email:
Sorry, but we clash far too much for my liking.
For several weeks now our relationship has felt like a clash of wills and not a romance.
I want the latter and convinced myself to give “us” time.
I’m going through a bit of a rough patch in my life at the moment and a roller-coaster relationship is the last thing I need right now.
I need to be with someone who lifts my spirits and is easy company – sadly, to me, you are neither of those things. I want a harmonious relationship – for you that would be boring because it seems to me that you court drama.
I’m having to put this in writing because, as last night proved, you won’t let me say my piece. I have to tell you that you have an annoying habit of talking over people. You have not learnt that there are times when keeping quiet is the best thing to do. You won’t do this because you like the drama – I hate drama.
If I were to try to have this conversation with you in person or over the phone, quite frankly, it would be impossible. It would only end badly.
So, despite the best of intentions and purest of hopes, it has become clear to me that we are just not right together.
We don’t bring out the best in each other. Outside of the bedroom we lack magic. At times it has felt like we are two draught horses pulling in opposite directions. That’s not how it should be.
We can’t even make pancakes together.
All you had to do was be nice to me. Instead, at times, you’ve treated me like the enemy.
I then realized that you’re just not going to open up your heart to me.
I just don’t have time and energy for a relationship like what we’ve had. It’s not what I want or deserve.
The time has come for us to go our separate ways.
I wish you all the best for the future.
After sending it I sit there with a heavy heart and I realize something. My transformation into Hank Moody from Californication is now complete because this scene springs to mind:
I find it interesting that The Saffa was on her best behaviour and most keen when she was trying to win me away from Busty Czech. As soon as she felt a sense of commitment or security from me her behaviour changed for the worse and her true colours came out. In the beginning she was compliant and agreeable to everything, but that quickly morphed into a battle of wills. I started to wonder if she was getting off on mind games, the silly, nasty power games that turbulent relationships are characterised by.
The Saffa wasn’t The One, despite my having some hope that she was. Our dalliance lasted little more than a month. I have learned some lessons from it, hopefully they stick in my psyche.
The Cockaholic hasn’t proven herself either way so I need to give it time with her, despite her being somewhat enigmatic. It’s a few days after saying goodbye to The Saffa and I’ve just developed doubts about who The Cockaholic really is with in Spain which is causing my Trust Demon to be stomping around.
Again it’s beginning to fade to grey, all so fucking grey.
Lessons learned:1) Women are more competitive than men, especially in the romance stakes. Some women like a challenge by way of wooing a man away from another woman. I guess it partially explains why some women are attracted to married men: it makes them feel more of a woman if they can get a man off another woman. 2) Most woman like to have a sense of power in relationship. If they can bend a man to their will, then it makes them feel powerful. However, it’s a poisoned chalice because after a while her respect for him will erode and with that any sense of love. 3) Drama queens like the excitement that comes with drama, not caring how destructive to a relationship it might be. If there isn’t drama, they’ll create it. A passionate fight is better than being bored. 4) A sense of security for some women gives them the idea that they can treat a man badly because he will always be there. A little bit of insecurity certainly keeps bad behaviour at bay. 5) The way to deal with drama queens, megalomaniacs and challenge-seekers is to treat them badly. They respect a man then, they fear his strength and that excites them. It’s fucked up, but it works.