I switch off all my dating profiles in an act of fidelity and decency. Pretty Teacher and I are off to a great start, although I’m not convinced that having sex on our second date was the best idea. Nevertheless, it’s happened and I need to move matters forward positively. Yes, I do have some misgivings about her OCD behaviour with her phone. I’m starting to think that OCD means ‘Obviously Confused & Damaged’. Is she?
We arrange to meet the following Saturday, first to watch a game of rugby in a pub, then to partake in a Guy Fawkes fireworks evening. Our banter on the phone each night is positive, upbeat and fun. I think that she’s a thoroughly good person, is someone I can trust and thus far all the signs are that we can be good together.
It’s the first Saturday in November and it’s a blustery one as I arrive at Pretty Teacher’s apartment complex. She summons me upstairs and I’m enthused by her wanting me to see her home. Her place is a two-bedroomed apartment that is very tastefully furnished. One bedroom is her office where she prepares her lessons and other teacherly stuff. Her bedroom has an enormous double bed in it. Will I be spending the night in it? I think it’s safe to assume so.
Again she insists that we go in her car to the same historic market town that we went to last weekend. Is repetition part of OCD behaviour? We find a bustling pub where we watch the game together, albeit sitting largely in silence, hardly talking to each other. I put this down to noisy environment we’re in. She struggles to sit still, is constantly fidgeting and I wonder if she also has ADHD. While I ponder this she grabs her phone and plays a round of online scrabble. At half-time I buy us hamburgers and drinks, which we eat in silence, barely making eye contact. I try to make conversation but her responses are curt to the point of rudeness.
My mind races, trying to figure out what’s going on here. We’ve spoken on the phone every night since Sunday, taking turns to call each other without having articulated plans to do so. I took that as a very good sign. Have I said something that has upset her? I’m not going to ask directly, but will rather let this date play out, let her show me her hand in her own sweet time. I’ll just be me, positive, light and fun. I’ve never been one for letting other people decide my mood.
It’s now early November so it’s gets dark early. The rugby game finishes, which England won against Australia, something that should make rugby-mad Pretty Teacher ecstatically happy, but instead she is still sombre. Is it perhaps because I didn’t gush about her home? I was impressed with it and said so, was that not good enough? What’s bugging her?
We make our way over to the stately home for the fireworks display. It’s blowing a gale and I won’t be surprised if the event is called off on health and safety grounds. On the phone the previous night we’d agreed that extra layers of clothing will be needed, so tonight we stand in a side-street near the venue getting changed into warmer gear that we’ve brought along. So, we both plan ahead and can stick to a plan. This is good, I can have a relationship with someone like that.
The wind is howling and it’s cold, damn cold. With my frame I dwarf her, so I offer to act as a windbreak, which she accepts. As we walk around looking at the stalls selling unspeakable plastic rubbish from China at ridiculous prices, I make an effort at all times to keep myself between Pretty Teacher and the wind. To warm us up I buy hot food and drinks which we consume in silence. Conversation is hard to come by, despite my best efforts. What the hell is going on in her head?
I’ve felt this feeling before, a feeling of confusion and of being scrutinized then rejected. I felt it with Country Girl and Musician Gal. In fact this whole experience so far is a replay of those encounters by way of it starting off with fireworks then quickly petering out. I’m starting to notice patterns here with certain types of women exhibiting types of behaviour that I now think of Hot-Cold. It was the same with Krazy Girl too.
I feel like just walking away because I’m starting to think that this is going nowhere. However, there could be a myriad of reasons for her offish behaviour, so I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt. I also think she might be nervous about us having sex again. It could be anything; I won’t blow my chances by being impetuous. I’ll play it cool, be patient, be myself and let her come to me, physically and emotionally.
The fireworks display doesn’t last long and it’s a bit of a disappointment, just like this date so far. We go back to Pretty Teacher’s car and drive back to her place in silence. I’ve decided that she’s nervous about us having sex again and me spending the night. Maybe it’s all too fast for her? Maybe she’s such a Good Girl that what we did last Sunday is far beyond the realms of her dating or relationship experience.
Back at her place she invites me inside, but a part of me was wondering if she’d make some pithy excuse and I’d be going home alone. She makes me a coffee and we end up sitting side by side on her sofa…in silence and barely making eye contact. This reminds me of the time when I sat with Baltic Babe and all her confessions came out. Is the same about to happen?
“I’m sorry, but it’s late and I’m very tired,” she says, looking me in the eye with a strange look.
I’m not a hundred percent sure what she’s telling me, so I try to clarify with a question, a direct one which I try to put across as tactfully as I can.
“So does that mean I’m sleeping over or not?” I ask.
“Not, I’m afraid,” she replies with an apologetic expression on her face.
What the fuck is going on here?! That’s what I want to say, but I decide to be more dignified.
“Okay, not a problem,” is all I say.
I’m a bit surprised by this, I think about being even more direct and ask her what she’s thinking and feeling, but that would make me seem needy, something that is always a big no-no in any woman’s dating rulebook. We sit in silence staring into our nearly empty mugs of coffee.
I decide to act with dignity, so I get up, return the mug to the kitchen and make my way to the hallway to get my boots and jacket. Pretty Teacher is already there waiting for me, my jacket in her hands. I just smile as I put it on, trying to display some valour.
“I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” I say to her.
“Okay,” is all she says.
We kiss half-heartedly and I go downstairs to my car. On my drive home I’m absolutely fuming. What have I said or done, or NOT said or done to deserve this attitude from her?!
The next day I’ve calmed down to a simmer, telling myself all sorts of convenient lies to excuse Pretty Teacher’s actions and inactions. I tell myself that she just wants to take it slow, something I’m okay with. Then later in the evening I phone her as I had promised and the conversation is almost icy. Her answers are short and she asks no questions of her own. It feels like she doesn’t want to talk to me, wants me to get off the phone…wants me to fuck off and die. Then she surprises me.
“I’m off on Wednesday. Why don’t we go out for dinner? I’ll call you after lunchtime to finalise details as I’m seeing my friends for lunch,” she suddenly says.
This catches me totally off-guard. I agree to her idea and we say goodbye. I lie on my bed, phone in hand, feeling flummoxed by her frustrating, contradictory words and actions. One minute I’m being ignored, the next I’m in demand. I don’t appreciate being treated like this. I start to feel angry. I’m tired of women jerking me around like I’m a monkey on the end of a chain.
At 11PM my phone burps and I assume it’s Pretty Teacher, texting me a goodnight message, perhaps even an apology. I can’t believe my eyes when I look at my phone. It’s a message from Krazy Girl.
I’m astounded. I haven’t seen her in almost three months. The last contact I had with Krazy Girl was when I wished her a happy birthday six weeks ago. Things have felt done and dusted between us since we last saw each other. I was never expecting to hear from her again. I feel a little bit excited, while also feeling confused, wary and very surprised.
I take a moment to think about things. I think about Pretty Teacher and how it feels like she’s just put me on an emotional roller-coaster. I don’t deserve what she’s doing to me. I think about my Exgf and my pledge to tell her if I’ve slept with anybody else, but remember her leading me on a merry dance for five years. She had the best of me, now she can have the worst of me. I think about the fantastic sex I’ve had with Krazy Girl. I send her a reply.
It was drizzling while I stood waiting outside the building where Musician Gal worked. It was 6pm and people were scurrying home, either carrying umbrellas or being fleet-footed, all with shoulders haunched, as if that would make any difference. I was excited about seeing Musician Gal again. Over the course of the day we had swapped text messages and had agreed to play the evening by ear, wandering where we felt like and doing what we felt like as the moment took us and the soggy weather allowed. I was looking forward to seeing how well we played together, having to suggest and then agree on something.
I’m also imbued with a sense of relief that Scots Lass, whom I’d met only hours earlier, was not The One. I had been curious about her, but now that she is as good as forgotten, I can focus on tonight’s date with Musician Gal. My thoughts are plagued though by Career Girl; what am I going to do about her? One woman at a time, I keep telling myself.
Musician Gal eventually came out of her building at 6.15, smartly dressed in a grey suit with colourful scarf. She was smiling and seemed pleased to see me. Once her frilly umbrella was opened, we huddled under it and she leaned on my arm. We walked towards the National Theatre on the Southbank, slowly carving our way through the rush-hour hordes – ‘the sheeple’ – as she called them. She had a bar in mind that she wanted to show me. It was part of the National Theatre building, but it was not obvious to find as only a nondescript office-door entrance led to it. Once inside it was a pleasant, modern venue, the atmosphere happily buzzing with theatre-goers having a meal and a drink before their show. We found a booth and waiter service promptly appeared. We ordered a cocktail for her and a cider for me. We sat side by side in the booth and settled in to making small talk. Our conversation was positive and upbeat. She was quite an excitable person and that was before our drinks arrived. I guess it was her ADHD on show.
A couple of elderly men came over to us and asked if they could share the booth with us as the place was full. I was enjoying having the booth to ourselves so that we could hear each other. I wanted to keep it that way and in an instant decided to dismiss their request politely but firmly. Before I could say a word Musician Gal took charge of the situation and shooed them away with little ceremony, which they did not appreciate, given their mutterings. Musician Gal was an alpha female, but this didn’t bother me. Being with women who are timid and weak gets to be a drag very quickly if I’m having to initiate, organise, say and do every little thing.
We were both getting hungry and the drinks had gone down easily. As we were leaving, it was obvious to me what the path to the exit was and I went that way. Musician Gal was convinced it was another way and she separated from me. I knew I was right and kept going the correct route and through a dividing glass panel I could see her reach a dead-end in the restaurant. I waited for her to catch up to me, musing over her being headstrong, wondering if this was a sign of trouble ahead. I knew that she had not seen enough of me to trust my judgement, so I thought nothing of it. Musician Gal caught up to me, making a pithy excuse about what had happened. I said nothing and we made our way out on to the Southbank with her leaning heavily on my arm, hobbling more than earlier.
Intent on finding somewhere good to eat, we investigated a few of the dining options available to us. The rush-hour crowds had disappeared and the rain had abated. It was getting dark and I was getting hungry. The obvious choice of restaurants to my mind was a prominent pizzeria. Someone (probably another date) had told me that they did good pizzas in there, so I was curious to find out. Musician Gal wasn’t satisfied with this and we milled about looking at other places, which annoyed my hunger pangs a bit. Eventually she agreed that the pizzeria was the best option so we ended up back there.
She went off to the ladies, I ordered us drinks and when she returned we chose and ordered our pizzas. After some small talk about food and wine (one of her favourite topics) we got down to some serious talking. She described to me how she wanted her future to be. In great detail she told me how she wanted to be married and living in a house in the countryside somewhere, anywhere, as long as it had a good sized garden, preferably with a stream as one of it’s boundaries. There would be a dog and a cat involved.
“I would like to spend my days baking, cooking, sewing, making hats and jewellery. In the evenings we would sit in a hammock and drink wine. I wouldn’t go off to work unless I wanted to,” she says to me.
This last stipulation made me wonder if she was looking for a man with money. Musician Gal was obviously in the mood for some brutal honesty and started telling me about her previous relationships. This involved no prompting on my part and I was pleased by this unsolicited display of honesty. I took it to mean that she was taking me seriously and was wanting to lay her cards on the table.
She recounted a plethora of relationships and flings, all of which seemed very short-lived, but I made no comment on this for fear of seeming judgemental, so I just listened. Her longest relationship had lasted 5 years, which seems to be the norm nowadays. My last relationship had lasted that long too.
Of all the details she provided, the following story typifies what she told me. She met a colonel in the army. They saw each other for 6 months, but did not have sex in that time. He was posted to Afghanistan for a brief period in that time, after which he took her away on holiday twice. Once was to Australia and Singapore, with the second being South Africa. They stayed in hotels together, slept in the same bed and did not once make love. She says that towards the end of their time together, he proposed to her, but she was not inclined to say yes. This wasn’t the only story she told me that involved “seeing” someone for many months, but never actually made love.
What the fuck? Who does that?! What was she playing at? I didn’t ask her to elaborate, largely because I was mildly stunned and confused by this behaviour trait. I couldn’t help but wonder if she would do that with me.
The conversation moved on to more mundane topics and we’re having fun again. Banter flows like a wild river and we make each other laugh. Before we knew it we were the last patrons in the restaurant and staff were loudly closing up. We left and entered a darkened London, the Thames air cool and few people about. I walked her to London Bridge Station and in it’s cavernous concourse we found a quiet corner where we kissed like teenagers. She made negative comments about my light stubble giving her a rash, but I laughed this off. We bade our farewells and went to our respective platforms.
On the train home I mulled over the events, confessions rather, of the evening. Her relationship style and history didn’t sit too well with me, but given my shenanigans of the past year, I couldn’t get judgemental. I appreciated her honesty. She seemed quite headstrong and I could see us having blazing fights. Nevertheless I still wanted to see more of her and get to know her. There was a serious prospect of a relationship with her and I was excited about that. Yes, I wanted to fuck her, dodgy knee and all. So doggy-style was out of the question. No big deal, lots of positions in my repertoire. There is no way that a normal man, let alone a man like me, would want to have a relationship with a woman that he did not find attractive. That lust factor just has to be there and with Musician Gal it’s there, along with that elusive electric chemistry.
When I got home she had sent me a text message which read:
“Fabulous evening, handsome man. Hope you didn’t have too much of a trek home? I would love to be lying on your chest right now xxx”
During the date we had made a plan to get together on the coming weekend. It was my town’s farmer’s market on the Sunday and I wanted to do my usual cooking-for-a-woman thing. Career Girl was away for work the coming weekend so I decided to speed things up and my text message read:
“The market is only on on the Sunday. Naughty idea: I come and fetch you Saturday, saving your knee for a stroll. That night I make you a risotto. I introduce you to Californication, which you will want to watch all night. When tired you slump against me, my cue to carry you to bed. I wrap my arms around you to keep you safe and warm. We do not make love. In the morning we get to the market early and then I or we prepare what we bought. The weekend ends with me driving you home in my sports car…what you reckon? How does that sound?”
Her response: “Super!!!! Xxx”
I was totally sincere about not making love on our first night together. I can and have done that. I did, however, want to make love to her and was thinking it would be on the Sunday at some point. On the Thursday I sent her my “converter message”, the one that ramps up the sexual tension to breaking point for a woman, the one that ends “…I reckon you taste sweeter than you realize...”
I was blown away by her response which arrived 23 minutes later.
“I’m looking forward to the hugs, lying in your strong embrace and feeling the power of your body which essentially does it for me; I love the power of man. Get it right and I’ll be putty in your hands. Ps warning: I am not a morning person. Meow! X”
I had seen that photo somewhere before. She was wearing a black tophat, her chin lifted and in profile with an imperious look in her eye. Natural long blonde hair draped her neck and shoulders. It was the end of August and I had come across a dating site that was “skinned” for a famous newspaper. This means it was a single database of profiles with various websites using it, but with a “skin” that was in keeping with each website.
Her narrative spoke of a happy person who had done adventurous things in her life. She claimed to have old-fashioned values and hinted at wanting to be a home-maker. Travel was important to her. The five photos included were all clear and tasteful too. I liked the look of her; she was pretty and, of course, blonde. There wasn’t anything in her profile that I did not like, so I wrote to her at lunchtime, not really expecting a response.
Later that night she wrote back. It was an open and honest reply, far longer and serious than a regular first message from a woman. She said that she hoped to be married and living in the countryside one day. This took me aback a little and made me think about my own position on marriage. She also wanted to see more than one photo of me as my profile only had one. She boldly stated “I love a fit man…no exceptions!”
She knew exactly what she was about and wanted. Nor was she afraid to ask for what she wanted – I liked that. The next morning I uploaded more pictures of me on to my profile and wrote a short message to her. I replied in a non-committal way to her assertion about marriage with: “For the record, I have no objection to marriage. It’s a fine institution. Some of my friends might say I’m just about ready for an institution.”
The next morning, a Saturday, a very lengthy reply was waiting for me. She told me of her passion for travel, her love of food and her yearning to live in the countryside. She told me of her job, her hobbies and sporting interests. She detailed her exercise habits and said that she was going to have an operation on her left knee in October. It all sounded like she was a wonderful match for me. I had been in this position before and knew not to get my hopes up. People in person are almost always very different from their profile and email persona. I did very much want to meet her.
The next day, the Sunday, I wrote a reciprocal response and over the course of the day we exchanged several open and honest messages. She told me that she was a trombone player and practised with a band every week. I decided to call her “Musician Gal” in my mind. We described our perfect days, which were remarkably similar, involving walks in the country, great lunches, bathing and then falling asleep together. We were getting along well via email, so I suggested that we meet and gave her my mobile number.
There was no response and the conversation died. It seemed to me that she was just another woman looking for attention via the safety of a computer screen. At the merest mention of actually meeting in person they baulk and run away, scared like little girls being summoned behind the bike sheds by an older boy. I knew enough not to pursue her, otherwise I would come across as desperate. In nature, if you run at a wild animal, it will run away. So it is with women too. I knew also that the best course of action was inaction tempered with patience. These two concepts do not come naturally to me. A part of me also did not expect to hear from her again.
A few days went by and then on a cool Wednesday night my phone rang. It was Musician Gal, walking over Westminster Bridge after work, seemingly in the mood for a chat and, to my mind, a screening phone call. Her voice was deeper and more strident than what I expected. She oozed confidence and I could tell that she was a high-energy person, but all that might be bravado and nervousness. We chatted about nothing in particular and were like two heavy-weight boxers in a ring, manoeuvring around each other, careful not to show a moment of weakness, but keen to make an impact when the opportunity presented itself.
The small talk was going well and I thought it the right time to suggest that we get together. I had not come across as a weirdo or prat and before I inadvertently did, no matter how subtly, I just had to make my move. She thought about it for a split second and said “How about tomorrow night?” I like a decisive woman. Dithering and agonising over getting together is such a turn-off. The point of internet dating is the “dating” bit, is it not?
Could she be The One?
Thursday 5th September and I’m standing outside my regular spot outside Tower Hill Tube station. I swear that some of the tourists looked familiar, I’ve been there that often in the past year. It was a pleasant evening with a light breeze clearing the air. Summer was leaving us and I knew this night might be one of the last for al fresco dining. I had my mind set on the Dickens Inn yet again. Why not? It’s familiar ground and a great setting. All the other girls were impressed by it. It certainly was a safe bet.
Several women who looked like Musician Gal had arrived, loitered, fiddled with their phones, checked their look and then met up with someone. There were a couple of women who looked like older versions of her and I so hoped that they weren’t her. I just don’t have a poker face and the disappointment on my face would be noticeable if my date’s appearance was not to my liking.
You know that feeling? That strange inexplicable feeling that someone was looking at you? I looked instinctively to my left and locked eyes with Musician Gal. My inner dialogue couldn’t help but blurt out “Oh, YES!”. She was lovelier than I imagined. Her pictures didn’t do her justice. Musician Gal WAS pretty and obviously a natural blonde, there were no hints of dark roots. Her profile did state that she was 5 foot 4 inches tall, but I was surprised by the difference in our height as she was shorter than I had imagined. Her body was neither slim nor over-weight and there was a hint of boobage. She was elegantly dressed in a cream-coloured ladies suit with a small handbag draped over one shoulder and was carrying what looked like a laptop bag in one hand.
She was coming out of the Tube station and was leaning on a hand railing with her free hand in an attempt to help herself up the few stairs before her. Our eyes unlocked and she looked down at the stairs in front of her. I could see obvious discomfort flash momentarily across her face as she pulled herself up. Her knee condition was pretty serious.
I traipsed down the few stairs in front of me to meet her. My heart was pounding and I was excited in the right way. Could she finally be The One? She certainly looked the part. I think we all carry a vague impression in our minds eye of what kind of person we find physically attractive. Almost all of us have a “type” that we are irresistibly drawn to. Musician Gal was my “type”. I could quite easily imagine how she felt under me, as I splayed her legs open with my thighs and rested my weight on my elbows, kissing passionately as I slid my penis in to her moist pussy. Physical attraction is not a choice, it’s a reaction that we can’t control. Either it’s there or it isn’t. For the first time in a long time, since Krazy Gal in March in fact, it was there – it was before me.
We met on the landing and I uttered something before kissing her on each cheek. She was smiling. It was a genuine happy smile. I took that to mean that she liked the look of me too. Presumptuous perhaps, but I’ve been on a enough dates to know. I looked at the long steps below us that lead to St Katharines Dock and suggested that we follow the road that lead to Tower Bridge as that had a gentle decline. Before I could offer to do the gentlemanly thing by way of offering her my arm, she grabbed it and leaned gently on it. This was out of necessity as it was obvious to me that her knee was causing her pain.
Arm in arm we hobbled past the numerous sets of traffic lights when it was safe to cross the road. To my relief, light and pleasant conversation came easily to us, but she seemed more nervous than me. We arrived at a set of stairs on the approach to Tower Bridge that lead down to the restaurants on the outskirts of St Katharine Docks. Musician Gal seemed apprehensive, so I offered to carry her down. Naturally she guffawed and declined my offer, but I was dead serious. Instead she suggested that I walk in front of her and one step down so that she could lean on my shoulder. Like that we hobbled down about 20 stairs.
I mentioned to Musician Gal that I had the Dickens Inn in mind as where we would eat. Her neck stiffened and her face showed disapproval. I couldn’t help think that her reaction was borne out of some past experience there. A really bad date or a favourite haunt of an ex-boyfriend perhaps? I wasn’t going to ask. A French-themed restaurant chain had a branch to the right of where we were standing. She suggested that we stopped off there for pre-dinner drinks. I got the impression that she didn’t want to walk further than was necessary.
The greeter at the front of the restaurant took us to a table outside and away from the noisy crowds that were starting to form in the area. There were several other eateries with outside space occupied by people standing drinking or sitting and eating. A quiet space was at a premium and I would have preferred the much quieter Dickens Inn. Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to make a fuss and decided that when the noise level became a problem that we would move on for food elsewhere.
I noticed that the greeter had a South African accent, so I started a quick conversation in Afrikaans with her. She was astounded to have a random punter suddenly speaking her native tongue. Musician Gal was smiling and bemused. I did this deliberately not because it is polite to engage in conversation with a fellow ex-South African, but I wanted to see how my date dealt with the situation. Would she be put out that I was talking to another woman in a language that she did not understand? Would she deal with it in good grace? It was the latter.
Musician Gal selected an Australian voignier and her knowledge of wine impressed me. In fact, everything about her had so far impressed me. She was attractive, well groomed, positive, lively, confident, well mannered and easy to talk to. She seemed very interested in me, which I deduced from how she spoke to me, how she looked at me and what she asked about. Just her asking questions in itself was a very good sign. We were off to a good start.
The conversation flowed easily and involved the usual first date topics of conversation. Safe topics such as work history, travel experiences, favourite films and books, memorable pop concerts and living in London all showed a lot of common ground and indicated no obvious or serious issues that could be deal-breakers. Drinking chilled wine during sunset was going down well and we became a little tactile, with little touches on forearms to emphasize a point, or her playfully slapping me on the shoulder if I said something cheeky. The intensity of this first date was increasing at a sure and steady pace; it was all heading in the right direction. We obviously fancied each other and were getting along well.
Stars in the skies were coming on and the bottle of wine had evaporated. It was only when a gregarious waiter came along did we realise we needed some food. After briefly agreeing to stay where we were for dinner, we quickly scanned the menu and ordered what we felt like. A noticeable breeze had picked up and we were exposed to it, so we moved around a corner to a wind-sheltered area that was more secluded, quieter and private. By now I found myself wondering what it would be like to kiss her.
She was talkative and lively and was one of the most confident women I had ever met. I liked all that. I find it hard work to always be the one to make conversation and to decide things. I wanted an equal partner who wasn’t afraid to make decisions, nor reluctant to say what she wanted.
The conversation started to turn serious when she told me that she had ADHD. My godson has the condition so I knew a little about it. It explained her high-energy, upbeat demeanour. She told me how her brain worked differently to other people’s. She told me about her learning difficulties and her hyperactive nature. I did pause for a moment to consider whether I could live with a hyperactive person. I’m inclined to say “not”, but I didn’t say that to her. I had meant it when I wrote on my profile that “I’m not perfect, nor do I expect my other half to be perfect. What I do expect is that when we’re together, it all feels perfect.” However, was this something I could put up with in a relationship? I would have to think about it…more information required.
Our starters arrived and we were both hungrier than we realized. Conversation died down as we ate, but we did maintain eye contact. ADHD or not, I knew that I wanted to kiss her that night. We took turns feeding each other morsels from our respective plates. We had both chosen well, the food was good. Uncharacteristically I ordered another bottle of the same wine that we had just finished. I say it’s uncharacteristic for me because I normally don’t drink so much on a date, but that night felt different. It felt like we could spend the entire night there, talking, laughing, occasionally touching, just enjoying each other’s company.
After a few more minutes of banter, our main courses arrived. Like a couple who had seen many Summers together, we shared what we had on our plates. We were that comfortable with each other within hours of first meeting. What happens when two grounded, confident people meet? I was finding out.
Once we had finished our dinner under the stars, the conversation became more subdued, vulnerable even. I judged her demeanour to be calm, relaxed and her natural defences for a first date were down. I couldn’t resist the urge and leaned over, cupped her head with my left hand and gently pulled her towards me. There was a moment’s resistance and hesitation on her part, surprise largely I would guess, but she came forward and our lips locked. Hers were soft, moist…and surprisingly muscular. She was a trombone player after all and it showed.
I love that moment when I have a first kiss with a woman. Everything around me disappears. Even sound seems to stand still. It’s as if the entire planet has frozen, awaiting the outcome. An instant hush takes hold and time stands still, just for us.
I had read somewhere to not be the first to use the tongue when kissing, but instead wait for the woman to do so. I ignored this advice and gave a gentle prod with my tongue against her bottom teeth, a little teaser. The response was instantaneous and powerful. Her tongue came to life in the forefront of my mouth and it was strong…that trombone again. It brought back memories of the time my mouth was raped by the Baltic Babe.
We parted and she was smiling, half pleased, half surprised. I think she liked my act of confidence. We sipped our wine and made some small talk, not referring to what had just happened. Then I had a naughty idea. I took a mouthful of wine, but didn’t swallow. I leaned over to her again, no hand involved this time and she came forward willingly, oblivious as to what I was about to do. Again our lips locked, but after a few seconds I slowly widened my mouth and let a little wine slip out into her mouth. She was surprised, making a muffled sound, but didn’t disengage. I slowly released the rest of the wine in my mouth in to hers and she seemed to accept it eagerly. I could feel her body rising in response to what was happening to her. Was I turning her on?
We sat back, both smiling. I think she was feeling a gamut of emotions. I’m sure that she was having fun; I was. The South African greeter arrived to see if we wanted dessert. I looked around to see that the hordes of people had struck their bargains for the night and had left. The wind might have blown some of them away, but a few die-hard couples were stilling resolutely chatting away, scattered in the exposed open areas. Musician Gal decided to excuse herself and visit the ladies room. I chatted with my compatriot until my date returned who also joined in the conversation, which switched into English. I was paying attention to how she spoke to the greeter. I had learned to observe how a date treats someone who is powerless before them. It’s an indicator as to how they will behave towards you in a relationship. Musician Gal was polite, respectful and affable.
We declined dessert and the greeter left us. It was getting late and the wine needed finishing. We imbibed and she leaned over to me. I suspected what was coming and went along with it. We kissed and she poured wine in to my mouth. The sincerest form of flattery is imitation, is it not?
Sitting back, laughing, I asked a waiter for the bill. I knew it was time to bring the evening to an end. The night could have lasted forever as far as I was concerned, but I knew then already that there would be other nights such as this with my Musician Gal. Perhaps even many.
I walked her to the Docklands Light Railway station at Tower Gateway. We stood at the foot of the escalators, kissing freely, without inhibition and passionately. She had a thing about being hugged. She wanted to fit snugly in a man’s chest as he held her. It was time for her acid test. I wrapped my arms around her back and held her close against me. She fitted me well. It all felt good and natural.
Not wanting the evening to end there, like that, I escorted her to her train that was waiting. I stood on the platform and she inside the doorway of the carriage. I don’t remember how it came to be, but I found myself pulling her blouse towards me with my index finger and peering down in to her cleavage. I think having had a bottle of wine each was starting to have an effect. The train started making a beeping noise, so we kissed one last time and said good night.
I walked to trusty Tower Hill Tube station in a wonderful frame of mind accompanied by a fuzzy feeling all over my body. No, it wasn’t the alcohol, it was the cumulative effect of the entire night. It was one of my best dates ever and I really liked Musician Gal. I could see the potential of a relationship with her. It was a scary and exciting notion, all in one. Had I finally found what I had been looking for for so long?
The next day she sent me a text message which simply read:
“I did think we could talk for hours which was a really good sign! X”
I responded elaborately with:
“Agreed. Apparently I’m a 98% match for you. What a dreary day. If we were many months in to a relationship and it was a weekend…I’d put Top Gun on my big telly, we’d snuggle under a blankie and feed each other popcorn, occasionally sipping fine wine…my bodyheat warming you. Decadent, huh?”
“Many months?! Weeks! X”
The coming weekend Musician Gal was going to New York and only returning on Tuesday but suggested that we meet that night. Career Girl was returning on Monday and she has asked if we could go out together that night. There was also someone new who I would be meeting on Tuesday. Before all that happened the Sunday was my birthday and I had lustful plans of revenge for my Exgf.