I was browsing my Happy Humping Ground dating website in the middle of 2014 having just ended it with Busty Blonde when I spotted a face that equalled perfection in my mind. It was desire of all kinds at first sight. Her profile was short but enticing, I just knew that I’d be seeing her one day…I just knew. However, always the pragmatist I told myself that the likelihood of her writing back to me was small because she’s new on the site and probably swamped with emails from guys. I’ll give it a little time and then make more of an impact once she’s dealt with the clowns that descend on a new profile like piranhas to a swimming tapir.
I then become embroiled with The Brazilian, The Saffa, The Busty Czech and The Cockaholic and go on other dates. Time flies by and I still think of her every time I think of that dating site. Over Xmas 2014 the site gives me a free weekend of messaging and I decide to make contact with her. I was disappointed to see that her profile had disappeared. I make contact with a few other prospects but nothing comes of it.
It doesn’t matter because I’m still bewildered by my experience with The MILF of Xmas and all my raunchy but soul-sapping dating experiences before that. I drunkenly step up to verge of suicide and in splendid isolation fight my own demons for a while.
I forget about her and the site until one night at the end of January 2015 I spot her on Tinder, but we didn’t match. I’m surprised to see her on there, but I guess Tinder is mainstream now.
It’s now late February 2015 and I’m disenchanted with online dating, especially the free sites. Looking at my spreadsheet of my dating history, I can clearly see that 80% of my dates off free sites were bad ones and 80% off paid-for sites were good dates. I hide my free dating site profiles and unhide my profiles on Happy Humping Ground and the national newspaper’s dating site.
On the Happy Humping Ground I’m pleased to see that the profile that captured my attention is back online. I notice too that the website has introduced an innovation whereby users can ‘like’ each other’s photos. I ‘like’ her main photo, the one I find mesmerising, add her profile to my ‘favourites’ and leave it at that. There’s no guarantee she’ll notice my attention nor even act on it. I go exploring other profiles on the website, not expecting to hear anything from her.
A couple of hours later my blood turns cold and my face drops when I see that she’s sent me a message, but I can’t read it because I’m not a subscriber. I instantly decide to subscribe, but first I do a search to find a discount code because this site is getting pricey. I can’t let this opportunity pass me by. I’ll always wonder what could have been.
Her message simply reads, “Thank you for liking my photo.”
I find it underwhelming, but I haven’t subscribed for nothing. I want to at least meet her, I’m that taken with her. I do a Google Images search and find out her name, her job and her Facebook account. She’s almost five years younger than me. A photo on Facebook hints that she has enormous breasts, g-cup minimum. All her photos of herself are of her with a tight-lipped smile. Does she have bad teeth, I wonder? Something that bothers me a little is that her eyes are almost lifeless and sad if I really study them. I think they suggest a history of hurt, so I know to proceed slowly with her. Is she another Misery?
I find out what kind of art she specializes in and it’s not too far removed from my own passing interest in that genre. She even lectures on the subject in London. So, she’s a teacher of kinds; that means she’ll be a bit intense if my other experiences with teachers are anything to go by. I decide to message her and ask what art she is into and tell her of my passing interest in something similar.
I think of her as The Artist.
My ruse works, she’s intrigued and a flurry of messages ping-pong across the internet all Sunday afternoon. Every time one of her messages comes in, my heart skips a beat. It feels almost like I’m starting dating again and it feels good. I suggest meeting up and she agrees, so we fix a day and swap phone numbers. I send her a text message and she quickly responds. We’re set to meet on Wednesday, which feels like an eternity away. Conversing with her feels good. I can’t wait to meet her.
On Monday morning I get the idea in my head to talk to her on the phone. I’m aware that I might be getting carried away here so I want a reality check. I send her a text message suggesting that we talk in the evening. I’ve never been a fan of a so-called ‘screening call’. In my dating experience nothing good has ever come from it, yet I feel the need to do so with The Artist.
An hour later she responds with a firm “I’m not a fan of phone-calls with strangers.” Her response surprises me and reminds me of Baltic Babe in its directness and frankness. Not necessarily a bad thing in my book as it shows some strength of character. I back-peddle, make a joke about wanting to see if she had a deeper voice than me and press on with fixing a place to meet on Wednesday. Have I blown it?
No, she’s still interested and asks me to suggest where to meet. I take the lead and suggest my tried and tested spot outside Tower Hill Tube station. I’ve taken so many other dates to St Katharine Docks, why not her too? It’ll help my performance if it’s on familiar ground. I respond with, “I’m going to take you to my favourite place in the world…”
Her response starts with “That sounds exciting…”
Is she as sweet as she seems or is she bored and just using dating as a social outlet, pampering her ego by having men buy her meals and drinks, like many women on the dating scene seem to do? Time will tell.
Am I seeing what’s there, or am I projecting what I want? In recent dates I’ve paid more attention to the build-up to the first date. I’ve tried to make it feel more like a romance that is is unfolding, trying to make a fairytale come true, just in case whoever I’m interacting with is The One.
I keep telling myself that she’s highly unlikely to be The One, that she’s too artsy-fartsy for me. That she’s too high-brow for me and I’m just a bit of rough in her world. However, the heart wants what the heart wants. The last time I was this excited about meeting someone was Krazy Girl, almost two years ago to this day.
It feels like I’ve come full circle, going to the dating website where it all began 32 months ago. I’m concerned that I’m becoming desperate to find love. I know I’m in the danger zone where it’s easy to make a mistake, a mistake to get involved with somebody all wrong for me or a mistake while pursuing someone so right for me. I know that tomorrow I’ll need to draw on all my skills and experience to deliver the correct image of a polished man. I must at all costs avoid coming across as desperate.
For some reason this feels like a date with destiny. It’s possibly desperation on my part kicking in, but I like to think that I know a good thing when I see it.
Could she be The One?
To be continued…
I got thumbing through Tinder and one of the pretty faces that I liked was a match. I checked out her other photos now that Tinder only let’s you see their primary pic. The other photos did not inspire me at all, she’s a brunette who experiments with lighter hair colours, but she has a lengthy profile which in itself is novel for a woman on Tinder. Her words tell of someone multi-cultural, speaking numerous languages, is well travelled and interesting-sounding.
I decide to message her the next day and she responds. Over the course of the week we swap single messages at night, hers usually later than mine. We get a bit of banter going and she seems cheeky and fun. She was born in the Soviet Union and that has a curious fascination for me, always has ever since Baltic Babe. I become concerned that she’s fishing for a man with an EU passport but she tells me that has her own British passport. How did she come by that? Is she another Randy Russian who indulged in a marriage of convenience? She could be interesting to meet for a date. I suggest this and she agrees. Apparently fluent in six languages, I think of her as The Cultural Allsorts.
Could she be The One?
We meet in the concourse of a busy Tube station in the centre of London on a Sunday at noon. She asked for this location because she was having to go off somewhere else and could only spare me an hour. I’ve got to the point in my dating life when an hour is all I need to know whether I want to see someone again. A lunchtime coffee date works for me.
She is a quarter of an hour late which is never a good start considering she was impressing on me beforehand how short of time she was. At first sight I don’t like the look of her. Her photographs flatter her facially, although in a radical departure from convention, she is slimmer than in her pics. I had got there early and scouted around in the neighbourhood, finding several chain coffee shops that were relatively empty. Perfect for a quick and quiet conversation I thought.
Oh no, she had her own ideas about where she wanted to go and we ended up in the most upmarket coffee shop I’ve been to in my life. I’m open to new things so I didn’t mind. Coffee and cake, how difficult could it be? With her, very.
She was brought up in a Soviet Union republic and her family emigrated to America the first chance they got. Consequently she has retained the fussiness of Eastern European women and acquired the gastronomic moon-on-stick mentality of an American. I felt sorry for our young waiter whom she had running backwards and forwards to find out everything that she needed to know before making a decision. She reminded me of Baltic Babe; a pain to eat out with. This was not a good start.
Eventually she browbeat the hapless waiter into having the chef prepare something that wasn’t on the menu. I want and need to be with someone who is easy-going, a pleasure to be around, someone who invigorates me, not drains me. This woman will never be the wind in my sails, more like the torpedo in my hull.
“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, idly curious about her level of sexual energy.
“I love spicy food,” she replies.
Okay, good to know. I wouldn’t think her a sexual dynamo but you can’t tell from looks, but I’ve learned you can from how spicy a woman likes her food.
We start talking about travel, places we’ve liked and still want to visit. She has an affinity for Brazil and it strikes me that she could even pass for Brazilian. She has mixed colour hair and in most of her profile photos she’s a brunette. One of the reasons I wanted to come on this date is to see just how much of a difference there is with dating brunettes. My date of Friday night with Tall Gal, also a brunette, did not reveal much in that regard.
Expounding our work experiences reveals that we’ve worked for the same banks in London, just at different times. I get the impression that she’s a bit of an intellectual and academic. She works in high finance and is deliberately modest about that because she probably doesn’t want to intimidate men, who I think would be intimidated by her job. Not me though as it takes a lot to impress or scare me nowadays.
Of course Life doesn’t miss the opportunity to fuck with me. At the table next to us is sitting just the type of pretty blonde that I find irresistible. Her and I make eye contact a few times when The Cultural Allsorts is looking away. That’s the sort of girl I should be talking to. I’m still struck by how shallow I am; I want to look at the woman in front of me and go “wow” in my head periodically. I want to feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world to be with her. I am now quite aware that if the lust factor isn’t there, everything else doesn’t matter. I just have to fancy the women I’m sharing my life with. Please don’t judge me, instead feel sorry for me, because this issue has probably led to my passing over perfectly good women.
Earlier, on my train journey into London, a young couple sat in my four-seat arrangement. Her and I had made eye-contact the moment they got on the train and he led her to sit where they did. He sat next to me while she sat diagonally opposite me. They were obviously a couple but I caught her sneaking little peeks at me. She was lovely and just what I want looks-wise. It was flattering but again it reminded how important this factor is to me.
So now in the coffee shop is an even more attractive blonde. Is Life teasing me, taunting me or is it guiding me, reminding me? I see these pretty little blondes whenever I go out, but very rarely do I find them on dating sites. Where do you go to my lovely? What must I do to meet a girl like you?
Conversation with The Cultural Allsorts rolls around culture and history so it’s almost inevitable that I find myself regaling her with a bit of history that I know. In this instance it’s about Cecil John Rhodes and from the serious amount of ear-lobe playing that it results in it becomes evident that she is loving what I’m saying. Hmm, is she another sapiophile?
I don’t actually care and even if she asked me to go home with her right now, I’d decline the offer. I’m totally disinterested in her, not just because I don’t fancy her, but also because I don’t feel any kind of chemistry. Her demanding behaviour when it came to ordering food also told me all about her relationship style that I need to know.
Despite the waiter’s best efforts and kitchen staff’s willingness to please, The Cultural Allsorts has only eaten a quarter of what she asked for. The rest is going to waste. If I fancied my date I would employ impeccable table manners, but seeing as I knew that I would never ever be seeing her again, I asked if I could finish her food which looked sumptuous. My coffee and tiramisu had merely served as an appetiser.
The pretty blonde at the table next to us gets up to leave and knocks her empty coffee cup over onto the table. We all look and the blonde guffaws before saying something to me that I don’t hear properly because I’m just too damn busy making the most of the opportunity to look at her fully. If she asked me to go home with her I’d call a taxi cab and incentivise the driver to be speedy.
Although she only allocated me an hour of her day, the date has lasted more than an hour and a half. I guess she must be enjoying herself? Hard to tell really but then she says, “I’m sorry, but I really need to get going now.”
I help The Cultural Allsorts with her coat and say my usual, “My mother brought me up funny,” just in case she was a totally liberated Westernised woman who found such things as overbearing or chauvinistic.
“Your mother brought you up right. It’s good,” she says. I’m pleased to hear that my old-fashioned manners are still appreciated in some quarters.
We walk to the nearby Tube station and I decide to be naughty by standing on the escalator in front of her so that we’re of the same height. She takes a step back. Ah, she’s not attracted to me I conclude. That’s fine, I was wondering. At a second set of escalators I do it again and again she takes a step back. Inwardly I laugh to myself but continue making small talk with her.
We’re both using the same train-line but going in different directions. I politely kiss her goodbye on both cheeks and say, “It was nice to meet you,” which she parrots back to me.
On the train home I delete Tinder from my phone. No more Tinderellas for me.
The date wasn’t a total waste of time. I don’t think brunettes are any different to blondes. I liked the way that Life reminded me of my curious magnetic attraction to blondes and I shall revert to this being my primary selection filter.
A good thing too, because my date tomorrow night is with a blonde.
Peter Sarstedt ~ Where Do You Go To My Lovely
When I was seeing Busty Blonde, Travel Gal and going on one-off dates with the two Russians at the end of 2013, I got an email off the newspaper site from an intriguing blonde. I had enough to contend with, so I responded with “Sorry, I’m not looking for anyone right now.” The biggest problems I had with her was that she was two years older than me and seemed a little flat-chested; other than that she met the paper-based criteria I have. As I write this it’s a year ago all that was happening.
A couple of months after I had finished with Busty Blonde I remembered this intriguing blonde as I clicked through the newspaper website, seeing who’s new and what’s changed. Her profile was exactly the same as before and she had recently been online. It had recently occurred to me that the dates who contacted me first tended to result in a higher quality of interaction. I used the free one-liner chat-up facility to see if she might still be single and interested in lil’ ol’ me. The next day she checked out my profile but didn’t respond. Hers was the only profile on the site that was of interest to me, but her lack of response told me that there was no point in subscribing.
Now fast forward six months to just after Christmas 2014 and matters between me and the MILF of Xmas have ground to a shuddering halt. The newspaper dating site has given me a free one week subscription and the intriguing blonde was the first thought that popped into my mind. I had nothing to lose so I wrote a polite approach email, not really expecting to hear back from her.
The next day she writes back with a lengthy, wordy response that I like the tone of. She even has the foresight to provide an email address, which impresses me. It also tells me that she really wants to be in touch with me. Just from her choice of words I can tell that we’ll get along, at least in the conversation stakes. Will we have chemistry? Will that all-important lust factor be there?
She only has three photographs in her profile, one of which stirs something in my soul, no, not my loins. It’s a photo of her in a light-blue cardigan, her golden blonde hair loose around her shoulders and a daring look in her eyes. It’s a wholesome her with a hint of naughtiness. That photo makes me want to step up to her, put a hand on her hip and with my other hand cup the back of her head, feeling her hair resting on the back of my hand and then stoop down to give her a gentle kiss that makes her body go weak.
Her primary photo is of her dressed in formal attire, presumably heading off for a day at the races and it makes her look so prim and proper that she looks dorky. Not as good look. The third photo is of her holding up a wine glass at some Xmas party or industry awards event. She’s smartly dressed, but her face is partially obscured behind the glass. The tone of that picture tells me that she is social but can be guarded. Are those the most prominent sides to her personality? Does one of those prevail and if so, which one?
The content in her profile speaks of someone who likes variety (same as me) and has an interest in high-brow matters. Her favourite television show is a political satire. She claims to like a good debate, something that doesn’t sit too well with me, but I can hold my own. In the past this has indicated an argumentative personality. I wonder if she’s a sapiophile – a woman whose knickers get wet when talking to an intelligent man?
I write to her personal email address and she responds. All very positive so far, but at the time I’m contemplating suicide. Not the best of mindsets to be in when meeting someone new. My heart isn’t in it really, I’m just going through the motions to an extent.
It’s New Year’s Eve, so I don’t write back, having learned that it’s best to pace things slowly at first, then to increase the level of attention as the day of the first date draws near. She then writes again, on New Year’s Day, asking if I had got her previous email. She’s either really keen or a little intense with OCD tendencies. There’s a reason she’s single, after all, so what might it be?
I give her my mobile number in an email and she responds with hers. We’ve agreed to meet this coming Saturday and I’m looking forward to it. I’m intrigued by her. I connect with her on WhatsApp and suggest we chat. It’s been a while since I’ve done that and I’m thinking nowadays that it’s still a good screening mechanism. I’ll treat this as an experiment. Given that she is Date #52, the harsh reality is that she’s unlikely to be The One.
Her email address has her full name so I Google that; it’s a popular name. There’s a lack of photos and through a process of elimination and findings on the internet I arrive at the conclusion that she’s a lawyer. That doesn’t sit well with me. Baltic Babe and Lusty Lass were both lawyers and Miss Indecisive worked in law. All were intense, rigid-minded individuals for whom fun was a luxury. Could she be different? Time will tell.
I’m really looking forward to this date. Could she be The One?
Not likely, but one day it’ll happen. It could be said that it’s overdue. However, if I am right in that she’s a lawyer, then I’m a little uneasy because I’ve seen her type before. Country Girl, Musician Gal and Pretty Teacher come to mind in that they were all ‘independent’ and married to their jobs. She is likely to be what I call a ‘London girl’, someone brought up on the idea of being an independent woman, secretly carrying an adversarial attitude towards men, bordering on disrespectful.
I’m going to make a concerted effort to lean back in my seat at the dinner table and see how long it takes for her to lean forward. That’s my little challenge for myself, just to keep my dating skills sharp and fresh.
The night before our date she cancels, citing work. I take her explanation with a pinch of salt. Nevertheless she makes a concerted effort to keep in touch via email and text messages. Apparently she’s working on a big deal at work. I noticed in the business news that her employer is involved in one of the biggest takeovers in British corporate history. My faith in her is restored.
Weeks of excuses go by, but I’m not bothered about this because I’m getting my own act together. I need to be in a better frame of mind if I am to find and makes the most of what and who I am looking for. Perhaps all of these delays are happening as part of a greater divine scheme so that when we meet it’s all just perfect? It might be a case of my suffering is going to be rewarded?
Towards the end of January we eventually meet. Some things will never change it seems.
Her photos are at least five years old. I wouldn’t have recognised her if it wasn’t for her walking up to me outside Tower Hill Tube station. That familiar feeling of deflation took its usual place in my being. As we walk to St. Katharine Dock I am struck by how upbeat and lively she is, a pleasant surprise, but I guess my spending weeks by myself in a morose state will eventually have an effect. I’m pretty sure that she likes the look of me given how friendly and tactile she is. We sit down to lunch in the Dickens Inn, but she isn’t interested in food or drink, only in talking to me. It feels like a replay of that first date with Brazilian.
We are definitely an intellectual match and I enjoy talking to her, but I just don’t fancy her. She is too old and wrinkly for me to feel physically attracted to her. We have much in common, want the same things from life – someone to hold hands with when we’re really old and decrepit – both love to travel, exploring strange lands, learning interesting things for ourselves, cooking exotic foods, etc.
Yes, I was right, she is a corporate lawyer, but I didn’t let that stand in the way of anything. She is also very flat-chested, something that would probably bother me more and more as time went by. In terms of personality she is wonderful: open, gregarious, fair-minded and funny.
I think of her as the Lovely Lawyer.
Conversation flows easily, but at times I feel myself getting a little too negative in terms of what we are discussing. She didn’t seem to mind and is often flicking her hair which denotes physical attraction and playing with her ears which speaks of intellectual pleasure. She is indeed a sapiophile and loves getting to the crux of a topic. I spot her nipples hardening under her pale blue cardigan as we discuss the state of the economy. I would have been happy to spend the rest of the day talking to her, but I think that speaks more of my loneliness than anything else.
The Lovely Lawyers starts telling me about her relationship history. It’s quite similar to mine in that she has had a weakness for and a knack of becoming involved with people who are wrong for her. In essence our issue is the same: we want to be loved more than anything else. I sense that she is capable of the kind of love I have to offer and seek in return. Like me, she can revel in love at the expense of everything else, usually at great expense. She could very much be the quintessential woman in love; a rarity in my experience.
It’s such a shame that I don’t fancy her, otherwise she’d be perfect. I really like her personality, but I’ve tried with Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde to look past the lack of lust and it just doesn’t work for me. It’s so sad and I get a little choked up about it. Perfectly good, decent women I am having to pass over knowing full well that I can trust and respect them.
That wow factor HAS to be there, it doesn’t work for me otherwise. I don’t want to go hurting and damaging a great person by trying to do what I know I can’t do. So, Stupid Boy here is growing up and learning to resist what he knows is wrong for him. I’m not going to hurt another innocent woman; I’ve done more than enough of that.
I can tell that she’s happy to spend the rest of the day with me and an earlier version of me would have done so, but I’m more mindful of the other person I’m meeting nowadays. I don’t want to give her the wrong idea and let her get her hopes up. I’m also not at my best right now, so even if I did fancy her, she would run the risk of becoming enamoured with someone who is going to change in the near-future.
Lunch ends and Lovely Lawyers suggests going across the way to a comfortable-looking coffee shop, but I take the opportunity to end the encounter. Her face shows her disappointment, but I think that is better than her becoming embroiled with me. I’ll be a cannonball that she’s dodged, she just doesn’t know it.
The next day I send her my standard ‘thanks, but no thanks’ email message. She responds with words of disappointment.
Meeting her has restored my faith in women to a small extent.
My search continues.
Barbra Streisand-Woman In Love
I swore to myself that there would be no more dates this year. The experiences with The Cockaholic and The Saffa has left me uneasy with dating. Worse still I’m starting to give up on the fanciful notion of love. In a fit of boredom one night before switching the light out, now a week after ending things with The Cockaholic, I go onto Tinder and within minutes match with someone who is five years younger and ever so cute. I think about it and decide to do nothing. Why bother? I think I know how this will end: either being ghosted or disappointed. The next morning, I realize that I’m in no position to let opportunities pass me by.
I fire off a message and not long afterwards she responds. She seems to want to discuss things, which indicates a cautious nature, but could also indicate a combative style of relationship, constant adversity is what she gets her kicks from. How do I tell? I can’t, this mindset is brought on by my recent encounters, I know this but I can’t help it.
On Friday she suggests a place to meet the next day and asks me what time suits me. I respond within minutes and I don’t hear from her for almost a day. It could be Tinder’s shit notification system not working again. It is also a busy time of year, less than a week before Xmas.
I send her my phone number and half an hour later she puts in an appearance on Tinder and sends me the same message on WhatsApp. We agree to meet on Saturday after lunch in a town halfway between each of us. Christmas is on Wednesday, but maybe it’s come earlier for me.
Could she be The One?
She suggested that we meet at a cake and coffee shop and I get there first. It’s busy and there’s a queue, but no sign of her. I send her a message on WhatsApp saying it’s busy and she responds saying that she’s parking. I go wait outside in the cold for her. There are too many noisy children in there for my liking. It’s one of the reasons I don’t want children i.e. the noise factor. I like peace and tranquillity. This isn’t a great setting for a quiet getting-to-know-you chat.
I like the look of her from the moment I see her. She’s prettier than I expected and despite wearing very high heels I could see that she’s quite short. She tells me that she’s five foot three inches tall. A nice height; I like petite. Surprisingly a table becomes free as we go inside the coffee shop. She takes her Winter coat off and I sneak a peek at her body which is slim and trim. I like what I see so far. I develop an almost instant appreciation for her hair; it’s in the 80s Farah Fawcett wavy tresses style that I love. She’s not a blonde, but fair enough for my liking.
We’re sitting at a cosy table for two and instantly hit it off. She tells me that she’s a speech and language therapist at her local primary school. I find that endearing as it hints at what kind of person she is i.e. caring and supportive. Conversation is easy and I sense that she likes the look of me too; her naughty smile and sly eyes tell me so. She orders a lemon meringue sundae and I have a chocolate cherry waffle. We tease each other by sharing spoonfuls of each other’s choice. I can see that she’s enjoying feeding me. I sense a naughty side to her. It isn’t long before the conversation turns sexual at her instigation, with her starting to talk about 50 Shades of Grey. Yip, she’s thought of sex with me, but so have I. I fancy her and it’s a good feeling.
It doesn’t take long before I get a long-forgotten feeling: she feels right. There’s chemistry, there’s witty banter, there’s physical attraction. I like everything about her so far. I haven’t felt this way since Baltic Babe.
Have I finally found The One?
After about an hour things are going just swimmingly when she lands the bombshell on me: she has a kid. A little boy who is eight years old. I feel so deflated but I try to not let it show. I decide to soldier on and keep being interested and interesting. I think of her as ‘The MILF (Mother I’d Like to Fuck) of Xmas’.
Until now I have deliberately avoided meeting women with children. That kind of relationship isn’t for me; it’s too complicated. The child’s needs will always come first, which is natural, but I fear the times when it puts a brake on proceedings. Another man will always be on the scene and there’s no telling what effect he’ll have on her, especially if she sees him on a regular basis, not matter how fleeting. Making time to see each other will always be a challenge, so the planned nature of things is counter to my free-wheeling idea of romance.
As the afternoon wears on we engage in serious topics of conversation, something that few dates have had the guts and honesty to do with me. We talk about our respective divorces, lessons learned, outlooks on relationships, hopes and fears for the future.
I start to get the impression that she likes intense emotions, it makes her feel alive, perhaps even turns her on. I notice when I become serious and intellectual that she starts playing with her hair, an age-old indicator that she’s liking what she’s hearing. I suspect that she’s a sapiophile, a woman who becomes physically turned on by an intelligent man.
The table next to us is a birthday party for a toddler and it’s a rowdy scene. She’s used to the noise but it’s bothering me, so I suggest that we go sit in a quieter part of the restaurant. Luckily there’s a sofa for two free and I make a beeline for it. We sit side by side but turned askance to look at each other, our knees are touching.
The MILF of Xmas says, “Well, this is cosy,” and gives off a nervous little laugh. I feel myself becoming more attracted to her by the minute. She has a feminine way about her that I can’t resist; in fact, it’s what I want.
If it wasn’t for the kid, I’d consider her perfect so far. We can talk to each other about anything. She gets my sense of humour. I fancy her and am imagining myself making love to her. I can almost hear the sounds she’ll make when I kiss the inside of her thighs. I want her, not just for her body, but because I’m getting the feeling that I crave, that feeling of oneness, of rightness that I’ve only felt a few times in my life, such as with Baltic Babe.
We chat away happily and she tells me that in the Summer she came out of a three-year relationship. I immediately do the maths and, yes, it’s about six months – she’s gagging for it. By now our interaction has taken on a flirtatious nature, largely because of the way that we look at each other. I decide to up the stakes. I start telling her about my being colour-blind. She asks the usual questions about it, then I make my move.
“I can’t tell what colour your eyes are. Could you come closer?” I say.
Without thinking about it The MILF of Xmas complies. Her instant obedience tells me that she is very comfortable with me and might have a submissive streak in her.
“I still can’t see, the lighting’s bad. Come closer.” I coax.
She does, seemingly suspecting nothing. The MILF of Xmas is a bit of an innocent. If so, I can provide her with a lot of fun.
Her face is now very close to mine, so I lean slightly forward and our lips touch. She doesn’t pull away and just closes her eyes. We kiss and it feels good.
Her lips are quite thin, so I don’t feel them so well, but I know that she can feel mine. We kiss slowly and I sense her stiffening her spine.
I pull away and she is rooted to the spot, sitting upright, her eyes still closed. After a couple of seconds she opens her eyes, smiles at me and sits back in her seat. As first kisses go, that wasn’t too bad.
We make some small-talk, as if the kiss never happened. I let her get her composure back, for her breathing to return to normal, then I lean over and we kiss again. This time she’s more active and opens her mouth wide, inviting my tongue in, but I resist the invitation. I move my head to the opposite angle and we remain locked in our kiss. Neither of us give a damn about anyone else in the restaurant.
I sense that her tongue wants to play, so I touch it with mine and that brings her body to life a little more. Our tongues slowly, gently twist and turn, like two otters entwined, spiralling in water. I remember my mouth-pussy test and let my tongue roam in her mouth, something she’s happy to have happen. Her mouth is a little on the small side, so her pussy might be too small for me. However, she’s had a kid and if the delivery was natural then she might be able to accommodate my cock.
I withdraw again and we smile approvingly at each other. This feels so good. I’ve forgotten how this should feel. All the other girls I’ve kissed in the past year or so didn’t give me this feeling. This feels right, so very right. My blood is warm and racing around my body; I can feel an erection coming on.
The MILF of Xmas tells me that she’s flying out on Boxing Day with her son to go visit her parents who have retired to Spain. They return New Year’s Day. The sense of family is a good sign in my book. I feel that I missed out on that in my life, so it’s nice to see in someone else’s.
We talk, laugh and kiss for hours more. We talk about movies and music and watch YouTube videos on my phone. I’m having a good time and it seems she is too. It’s now after 8pm and I decide it’s time to end the date, otherwise we’ll end up spending the night together. She stands up and I grab her coat and hold it so that she can put her arms in. Once it’s on I pull her hair our from under the coat and fan it out.
“Ooh, I could get used to this,” she says.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say.
“You don’t have to,” The MILF of Xmas says.
“I know that I don’t have to, but I want to,” I respond and we leave it at that.
Outside in the cold air I turn to her and say, “Tell me something, do you like chicken?”
“Take a wing,” I respond, offering her my arm.
She lets off a little laugh and couples her arm with mine. Like that we walk a few blocks to where she has parked her car.
As I walk The MILF of Xmas her car which is a few blocks away, I’m struck by just how tiny and petite she is. That appeals to my protective nature. At her car we stand and kiss some more in the cold Winter’s air. I close her car door for her, she reverses out, stops to give me a cheery wave and smile, then she drives off.
We made no concrete plans about when we’ll see each other again, we don’t need to, we know that we will. I drive home with a lovely warm, electric feeling shimmering all over my brain. I haven’t felt that in a long time.
The thing that surprises me is how proud I feel to be with her. That’s another feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. That pride is driven by a variety of feelings, such as sensing that I might just have found the type of person I’ve been looking for. I know already that she’s a remarkable person, her goodness shines through and that makes her special to me. I feel like a victor showing off his prize. She is a prize worthy of the best of me.
Bad Company – Feel like making love
It’s an October Monday morning and I text message The Cockaholic, suggesting that she come over for a spicy risotto and Californication in the evening. She jumps at it. I think she’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie and loves the rush of excitement, something I think I can provide in spades. I’m looking forward to seeing her.
I find myself wondering if I’m addicted to the spike of adrenaline of first dates, of the getting-to-know-you phase. I’m inclined to say ‘no’ because I spent six months with Busty Blonde and it was such an easy relationship with her. I kind of miss that now after not even two months of The Saffa who is increasingly becoming hard work. I’m starting to think of her as a Drama Queen; she just has to have drama in her life.
The Cockaholic arrives early, which I take as a good sign: she’s keen. We have the spicy risotto I made, then sit side-by-side on my sofa to watch another two episodes of Californication which, I suspect, has the effect of making her frisky. Little more than two hours after arriving she is sucking on my cock and loving it. I have never seen such a happy, enthusiastic cock-sucker before.
I ask her, “have you been looking forward to doing this?”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she says, momentarily taking my cock out of her mouth, but then adds, “I’ve been thinking about something else all day too.”
“Oh, what other people call fantasies you call plans?”
The Cockaholic bursts into laughter, keeping my cock in her mouth as she does so. It’s a strangely pleasant sensation having a woman laughing onto and all around my cock.
“So do you want to tell me what it is you want, or do you just want to show me?” I coax.
She stops fellatio and gets up to straddle me cowgirl style. It feels good to me; she’s not overweight and thus crushing my cock, so my erection can last forever. Within minutes she has made herself cum by riding my cock. I enjoy watching her face convulse in pleasure.
I give it a few minutes, then I start kissing her all over, ending up between her legs, softly licking her clit. After a couple of minutes of this she’s totally relaxed, so I slide an index finger into her pussy, first pulling down, then turning it upward to stroke her g-spot. After a few more minutes I slide my middle finger in too and both fingers are rubbing her g-spot as she moans in pleasure. She keeps her hands above her head on my sofa cushions and it seems as if she is in ecstasy as I lick her clit and finger her g-spot. My tongue tires and I sit upright to rub her clit with my other hand’s thumb. Her pussy starts squelching and occasionally squirting juices into my hand. Not since Krazy Girl a year ago have I felt a woman do that. Eventually she cums, arching her back while hiding her face into a cushion as she screams.
I find it amazing to have such an experience with a woman. The sights, sounds and smells overpower me. The naked honesty of the moment entrances me.
She lies panting, I let go of her bits and climb on top of her to cuddle and warm her. I can feel her body shaking under me. Eventually she speaks.
“I think I just had an all-over body orgasm,” she says, swallowing hard.
After a few minutes of blissful silence conversation turns at my behest to the unpleasantly practical issue of contraception. Something has been niggling at the back of my brain.
The Cockaholic now tells me that she’s on the injection contraceptive, the one where she has no periods and needs a recharge every three months. I also remember her telling me on Friday night that she hasn’t had sex in two years, but had herself tested at a STD clinic four weeks earlier. Why would someone who hasn’t had sex in 2 years be on the injection and have herself tested? Hmmm…I smell bullshit. My ever-alert Trust Demon opens an eye and raises a suspicious eyebrow. He snorts in contempt at her story.
Is my initial supposition correct in that she was on Tinder intending to go on a sexual rampage, part of exorcising her own demons, making her feel like a powerful, desirable woman? I see this as part of my attraction to her, this trying to decipher her motives, learning more about womankind through her.
Without me saying a word The Cockaholic starts kissing me all over. She’s obviously an unselfish lover, a Giver even and this pleases me.
Her kisses feel like a butterfly landing on my skin as she works her way down my body. I’ve been looking forward to experiencing her sucking my cock, hoping it’s as good as I remember.
The Cockaholic’s tongue slides up and down the shaft of my penis, then she glides it down onto my balls, using the smooth underside of her tongue to elicit pleasure in them. Jeezus, she really knows what she’s doing!
She keeps her tongue moving and down to my perineum she goes, twirling and swirling her tongue over it. No woman has done that before. Where did she learn these moves? Cosmo, porn movies or a really instructive ex-lover? Or is she a natural? Just how many ice-creams has she practised on?
I look down at her and see that she’s in a trance-like state. Anything can happen now.
Her tongue is flailing about like that of a possessed demonic goat.
Suddenly her tongue drops lower and she starts drawing circles around my anus. Only my Exgf has given me a rim-job before and that was long ago, so it feels good. The circles become smaller…
Hang on, she’s not going to do what I think she’s going to do?…
She’s licking my arse!
Holy shit! That’s so unhygienic!
Yet it feels so good…
Oh my god!
She’s just stuck the tip of her tongue into my arse!
Emotionally I’m horrified, but physically not so much. In fact, I like it, so I relax.
The Cockaholic pushes her tongue deeper into my arse and she starts making snorting sounds of satisfaction, akin to a pig.
Wow! Should I rename her The Ass-licker?
She continues pushing and pulling her tongue in and out of my arse for about a minute. I think she’s enjoys doing it more than I enjoy receiving it. I lie in stunned fascination, my brain is racing.
Is this some kind of emotional release coming to the surface in her? A high-pressured job demands an extreme release of energy for her to unwind?
“Do you like doing that?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid and obvious question, but it’s the answer that matters.
“Uh-huh. I love it,” she answers, momentarily leave my arse alone before resuming her pig-finding-a-truffle-in-my-arse routine.
My, my, my, what a kinky little thing you are. I wonder what delicious naughtiness we can get up to together? I wish I had filmed this; I could watch it repeatedly.
Without any hint of a change to come The Cockaholic pulls away from my anus and almost instantly latches on my cock which is losing its erection because of the shock of what she has been doing. Most of the blood in there has rushed to my brain and botty.
Ugh, her mouth must be coated in faecal bacteria and now she’s spreading it on my precious manhood!
This cannot be! I don’t want to spend my nights in the shower scrubbing my phallus raw like I did after the anal sex episodes with Krazy Girl and Tech Titan. This Grey Knight must arise and put matters right by mounting this damsel with the dirty mouth!
I get up off the sofa, leaving her on all fours on the trusty footstool. She doesn’t move, I think she knows what I’m about to do. She knows to stay in position for doggy-style. Such a well-trained ass-licking cock-sucker.
My semi-flaccid cock easily slides into her slippery pussy. Some women in their early forties start experiencing lubrication problems, but not this one. After several mighty thrusts of my lance blood floods its chambers and turgidity returns.
“Oh, yes, that’s it, fuck me!” she mutters.
I love it when women tell me things like that, but it’s starting to amuse and puzzle me that they generally say the same things, like she did right now. Ho-hum, mustn’t tarry or quibble, there’s fucking to be done.
Earlier I had turned the lights down low as we got comfy on my sofa. Soft lighting usually leads to hard fucking. I knew this even back when there was that close call with Baltic Babe, that time when she turned the lights down low. A dormant sense of anger is evoked by the memories of her and my hips speed up. I’ll be cumming soon.
“Where do you want my cum?” I ask. It’s only polite to ask.
“In my pussy,” she wheezes back.
I reckon it’s safe to do so, I believe her contraception claims, but a little impetus to get me over the line is needed.
My thumb finds its way to my mouth and I suck on it for a few seconds. How will she react to being on The Hook this time? Will she rear up and lurch away like Busty Czech did? Or will she enjoy it like every other woman has?
Slowly and smoothly my thumb slides up her bum. She doesn’t make a sound nor does she move as my hips keep ramming my fat cock into her. Yes, she likes this. I’m now thinking that she has an anal fetish thing going on given what she did to my arse with her tongue.
Oh yes, the bum bacteria that she slobbered onto my cock is now coating her vagina. This high-flying, yuppie career woman with the expensive sports car likes it dirty!
I lean my head over to one side, hoping to catch a glimpse of her tits bouncing around as I fuck her, but they’re barely moving, just the slight shake of a mound of jelly. Now I’m sure her boobies are fake. Right now that doesn’t matter because my balls have just tightened.
With a back-arching spasm I blast a day’s worth of sperm into her, but the build-up has been so good that it feels like several day’s worth. I wonder if a woman can tell from the sensation of the cum in her pussy just how many days worth the load is? Answers in an email please…
My hips keep rocking and The Cockaholic is making ‘mmm’ sounds that indicate approval. Most women seem to like the feeling of sperm in them, but some don’t. I wonder if it’s an emotional thing more than anything else?
Never mind that, this was a good orgasm.
Sex with The Saffa has degenerated into angry sex, which is not my favourite kind, but doing it with The Cockaholic feels sweet, it feels right.
She spends the night and I’m in heaven. We talk for ages again and again I enjoy talking to her. She finds me funny and we laugh a lot. We both feel good. I’m looking forward to seeing her again.
In my Triangle of Temptation (personality, face or breasts) she has personality. I don’t find her face off-putting, it’s just that I’m not enthralled. I can’t just stare at her face and derive pleasure from that, not like I could with The Model and Krazy Girl. I’m now convinced her breasts are fake, but that isn’t a problem to me, which surprises me. How I feel when I’m with her counts for more. Of course her ability to suck a golf ball through a hosepipe matters too.
The Cockaholic having a kinky streak I find interesting. How did it come about? Will she share some of her sexual history with me? I’m really curious, but it’s a rare woman who’ll share that kind of information. I’d love to know what she’s feeling when she’s having sex or how it feels to her being on The Hook or licking my arse. What are her other fantasies? What is she looking for?
I guess the Eurythmics were right: some of them want to get used and some want to be abused. Yes, everybody is looking for something. We’re all pursuing a sweet dream or two.
What are hers?
Eurythmics – Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This )
This afternoon’s date with The Lying Lithuanian was a pathetic waste of my time, but it did show me how far I have come in my dating life that I so quickly and easily walked away from her. Sadly it feels like it’s over between me and The Saffa; I need to say goodbye to her. The unexpected fun factor that The Cockaholic provided last night has my head in a bit of a spin, but I know it’s just the oxytocin.
It’s getting late and I’m waiting for Saturday’s Match of the Day to come on when my phone rings. It’s the Saffa. Let’s see what she wants. I’ll play it cool and wait to see if she apologizes for her bad behaviour of late.
Initially she’s all light and positivity then in a schizophrenic moment suddenly launches into a series of aggressive questions about where I was last night and who I was with. Seeing as she has been less than honest with me about who she has been with on her nights off that she doesn’t know that I’m aware of, I tell her lies too.
That’s the thing about lies, one begets another, but not just in the classic sense of having to follow one lie up with another. If we lie we get lies in return. I hate lying, it pains me physically, but tonight it doesn’t feel so bad.
The Saffa is unimpressed by my words and switches over to her favourite topic of her ‘unreasonable’ employers. I say something reasonable, she counters irrationally, I respond with more reason and she puts the phone down on me…again.
Fuck that and fuck off. I don’t need this. I’m already in the process of replacing her so I’m not as offended by her behaviour as I was a few nights ago. I guess that’s the beauty of feeling that you have options: you don’t take things to heart as easily. That is if you have a heart to start with.
The next morning I wake up at 10am and my mind instantly starts recalling my date with The Lying Lithuanian and the unpleasant call with The Saffa. I need some feel-good vibes in my life after those two.
My little brain latches onto the sordid memories of The Cockaholic. Yes, I want to see her again. It was a great night and despite her being off Tinder, there might just be something there. Still lying in bed I phone her and we have a fun chat. On the spur of the moment I invite her over to mine on the pretext of doing a barbecue for her. The way to a woman’s pussy is through her eyes; women love seeing a man doing things for them. I reckon that a man doing manly things is perhaps a secret aphrodisiac.
The Cockaholic jumps at my offer.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes!” she exclaims.
With a laugh I say, “See you soon then,” and we hang up.
I lie in bed for a few minutes more, thinking about how I want today with The Cockaholic to turn out. I think it’s almost certain that it’ll involve sex at some point, but I don’t want it just to be about that. I want to know more about her and see if there is relationship potential with her. I think it best that we behave ourselves for as long as possible; it also helps to build the sexual tension.
She only lives a few miles away so I better get up and get dressed and ready my home for my guest. I didn’t have any plans for today so this is exciting.
I’ve just finished getting dressed and spraying myself with Terre d’Hermes – the scent that Baltic Babe introduced me to and said made her horny – when my front door bell sounds.
That’s less than ten minutes. Wow, The Cockaholic’s keen. My heart skips a beat and my blood flows a little quicker. A memory of her repeatedly swallowing my cock flashes before my eyes.
I open my door expecting to see a smiling Cockaholic.
It isn’t her…
It’s The Saffa!
TO BE CONTINUED…