Tag Archives: blondes

Date #54 – The Cultural Allsorts

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

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

Could she be The One?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love spicy food,” she replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter Sarstedt ~ Where Do You Go To My Lovely

Date #53 – Tall Gal

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

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

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

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

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

Could tonight’s date be The One?

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

Naturally I think of her as Tall Gal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you think of them?” I ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s it! I want to go home now!

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I think we’d better,” she says.

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

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

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

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

I say nothing, turn around and walk off.

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

Anyway, I have two more dates lined up.

Akon Ft Kardinal Official – Dangerous

More riverside revelations

It’s a warm Sunday morning and I’m standing at the exact same spot I was yesterday at the Embankment next to the Thames in central London. This time I’m waiting for Cat Lady; it’s our second date but first proper one and today I’m going to do exactly the same things as yesterday. I believe that doing something very similar with another date gives me the opportunity to compare and contrast each person more clearly if the environment is the same. I know that makes my dates sound like rodents in a science experiment, but my track record with women dictates that I take as few chances as possible.

I’m aware that I’m getting older and that my marketability will be diminished if I’m ever single again, so I want to make the effort to get it right. If I was a twenty-something neophyte I’d have the luxury of time on my side, that there’s always time to recover from a failed relationship but the reality is that I’m running out of time. I don’t want to keep dating endlessly, it’s becoming hard work, but I won’t rush into a relationship either. The cost of doing so is too high, what with missing opportunities to be with someone who is The One, wasting my time and money, squandering my emotional capital and ending up with a broken heart again that takes more time to heal. If I don’t have the time to get it right, where am I going to find the time to do it over?

Cat Lady texts me that she’s on a bus and will be late. I’m unimpressed because travelling by bus in London, even on a Sunday, is only marginally faster than walking. I know that she has a train and Tube station equidistant from where she lives, but she chooses to take a bus. Humph, but what can I do?

I stand waiting, watching tourists, my eye occasionally catching a pretty blonde. I think it’s because of my colour-blindness that I find blondes so alluring. Perhaps my predilection for blondes has been my undoing across all my dates? Almost all of them have been blondes, so maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong? Today I’m spending with a brunette, so I’m looking to see if there’s any great discernible difference. Yes, a tad unfair to place so much responsibility on one brunette head, but let’s have fun with this idea.

Eventually Cat Lady arrives, more than half an hour late, but I say nothing. Why make things worse? We join the back of the now lengthy queue for tickets to catch a river cruiser. I put her rudeness to one side and opt to make the best of the day.

We stand on the pontoon making small-talk and I’m again surprised by her high-pitched girly voice that really doesn’t suit a woman of almost six foot tall. With time, if anything happens between us, I’ll probably become oblivious to it. She hasn’t been in the UK as long as me and her guttural accent is much more pronounced than mine. Nevertheless, our common upbringing takes centre-stage and it isn’t long before we’re laughing heartily every couple of minutes.

Once on board the boat I quickly get us what I now know to be the prize seats at the bow so that we have an unobstructed view. The Irish Cougar sat by my side, feminine to the point of being regal, her knees together and her hands clasped together in her lap, just like Baltic Babe did. Not Cat Lady. Oh no, she was up on her feet, walking around, Iphone in hand, taking pictures of everything, clumsily getting in the crew’s way even after they had repeatedly asked her to remain seated like everyone else.

Cat Lady was ensconced in her own little world, doing a credible version of the gaudy foreign tourist. People were looking at her and then at me. I don’t appreciate that. It brought back memories of times when my Exgf would embarrass me in public and I was made to feel like the pitiable fool by other people’s looks directed at me. I don’t think anybody appreciates being embarrassed in public by their other half. It’s the sort of thing that I call a ‘relationship paper-cut’. A human can die from enough paper-cuts, a slow bleeding to death of the recipient entity.

This date is not off to a good start. She’s late and then makes a spectacle of us. Charming not. I say nothing and just let her be herself. It’s just a date after all.

We don’t lack for conversation once we’re back on dry land, but I’m fully aware that it is just our mutual memories of endless days of Summer in our youth that is being exercised to the full. I find this refreshing, speaking to someone who knows the same things I know, watched the same television shows that I did, did the same things growing up as I did. I can’t help but wonder if this lack of mutual heritage has been a problem with all my other dates and I just wasn’t aware of it until now. My former dates have been exclusively with either English or Eastern European women.

Cat Lady and I are easy company for each other as we catch the cableway over the Thames, stroll around the O2 centre and enjoy a meal at the South African steakhouse there. In a spontaneous departure from yesterday’s agenda we make a detour to Canary Wharf, London’s new financial district, which Cat Lady has never been to. She’s suitably impressed by the new cathedrals of capitalism and then we catch a driverless train on the Dockland Light Railway back to central London. I think it’s safe to say that we’re both having fun.

It’s beautiful day and I suggest that we walk a little, knowing in my mind where I’d be leading her to. At one point the pavement becomes uneven and she almost loses her balance. I quickly grab her hips to steady her and we giggle like schoolgirls. It’s the first time I’ve really put my hands on her and she feels good to touch. The moment serves as an innocent ice-breaker for physical intimacy between us. On the back of that, I don’t know why, but I hold her hand as we walk. She smiles and doesn’t recoil or show any kind of displeasure.

We arrive at St Katharine Docks which surprises and delights Cat Lady.

“I didn’t know that something like this is right here in the centre of London,” she gushes.

I get a kick out of showing someone something that once took my breath away too. Their reaction takes me back to my first time. Cat Lady being new to London might have many benefits for me in this regard.

Dickens Inn
Dickens Inn at St Katharine Docks

Luckily we find a free table on the middle floor balcony of the Dickens Inn and get comfortable with cold drinks and fattening desserts. The conversation meanders like it has all day until we arrive at the inevitable hot topic for singletons: our previous relationships. I tell her my sordid tale of woe, keeping it as brief as possible, then she starts.

“I was sitting pretty in South Africa. I had my dream job, my own house and two cars. Then one day a guy I’ve been friends with since primary school tells me on Facebook that he’s been in love with me all his life. I was shocked because I never suspected,” she says.

My thoughts sprint over to my knowledge about men being secret admirers of a woman in their lives. Then one day they snap, not being able to take it any more and in a last-ditch attempt to make something out of it profess their feelings which, if not positively received, they will then disappear from that woman’s life.

“We started an online romance, Skypeing every night, he came to visit me once and to cut a long story short, after about a year of this, he asked me to come to the UK to live with him. I gave up everything and moved to the other side of the world to be with him. After a year of living together the picture had changed completely. I saw that he was a control-freak and that he wasn’t living up to the financial plan that we had agreed to,” she continues before falling silent for a few moments in which I say nothing, preferring to let her keep talking.

“So I moved out and went to stay with a friend for a few months until I got the place I’m in now,” she says more cheerily, but not convincing me.

“When did you move into your own place?” I ask.

“At the beginning of June,” she replies.

It was now early October, so she’s been on her own for four months, plus two months with a friend, thus having left her previous boyfriend about six months ago. Oh dear. It’s highly likely that she’s on the rebound, not emotionally healthy, not ready yet for a loving relationship. I feel deflated by this realization, just as I did yesterday with The Irish Cougar. Cat Lady is fresh out of a relationship, it is therefore unlikely that any relationship soon – irrespective of whether I’m involved or not – will last long. She needs time for emotional healing; I don’t want to be anybody’s rebound fling.

From all the dates that I’ve been on and from all the conversations I’ve had with women, it is obvious to me that women take far longer than men to get over a failed relationship. Sometimes the rebound phase or mindset can last years. Krazy Girl and Lusty Lass are years past their respective divorces but in their heads they’re still reliving it to some extent daily. I think it’s a shame for both of them because at heart they are both sweet and lovely and deserve to be in a good relationship.

I realize on the spot that Cat Lady and I have very little more to offer each other than friendship at this stage. Luckily I didn’t have high hopes for her, but it has been an interesting experience so far by merely interacting with her. Perhaps dating more within my cultural realm is something I should look into? I guess that old adage must be true, that if you are born in Africa you will never shake off the ancient dust of Africa.

At my behest we go for a walk along the Southbank. It’s never the same walking along there and something or somebody – a busker, street performer, pop-up gallery – will always delight any passers-by. At dusk we end up sharing a coffee at a coffee shop next to the river. Conversation is flowing easily, about anything and everything, but I’m not paying rapt attention any more because I know that it won’t matter in the long-run. I go Passive-Disinterested on her and it doesn’t matter, to my mind at least.

Bright sunlight gives way to softer lighting as we stand at a bus-stop from where she wants to catch a bus home. Again I don’t know why I did this but I lean toward her and we kiss. Her lips are soft and welcoming. Without a word we kiss slowly and gently, she keeps her eyes closed. I don’t use my tongue and neither does she; doing so would have felt inappropriate. We unlock our embrace that took hold naturally and just smile at each other. Words are superfluous.

Cat Lady’s bus arrives as if on cue and she traipses off, smiling and waving at me as she boards. I make my way across London, walking through shadows, unperturbed by the thronging crowds as I take stock of the day I’ve just had. She is a good person and largely on the basis of her massive sacrifice in the pursuit of love, I’m inclined to say that she’s a Giver. Her being a brunette has made no difference in any regard.

On the train home I figure out why I do these things that I don’t know why I’m doing them. I’m desperate to be in a loving relationship and that desperation mixed with a pervasive sense of frustration bubbles over occasionally. This is not a good thing, but I can’t help it. Contrary to a common belief held by the majority of women I’ve met, men do have feelings. I do and I think I’m a regular guy, it’s just that I can articulate my feelings. Most men don’t like to talk about their feelings because it makes them feel vulnerable and nobody likes to feel vulnerable.

Vulnerability is an impression I have of Cat Lady; it’s in the vibe that she gives off. She projects a friendly, affable facade but behind it I know there’s a world of hurt. What kind of hurt is it? Am I being premature in my assessment of her being on the rebound? If I’m wrong then is there cause for optimism? I need another date to know for sure.

What I am sure of is that the next date with The Irish Cougar is going to be interesting…

Toto – Africa