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Date of Destiny a.k.a. The hot date

On Sunday I drive for what seems like an eternity to get to Cambridge to see The Artist. I arrive after lunch and I get to meet her friends whom I instantly like. We get in my car which she makes approving sounds about while I’m struck by how natural it feels to be with her. It doesn’t take long for the chemistry between us to be almost touchable. I’m pretty sure that we like the look of each other, but there’s a definite meeting of minds as well.

The Artist has her hair down today and she looks lovely. I even tell her so and my words seem to lift her up. I find us parking in a multi-story car park in the centre of Cambridge and there is little drama involved. I can’t help but think how with my Exgf this mundane activity could lead to an argument. Outside we instantly hold hands and it feels good to me. I think she’s a instinctive hand-holder too.

Walking and talking with The Artist feels perfect. We feed off each other’s input and the last time I had this happen was with Baltic Babe. Through the confused streets of the academic district of Cambridge we walk, but I don’t think either of us notice a thing really; we only have eyes and ears for each other. We could be anywhere, it didn’t matter, we are engrossed in each other, lost in each other.

After a while I have a strange feeling inside me, like I’m in free-fall, but I know I’m not, it’s just a strange sensation that feels good. We can’t stop holding hands and I’m pleased that it feels like a totally natural fit the way our hands and fingers entwine. I can’t help but stop occasionally and kiss her. Each time it feels like it is our first ever kiss, it’s that good and exciting for me. Her smile tells me that she likes it too.

We wander aimlessly, just enjoying doing this together. This is what I want, this is what I have been missing, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

We stop in at a museum that The Artist visits regularly as part of her work. She needs to use the ladies and upon her return says to me the words I was hoping to hear. “Come, I want to show you my favourite things.” It tells me that she wants to share her world with me and is not afraid of rejection. It could also be her testing me, but I don’t think that that is her style of doing things.

It doesn’t take long before we’re standing in front of an exhibit and I watch in awe as The Artist comes into her own before me. She starts telling me about the technique of producing what we’re looking at, explains the variations and the history of these derivations. I listen politely as she speaks, not daring to interrupt her, but marvelling at her obvious passion for what she is talking about. It’s a beautiful moment that I will treasure forever more.

After a while we move along, making our way to the exit when I spot something that presents an opportunity to show her my cultural side, to display my knowledge of history which I think gives her some kind of brain-erection. She seems suitably impressed and interested in what I have to tell her too. We are definitely an intellectual match; that’s worth a lot in any relationship.

Dusk approaches and we become hungry, so we walk back to a pub that The Artist liked the look of. Sitting comfortably at a table for two, it’s a perfect romantic setting. Conversation is still flowing like a river of sweet nectar and we can’t get enough of each other. As the meal progresses it becomes dark outside, the restaurant dims the lights and staff put candles on the tables. She even looks beautiful by candlelight.

We hold hands across the table and I decide it’s the perfect time to find out conclusively just how compatible we are. I walk her through the Magical Forest scene and at the waterfall scene she jumps straight in. Perfect; same as me. With the wolf she stood her ground, while the house she first went in then ate what she wanted. That again is very similar to me in that she doesn’t run away from her problems (I attack) and she has a zest for life, just like me. I realize that her answers are the most similar to mine that anyone has ever given me in the almost thirty years I’ve asked these questions. Inwardly I go ice-cold while my heart goes warm; could she be The One? It looks and feels like it.

I want to tell her something nice, feeling cute, I beckon to her to come closer. She thinks I want to kiss her and she smiles. The Artist innocently leans across the table towards me. I smile to myself.


Her hair catches alight!

There’s a football-sized yellow fireball on one side of her head and it’s about to spread to her face!

The strands from one side of her tresses has fallen onto the candle in the middle of the table. She must have used hairspray on herself for our date. Before she realizes it I’m swatting her hair with my hands as the fire is slowly spreading. Luckily I’m quick about it and douse it just as she realizes from my actions, the sound and pungent smell what is happening to her.

The Artist jumps up and runs off to the ladies. I look around the restaurant to see everyone there looking at us. The waiting staff are all rooted to their spots next to the tables they’re attending to, their jaws hanging open. The patrons all have eyes like golf balls. There’s not a sound to be heard. I think bubbles in champagne flutes stopped moving too. I look away and sounds of normal life return as voices murmur, cutlery clinks and bubbles flow again.

I think that this date will end here when The Artist returns to the table. She’ll probably ask me to take her to the train station. The embarrassment might be too much for her and I might never see her again. Damn.

When I set off this morning to fetch her, I had thought of this being a hot date; this is not what I had in mind.

The Artist returns and gives me the sweetest smile. Her hair seems fine, amazingly no trace of damage. There’s just an awful smell in the air, like that of grilled excrement but we try to ignore it as we resume our conversation. To my surprise she has regained her composure and continues like nothing has happened.

I was expecting the worst, but she is obviously intent on still being with me. I know for sure now that she wants me. Any other woman would have wanted to go home, but not The Artist, no she wants to keep going. My sense of relief is followed by a sense of comforting satisfaction. I think I’ve finally found The One.

After another hour of easy conversation I ask her opinion about Californication and she hasn’t even heard of it. I wonder what she’ll make of it? I have so many questions that I crave the answer to and I suspect that she does too.

The meal ends, but we don’t want the night to end. A moonlit stroll around the deserted historied streets of Cambridge seems a good idea – it might rid us of that awful smell from her hair – but after a while it becomes too chilly for her. I need a plan and quickly too otherwise this date will peter out and before I know it we’ll be at the nearby train station. Think, dammit, think!

“I don’t suppose I can tempt you with the first few episodes of Californication back at my place?”

“That might be fun,” she says with a coy smile.

Daniel Bedingfield – If You’re Not The One

Wild Child reveals more

I phone Wild Child to arrange another date and she says to me that the following weekend she is house-hunting in London. I offer to accompany her, but she declines so quickly that it felt like a knee-jerk rejection. I leave it open-ended as to when we next see each other. I’m in no hurry because I’ve agreed to meet the blonde Eastern European on Sunday for lunch. It’s early days, just one date so far and what discomfort I might have felt in the past about double-dating is now gone.

On the Thursday night Wild Child phones to tell me that she has taken the Friday off and is wondering if I wanted to get together for lunch. I instantly agree, not just because I want to see her again, but also because there is another matter that I need to take care on a weekday. On Friday morning I call in sick at work, something I haven’t done in over fifteen years.

By 9am I’m outside the local sexual health clinic, along with some prize flotsam and jetsam of society. It’s a deja vu experience from the previous time I was here. [http://www.meanddating.com/2014/02/an-innocent-man-goes-to-a-std-clinic-thursday-6th-september/] The anal sex experience with Krazy Girl has been playing on my mind and enough time has now passed for a test to be valid. [http://www.meanddating.com/2014/07/that-unforgettable-sunday-morning-with-krazy-girl-final-part/] Given how easy she was to bed and how skilled she was in all matters sexual, especially considering her age, who knows where she has been and what she might have…and I now have. I need clarity and peace of mind. I don’t want to have caught anything nor do I want to infect anybody else. I want to have a clean bill of health at all times and especially so when I meet The One.

It was the same nurse as I had seen the previous time I was here and as she was about to plunge that nasty piece of plastic down my urethra, I said to her, “You know, we really must stop meeting like this.” She didn’t bad an eye-lid, probably totally focussed on getting some job satisfaction. I suspect that a significant percentage of women find delight in doing nasty and naughty things to men’s willies.

By noon I’m standing outside a pub in a hamlet next to a motorway. There’s about a dozen houses and two pubs, that’s all there is to this blight on the landscape. The people who live here must have a serious drinking problem to keep these pubs in business. It isn’t lost on me that once again I’m meeting Wild Child in the middle of nowhere. How does she find these places? Is she a serial dater and her dates suggest all sorts of interesting places?

Again I’m standing at the bar waiting to order a drink when Wild Child taps me on my shoulder. I turn around and again I’m startled by her appearance. This time it’s because of what she’s almost wearing. It is a sunny day, but she’s wearing a flimsy, light-blue strapless Summer dress with floral motifs that looks more suitable for the beach. It hugs her contours and leaves nothing to the imagination. The big surprise is how large her breasts are; they’re at least an e-cup. Because of what she was wearing on the Saturday night I hadn’t taken any notice of her breastage.

I definitely want to get her into bed now.

We order drinks, hers a tonic water and we find a table outside in the sunshine. Polite small-talk ensues until I ask, “So how do you know about this place?” I was curious about what she would say.

“This is where I grew up. This little collection of buildings was home until I was eighteen.”

“Ah, that’s why you have itchy feet and like to travel so much,” I chime in.

“Yes, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here. I haven’t been here in ages. My parents moved shortly after I left home. It feels strange meeting someone here for a date. How about we go for a walk after lunch?”

“Yeah, why not. I guess it won’t take long,” I answer with a cheeky grin. She giggles like a little school-girl. Good, she’s okay with my sense of humour.

“Shall I go get us some menus? I’m starving,” she says and without much ado gets up to go find menus for us.

I watch her walk off, wondering how that dress stays up and what it would look like if it came sliding down. I also enjoy the sight of her bouncing breasts. They are definitely more than a handful and I have big hands. Ah, simple pleasures.

That’s quite a revealing dress to wear on a date, I think to myself. Her first date attire was conservative, but today she’s trying to make an altogether different impression; she’s turned on the sex appeal. You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t fancy the person you were going to see.

Wild Child returns with menus and we make our choice. I decide to be naughty and test her willpower, to see how easily she’s influenced and led astray.

“I’m going to get another drink. Can I tempt you with some fermented grape juice?” I ask.

She thinks about it, purses her lips and says, “Yeah, go on. It’s a beautiful sunny day. It would be wrong to forego a glass of wine on a day like today. I’ll get all this because you paid for everything on Saturday night,” and before I get a chance to say anything, she gets up and heads off into the pub.

I’m still not at ease with letting the woman pay, but my reservations are quickly swallowed as I watch her walk. How does that dress stay up? What are those breasts going to feel like? She’s not petite, so she should be able to accommodate my cock. Then I remember that I haven’t kissed her yet, I haven’t put to the test my new theory about a woman’s mouth being an indicator to what her vagina is like. Patience.

Wild Child returns with our drinks. For a tee-totaller she does like a glass of wine. She’s very chatty by nature, so I let her twitter away as I look at her skin and try to figure out how old she might really be. She’s certainly older than me, her throat and hands tell me so. Does this matter? I can’t make up my mind.

Apparently Sigmund Freud’s last words on his deathbed were: “I never could figure out what women want.” I heard that many years ago and I think I’ve figured it out. Now I could be wrong, but I haven’t come across a better theory or explanation. If I’m right, then I might just have solved an age-old question dealing with the gender divide.

Men want someone to do things FOR them. Women want someone to do things WITH them.

I think it all stems from how we are raised as children, mixed in with a bit of genetic programming. Look at any household that has a boy and a girl. What do you see? More often than not the scene is one of the mother doing something for the boy and the father doing something with the girl. That gets carried forward into adult life, but people don’t understand this or know that it’s even going on. Cross-bonding is normal and necessary. Little girls learn about dealing with men through their fathers. Little boys learn about women through their mothers.

It’s little surprise then to hear of women complain about their men along the lines of, “I’m just a mother to him. I’m always making and doing things for him. Sometimes he’s like a little boy!” Then I hear men complain of their women, “she’s forever wanting me to go to the shops with her, work in the garden with her or do something with her that I’m just not interested in.” Eventually a classic household disagreement sounds like a man saying, “You just don’t do anything for me any more!” The honest response from a woman should be: “Because you don’t do anything with me any more!”

Both points of view are true and correct and my theory explains why this is. It’s all part of Nature’s Grand Conspiracy. Don’t fight it because you will lose. Instead embrace it, take it to heart, understand it and then play your part in making it work for you. So, men, if you want your woman to do more things FOR you, then you better get busy doing more things WITH her.

Now let peace and harmony break out in troubled households all over our beautiful planet.

Why do I bring this up in the midst of a second date? The thing that Wild Child wanted from a man was to have someone to talk with. In fact, it might be to talk at. Good grief, she could talk. She was one of those women who felt an uncontrollable urge to utter every little thought that came into her mind, no matter how random. She obviously didn’t think about anything before she spoke; she wanted to be just as surprised as everyone else about what came out of her mouth.

After lunch we went for our walk around the houses. Wild Child showed me her childhood home, which was a spectacularly ordinary bungalow. We were walking next to a pond that she used to fish in as a little girl when I thought it might be an opportune time and place for our first kiss. However, something in me said not to, that the time wasn’t right yet, so I didn’t.

I walk Wild Child to her car and give her a polite kiss on the cheek. Again there was no indication that she wanted it on the lips. I watch her drive off and realize that I still can’t decide if she’s a Good Girl or a Good Time Girl.

What I do know is that I want to bed her. Her breasts look amazing. They bring to mind lines from a Bob Seger song, ‘Night Moves’ :

She was a black-haired beauty with big dark eyes
And points all her own sitting way up high
Way up firm and high

Bob Seger – Night Moves

Teacher Gal and twice awkward

I’ve screwed myself. I’m seeing Teacher Gal on Saturday followed by Delicate Flower on Sunday, but I’ve just realised that Teacher Gal is likely to sleep over at my place on the Saturday night. Sunday is going to be awkward. I meet Teacher Gal at King’s Cross on Saturday at noon and she’s wearing an over-sized hideous flower again. Now I’m no snappy dresser, but I don’t go around looking like a clown. I think every man needs to find his woman suitably attired. Struggling to find tactful words I say nothing and lead her to our destination, Stables Market at Camden Town. Yes, the same place I had been with Delicate Flower the previous weekend; it’s familiar and I didn’t see that much because my focus was more on my date.

We spend the afternoon walking around and Teacher Gal loves the place for its artistic flair above all else. I love it for the variety of food; you name it and that cuisine is there. We snack on small dishes that we buy from stalls and I notice that Teacher Gal doesn’t like her food as spicy as me. (In the fullness of time I will learn the significance of this.)

It was also time for the ‘best friend test’.

Teacher Gal had arranged for us to meet her best friend and husband at a concert by a South African pop group called ‘Freshly Ground’. We meet the friends at a pavement café and I’m immediately struck by how attractive her best friend is; very pretty, golden blonde hair and just enough cushion for the pushin’ – just my type. In truth I find the friend more attractive than Teacher Gal. Something in my psyche stirs and tells me that Teacher Gal is not as attractive as I would like, that I’m selling myself short and I feel conflicted and guilty about all this.

The husband is ten years younger than the best friend and he almost immediately becomes defensive. Because of my size and looks men generally tend to be defensive around me, so I think nothing of it. (Men are like dogs: there’s an implicit pecking order in the pack with the biggest dog being the top dog.) We sit and make small talk over coffee and pastries before joining the queue at the venue across the street. The two women chatter away, but the husband and I barely make eye contact. Then I realize that he is the shortest of the four of us and the youngest.

Inside the venue we share a private booth with a table on a balcony overlooking the lively masses below. Teacher Gal is by my side and the married couple sit opposite us. The music starts and conversation becomes difficult, but the best friend makes a determined effort to talk to me throughout the concert. I notice that the husband has become a deaf mute. At one point Teacher Gal makes a disapproving face when her friend talks to me an umpteenth time.

This is getting awkward. The husband is unimpressed by his wife’s interest in me and now Teacher Gal is getting irritated too. I think the friend is just being friendly, but a younger, immature man’s insecurities have been riled. I’m not sure if Teacher Gal is jealous, protective or feeling bad for the husband. It’s none of my making. I try to defuse the situation by making small talk with the now-grumpy hubby, but he’s not interested. What can I do? I buy us a round of drinks; it makes no difference.

The lead singer of Freshly Ground is a five foot tall Xhosa woman who has the voice of an angel. One of their songs, “I’d like”, has words that I find topical. The words are how I want to feel about somebody, but sadly neither of the women I’m seeing this weekend invoke this kind of feeling in me. Deep down I know that this is the case, but ever the foolish optimist I’m hoping, hoping that somehow, somewhere something would happen to make it so.

After the concert we need to catch the same train home, but while waiting for it, the two ladies go to the toilets. I look at grumpy hubby and smile, to which he wanders off to go stand further down the platform. If he wants to play games with me, he’ll lose. I remain on my spot until the ladies return. Teacher Gal immediately comes up to me and holds my hand. The friend spots her husband and seems unsure about what to do. I can see the confusion in her eyes about what to do. She decides to go stand with her husband.

Teacher Gal leans against me and I wrap my arms around her. The train arrives and we end up sitting in a booth with four seats. We are all tired and conversation is minimal. I whisper into Teacher Gal’s ear, “Would you like to spend the night with me?” to which she makes an approving sound. Now my brain starts racing, calculating the likelihood of us successfully making the beast with two backs.

We cuddle up in my bed and we agree that we’re both too tired for whoopee. We lie facing each other, our legs and arms entwined with me trying to keep her warm. We talk softly about the events of the day and evening.

“Your best friend is very friendly,” I say.

“Perhaps too much so. I’d forgotten that she has a thing for tall, dark, South African men. Her previous relationship lasted ten years with a guy who looks similar to you. He was even from the same city as you. She thought he was The One,” Teacher Gal says.

It all made sense now. Grumpy hubby must have been going through hell all night. Poor little ginger boy.

The next morning I wake up and Teacher Gal is already awake and staring at me with her beautiful sky-blue eyes. Without much talking we proceed to make love. Well, we tried.

No amount of orgasms and simultaneous g-spot clit-licking was going to make her pussy big enough for my cock. I had made her cum twice when I begin to realize that we are woefully sexually incompatible. Sure she was having fun, but I wasn’t. My cock couldn’t get into her pussy, she gives a rubbish blowjob and even though anal isn’t my thing, I won’t even ask her about that. Out of desperation I did try stinky-pinky on her earlier but she baulked, so I know what the answer will be. This is getting awkward.

It’s getting late and I must get Teacher Gal out of my place. I need to clean it to remove all traces of another woman before Delicate Flower arrives. I get up to get dressed and look back at Teacher Gal in my bed. She looks so sweet and alluring lying there, the duvet covering her lower half, her nipples still erect, showing me that she’s still turned on.

I’m frustrated again, but want some satisfaction off her. I stride to her side of the bed, my shins against the mattress, my cock dangling down over her. Will she take my hint and suck it?

Teacher Gal gathers the pillows under her head, then in a bizarre fashion, curls herself up into the foetus position, knees raised, arms over her breasts, closes her eyes and takes my cock in her mouth. The foetal position thing puzzles me but I focus on the sight of her doing her goldfish sucking a cigar routine. That’s never going to do anything for me, so I let my mind wander and I latch onto the idea, the wonderful notion of what it might be like to have sex with her best-friend.

I start fantasizing about what I would like to do with her friend, what I would like to have her friend do to me…and all the while have her husband watch us. Hell, in my fantasy he’s videoing it all, occasionally suggesting things for us to do. They can watch the video together whenever one of them is frisky for however long their doomed marriage will last.

After a couple of minutes of this fantasy I sense that I’m close to cumming. Teacher Gal has never said whether she likes to feel a cock cumming in her mouth nor whether she swallows. I think it’s only fair and decent to give her a warning.

“I’m getting closer to cumming. Do you want me to cum in your mouth?” I ask, expecting a negative reaction.

Instead she says nothing but continues her repetitive motion without breaking rhythm. I take that as a ‘yes’.

“Do you like to swallow cum? I want you to swallow mine,” I say, expecting some kind of reaction but instead get nothing. Again I take that as a ‘yes’. The surprise of this turns me on more, driving me to the edge. I close my eyes and imagine it’s her friend sucking me off while her husband watches.

Seconds later several days worth of cum explodes out of my cock into Teacher Gal’s mouth. Momentarily she chokes as she swallows my load but dutifully returns to sucking the rest of my man milk out of me. It feels good despite her looking odd in the foetus position.

Teacher Gal stops her version of a blowie and drops her knees, straightens her body out and gives me a yearning look that I don’t understand. Right now all I want is to get her on the road because I need to get my place ready for my next visitor who might be ending up in my bed too.

“Sorry, sweetie, but I have plans to meet some friends today in a couple of hours. Can I make you a coffee and toast before you go?” I ask, lying through my teeth, hoping that she isn’t offended nor suspects anything. It works.

Less than an hour later I’m walking her to my train station. The only other people around are four chatting taxi drivers who give us an accusative look. I wait with her for her train, making small-talk and give her a kiss goodbye just before she boards it.

I turn on my heels and start running back to my place, passing the bemused taxi drivers.

What am I going to do about you? That’s what I ask myself as I run but realize that I have to think about that another time.

In less than an hour Delicate Flower is arriving…

Freshly Ground – I’d like

I’d like to call you sometime
I’d like you to need me one time.

What would you do if you knew the truth?
What would you do if I told you the story of my life?
Would you find me overly familiar towards you?
Would you call me crude, fling me aside to the birds?

What do I do with all these feelings warming me up inside?
What do I do with all these precious hours dreaming of you at night?
Would you recognise it’s a need I’ve been fighting for so long?
Would you recognise it’s a hunger only you can fill?

Because I’d like to call you sometime.
Oh, I would like to call you.

I’d like to call you sometime
I’d like you to need me one time.

Date #18 – Delicate Flower – Final part

I’ve never bedded a woman on the day of meeting her, nor have I had a one-night stand. I’ve been all moral and conservative. Fuck that shit! It was time for a change. What would it be like to go home with someone I’ve just met and indulge in passionate, intense sex, only to never see her again? How would it all feel? I want to know. I’m learning my lessons and know that I’m packing rubber.

“Do you like Thai food?” I ask.

“Yes, it’s one of my favourites,” Delicate Flower says with a smile.

“Good. Let’s go get some,” I say, intent on drawing out our time together, not giving her an excuse to flit off somewhere else, like a pub where she could be picked up. I wanted to have a one-night stand with her and knew it would take more time for this to happen.

I walk as slowly as I can, knowing that Delicate Flower’s little legs and those stilts would struggle to match my strides. When we get to cobbled bits of pavement I offer her my arm which she graciously clings onto until she feels steadier.

Through Covent Garden and the theatre district I lead her and not once does she ask where we were going. She is happy to just be with me it seems, what we are doing doesn’t really seem to matter to her. Past bustling Chinatown we make our way into Soho, to the Thai restaurant where I had taken The Model. The food was good, the service non-intrusive and it was quiet, the perfect place for sophisticated dining, romantic even, especially as I was hoping to see her pretty face sucking away at my cock in a few hours time.

Delicate Flower is suitably impressed by my choice of venue and barely notices my ordering another bottle of Chenin Blanc. One for the talking, two for the fucking; such is my thinking. The laid-back atmosphere and unhurried service allows us to savour our food and wine, making for just the right mellow, sensual mood.

Naturally we get around to talking about our past relationships and she is taken aback at my only having had two. She, however, has had many more than me. The elixir of wine continues to work its magic for me when she innocently tells me of her having committed my sexual foible – the one thing that I can’t accept a woman doing.

Somewhere deep in the cauldron of my psyche, my trust demon stirs in a dark corner of his cold, rusted cage. He steps forward into the gloom, his slitted eyes straining, searching for his prey, the being that he can store no faith in. His sooty hands latch onto the flimsy bars of his prison, causing flakes of rust to fall into the silent abyss below. Gnarled, hairy fingers slowly pull at the metal. His intent is to break free and rage at her seated before him…then defile her.

I swallow hard and fight off the desire to make a judgemental comment. Why say anything? Her latest revelation confirms that she isn’t ‘The One’. She might dress, smell and talk like a lady, but she isn’t one. She truly is becoming just a piece of fuckmeat to me. I wonder what sound she’ll make when my cock slides into her pussy?

Dinner over and I hatch a plan to string the date out more. The vibe between us just isn’t right for her to take me home with her. I need more time to get her in the mood for sex. I need to work her up a bit more, tease her more. Hell, I haven’t even kissed her yet.

I pay for the over-priced meal and note that Delicate Flower makes no offer to contribute, although as we are leaving she does thank me and say how much she enjoyed that. So, she’s used to being wined and dined…and then fucked. Does she prefer being on top or does she prefer being dominated?

I used the excuse of there being no dessert on the menu to my liking to suggest that we go to a nearby Italian coffee and confectionery outlet that the Fitness Freak introduced me to. Once there I watch Delicate Flower struggle onto her high chair. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. I had to resist the urge to pick her up and seat her.

I get her a glass of pinot grigio and myself a coffee – I might be needing the caffeine for later. After a mouthful of tiramisu (my favourite dessert) I realize that my mouth is now sweeter than when it had Thai curry flavouring it. Perfect time for our first kiss.

She was in mid-sentence when I lean over to her face, but stop short of her lips. She doesn’t move, blinks once, looks at my mouth and then leans forward to kiss me. Our lips meeting is like fireworks going off, but in miniature.

Her lips are soft and small, even smaller than I was expecting. She keeps her eyes closed as we kiss, while I always keep my eyes open because I want to take everything in, for storage in my personal video bank of images – all part of my ‘Fucket List’.

I pull away, deliberately, wanting her to be breathless and keen for more. I sit upright while she remains frozen in space and time with her eyes now closed and still leaning slightly forward. She opens her eyes again, bats her eyelids a few times, focusses and looks at me and says, “Wow! I’ve never been kissed like that before.”

She regains her composure and sips her wine. My plan is working. She’s becoming more inebriated, her defences must be weakening, her lust must be aching and my kiss has just floored her. First base secured.

We make some more light-hearted small-talk and, again while she’s saying something, I kiss her. Surprise is her initial reaction, but she didn’t pull away. Instead she started using her little tongue and breathing heavily. She was getting turned on. Once again I pull away before she decides to.

I calmly return to my tiramisu and coffee as if nothing has happened. I notice that her body is turned squarely towards me – I have her total attention. My inexperience in this makes me a little nervous, but fuck it, I’ve got nothing to lose, so I go for it.

“Would you like me to go home with you tonight?” I ask with as naughty a smile as I can muster.

Delicate Flower’s eyes bore into mine; she’s thinking hard. She looks away, takes a sip of her wine, I say nothing. She looks back at me and I make a concerted effort not to flinch. I’m aware that this is a critical moment and my saying another word is likely to be counter-productive. The silence seems to last an eternity before Delicate Flower finally speaks.

“Maybe not tonight,” she says with a facial expression that gives nothing away.

“No problem,” I counter, trying to sound as suave as possible. In the art of English understatement, her words meant “not tonight, but another time”, which is fine by me.

We chat for about an hour more and kiss a few times again. It’s now after 10pm on a Monday night. The fact that she hasn’t made an excuse to leave immediately after my proposition I take as a positive sign. We agree that it’s getting late and decide to call it a night. I escort her to a nearby bus stop and wait with her until her bus arrives. We constantly engage in polite, mindless small-talk. I really can’t tell what she’s thinking and feeling.

As her bus approaches, she turns to me and presents her face, obviously wanting a goodnight kiss. It might also be a goodbye kiss. In a Clarke Gable moment from Gone With The Wind, I stoop down and kiss her the softest, gentlest kiss that I have learned to give from all the other dates I’ve been practising on. I let this one linger until she starts using her tongue. I let her play until I decide the moment is right to pull away, leaving her gasping for more.

Delicate Flower has a stunned look on her face and we don’t say another word as she boards her bus. She gives me a meaningless look from her seat as I give her a smile and a brief wave. The bus pulls off.

I don’t expect to ever see her again.

Just propositioning a woman on the day I meet her is a massive step outside of my comfort zone. The fortress that was my morals is crumbling down around me, brick by mossy brick…and it doesn’t feel so bad.

LESSON LEARNED: If a woman is the first to make a sexual remark, it means she is interested in sex with me.

John Mellencamp – Crumblin’ Down

Date #18 – Delicate Flower

I’m a little pissed off at having to spend a long weekend by myself. Teacher Gal is away on a school trip and although we spoke a few times during the week, it still isn’t clear to me where I stand with her after our heavy petting session. She seems a little distant now. The loss of my two fuckbuddies still rankles. I was starting to think it’s a good setup having a lover while trying to find my soulmate, having my physical needs taken care of while pursuing my emotional need, the former reducing the pressure on the latter.

It’s the Monday morning of the public holiday in May of 2013 and I notice a new message on OKCupid which reads:

“Your pictures seem to indicate that you would share my love of travelling to interesting, historical places. What are you looking for on here? I’ve had enough of being single, I want someone to come home to, someone to share my life with…”

The profile of the writer floors me. Not only is she a pretty blonde, but it’s one of the best-written profiles I’ve ever read. It speaks of an intelligent, sophisticated and cultured lady; I’m intrigued. I have to meet her even though OKCupid’s algorithm only gives us a 73% match. She’s English, 35 and five foot four inches tall.

I send off a polite response and minutes later she writes back. Her emails are as articulate as her profile, so she’s genuine and hasn’t copied a profile from somewhere on the internet. I respond again, hinting at us meeting one day. She asks if I’m free later today, I say that I am and give her my phone number.

Could she be ‘The One’?

A whirlwind takes hold and a few hours later I’m standing outside Somerset House in central London, surrounded by tourists intent on seeing what this building has to offer inside. It finally feels like the first day of Spring and people are wearing sunglasses and girl’s skirts seem shorter. I’m wearing black jeans and a navy-blue shirt; no jacket required today.

After a few minutes I get that familiar feeling that someone is looking at me. I turn to my right and a vision is approaching me. One of the cutest petite blondes I’ve ever seen is looking at me with big eyes and then breaks into a smile as she nears me. It’s my date and she’s even prettier than her pictures…and very short.

On her profile she said that she was five foot four; well the four was the height of the heels she was wearing. Without her heels she might even be under five foot. I’m over six foot, so we are in serious danger of becoming the little and large show. Whenever I’ve seen guys as big as me with women as small as her, I’ve always thought it looked odd…and that she goes on top, cow-girly style. Hell, if she was supple enough I might make a propeller out of her; spread her legs, position her on my cock and spin her around. What other people call fantasies, I call plans! Once, just once…

I greet her with a polite kiss on each cheek and we both can’t stop smiling. It’s not just nervous first-date smiles, I think we like the look of each other. She’s dressed in a very cute navy-blue skirted outfit with carefully thought-out white stripes and motifs in just the right places, reminiscent of a little sailor’s uniform. The skirt stops just above the knee. She smells as good as she looks, just the right amount of something I can’t recognise but nevertheless like. (Can any man name more than five ladies’ perfumes?)

She is as sweet and delicate as a newly-bloomed flower. In my mind I dub her ‘Delicate Flower’.

We are at this venue because she wants to see a photographic exhibition. I think it’s a great way of meeting somebody and not being in a pressurised situation of having to make small-talk. We pretend to look at photos, but I can’t tell you a thing about them because I’m not really looking. I’m marvelling at the good fortune I’ve just had by way of her contacting me out of the blue. That profile of mine is working wonders, I tell myself.

I notice that Delicate Flower is constantly grinning or smiling. I am too, I think neither of us can help it. I just want to scoop her up in my arms, let her feet dangle free and kiss her like she’s never been kissed before. Patience, dammit!

Eventually we run out of photographs for us to pretend to look at. It’s a beautiful day and it’s now just after lunchtime. I notice a terrace wine bar overlooking the Thames and suggest that we have a drink. She politely accepts and we find a high table with two high chairs. Delicate Flower stops and looks at the chairs and I realize that she might have a problem getting onto the chair.

We both look around and see that this is the only free table. Do I offer to pick her up and put her on the chair? Oh, the indignity. Do we leave and find somewhere else? It’s lunchtime on a sunny public holiday, everywhere will be full.

I decide that discretion is the better part of valour and say, “I’ll go get us a bottle of wine and some glasses. How about you hold the table for us?”

Delicate Flower smiles and nods as I leave. She now has the chance to get on the chair without embarrassing herself in front of me. The devil in me wants to turn around and watch her clamber up on the chair, but I decide it isn’t worth it.

I introduce her to South African Chenin Blanc and she likes it. All the women I’ve dated do. It’s as if they can taste the sunshine, but to me it’s an elixir of truth. Enough of this wine in a woman and she’ll pretty much tell me anything I want to know.

We have a view over the Thames with a clear blue Spring sky above us. Pleasure boats are plying the river, tourist buses clog the roads as awe-struck tourists throng the streets below. It’s the perfect temperature, no hint of a breeze and I can feel the sun on my back. In front of me I have one of the prettiest women I’ve ever spoken to and she can’t stop smiling at me. For a few moments life feels perfect.

I snap out of it, catching myself before sleep-walking into another mis-matched relationship like I recently had with Krazy Girl. It was time to get down to business, to find out the salient facts about this woman, to discern if she is relationship material, to see if we want the same things from the future, to find out why she’s single. Let the games begin!

Delicate Flower tells me that she is a manager of a department in a private hospital.

“Do you enjoy it?” I ask, knowing that few people in management roles enjoy their jobs, myself included.

“Oh yes, very much. I get a kick out of making sure that patients get the best possible care in my area,” she says.

“Come off it, you get your kicks out of bossing people around,” I tease.

“Actually, no, I don’t,” she says with a frown. “I like helping people and if the best way for me to do that is by being a good manager, then so be it,” she says.

“That’s very noble of you,” I say with a smile, warding off a potential conflict situation. So, she’s a caring, giving person. Looking good.

We chat away, the bottle nears empty and eventually the alcohol and sunshine combine to heighten the feeling between us. Delicate Flower suddenly makes a surprise reference to something sexual, with a naughty grin to boot. This tells me that she’s thought about having sex with me. Game on.

“Has it been a while for you?” I ask brazenly.

“It’s been more than six months. It’s been a long, cold, lonely Winter,” she says with a sparkle in her eye.

Hmm, she’s just hinted that she’s horny and wouldn’t mind being fucked because it’s been a long time.

“What do you normally do when you get horny?” I ask, expecting to hear a reference to fingers, a favourite vibrator or the occasional shower head.

“Oh, I just go into a pub and sit and wait,” he says nonchalantly.

I was surprised. Was she teasing? Was she joking? The look in her eye told me that she was being serious.

“Have you done that often?” I ask.

“If I’m not in a relationship, then a couple of times a year,” she says honestly.

That Chenin Blanc is good shit.

Delicate Flower instantly went from being a possible ‘Good Girl’ to a definite ‘Good Time Girl’. A Good Girl would never go sit in a pub by herself with the intent of going home with a stranger and getting fucked.

Some people have a ‘Bucket List’ – a list of things they want to experience in life before they kick the bucket. I have recently come up with a ‘Fucket List’ – a list of sexual experiences that I want before my time is up.

Delicate Flower was now the perfect candidate for an item on my Fucket List.

To be continued…

Date #17 – Diving Dame

I had written to a couple of women on MatchAffinity before getting my first response from Teacher Gal. One of the other prospects responded to me on the night of my second date with Teacher Gal, offering a trifling excuse about why she was only writing back now and suggesting a date for the coming Friday night. She’s English, 35 and living in London.

I hadn’t decided anything concrete about Teacher Gal other than that I wanted to keep seeing her in the hope that something developed. This new arrival sported a lively, positive profile and just one pretty picture. If it was a scam (scams are characterised by single-photo profiles) she wouldn’t be suggesting a date. I was curious about her and decided to explore in the spirit of ‘I might always wonder’, so I answered. Over the course of the next few days we swap messages and phone numbers, agreeing to get together on the coming Friday night. I like her decisiveness.

I arrive at Baker Street Tube station and make my way past Sherlock Holmes-loving tourists. The pub we’re meeting at is across the road and I can see it’s busy. As I enter, a woman is walking out and I recognize her as my date, so I say her name. She looks at me and her eyes momentarily go wide…she fancies me.

I give her a kiss hello on a cheek, giving her the chance to smell that expensive eau de cologne that Baltic Babe introduced me to. I withdraw and she smiles at me, obviously unsure about what to say next, which is fine with me as I’m not afraid to take the lead.

“How about we order some drinks and we find a table?” I suggest calmly.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” she says sternly. How very English of her, I think to myself. English girls like a ‘g & t’ because it isn’t fattening and it takes many to get drunk on. It’s a sociable drink without the downsides; my date was playing safe. I notice that she doesn’t say “please”.

“I don’t suppose you fancy grabbing us a table before they’re all gone?” I ask, wondering how she’ll react to my idea.

“Okay, I see one over there,” she says, pointing to what is probably the last empty seats in this bustling pub. She walks off and I join the back of queue at the bar.

It’s May, but it’s still too cool to sit outside; a shame because it would have been quieter. I look over at her occasionally, checking her out. She’s got her compact in hand and is powdering her nose. She’s not quite as pretty as the solitary picture on her profile. She’s also flat chested; I’ve got bigger moobs. Deep down we’re all superficial. None of us are attracted to somebody’s personality at first sight. This might be a long evening for me.

Sitting down opposite her and chatting becomes a problem because of the noise level. As the patrons around us slowly get drunk they speak louder and a domino effect kicks in. I only just hear my date tell me that her favourite hobby is scuba diving. I dub her ‘Diving Dame’.

Diving Dame is softly spoken and I crane to hear her, but after a while I can’t hear a bloody thing she’s saying. I make approving sounds when appropriate and frown when she frowns. I purse my lips, feigning interest when she pauses to have a sip of her drink. I’m doing my own version of Marcel Marceau the mime artist here and she hasn’t noticed. It’s amazing how I can cue off body language alone and just occasionally say things like, “and then…” or “really?” when I guess that it would keep the conversation going. This lasts for at least half an hour. She likes the sound of her own soft, slightly high-pitched voice. Luckily she didn’t once seem to ask a question of me, but I can’t be entirely sure.

Eventually I can’t take it any more; I’m hungry and I’m getting bored, so I say loudly, “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry now. How about we go somewhere quieter for a meal?”

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting a meal tonight, but why not. I know a great place nearby. Let’s go,” she says audibly for once, downing her drink. I offer to carry her satchel that has a laptop in it, but she declines my offer, to my annoyance.

We walk for what seems like an eternity through the streets of London talking about our jobs before arriving at a wine-bar where everything is black: floor, walls, ceiling, tables, everything. Very macabre I think to myself. Does Diving Dame have a dark side to her? Is she familiar with Torture Garden? Does she strap on a lacy corset and let herself be paddled and abused in mass orgies too, a la NutSlut?

Unfortunately the place was booked out for a birthday party and we found ourselves literally standing out in the cold.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Diving Dame squeaks.

“Not your fault. I recall us walking past what looked like a good Indian restaurant. Fancy that?”

“Oh yes. Indian is my favourite,” she squeaks again.

Finally, we have something in common. I’m hoping a better environment might lead to a spark igniting some chemistry between us. Until now I’ve found her demeanour stiff, so I’m hoping a few glasses of wine will loosen her up.

The Indian restaurant is empty, just the way I like it: quiet and calm. Service will be good and kitchen staff will take their time. I flummox Diving Dame by opening the door for her and trying to help her with her seat. Chivalry doesn’t seem to sit well with her. I guess she’s one of these thoroughly modern working women who read books about women’s rights and love their ‘independence’. I bet she’s got a copy of ‘Men are from Mars…’ at her bedside.

“So, how many dates have you been on?” I ask, succumbing to my curiosity.

“This is my first,” she says with a serious look in grey-blue eyes.

“What? Your first this month, the first this year or the first since becoming single again?”

“My first ever,” Diving Dame squeaks softly.

My mouth drops open and I go ice-cold.

“Care to elaborate?” I counter with.

“Well, I met my ex-husband at university and we got married just after we graduated. I never got to go on a date,” she confides.

I’m stunned but I recover quickly.

“So when did you get divorced?” I ask the pertinent question, bracing for another shocker.

“Last year,” Diving Dame answers matter-of-factly. She’s probably on the rebound still if it’s been such a long relationship.

“And you only recently started online dating?”

“Yes, my friends have been on at me about giving it a go, so here I am,” she says less cheerily than I would have liked.

It dawns on me that I am wasting my time with Diving Dame. In her mind she’s expecting to go on several more dates after me. I’m her ice-breaker, her baptism of fire, a stepping stone on the road to her relationship rehabilitation. I feel duped and used. This date is turning into a disaster.

“So, be honest now, are you online dating more to get your friends off your back or because you want to?” I probe, not really caring for the consequences of an inappropriate question.

“It’s to appease my friends,” she says burying her nose in a glass of wine. My lessons learned about women and alcohol is reaping rewards…sour ones, but the truth nevertheless.

I’ve heard enough and I try to change the subject.

“You suggested meeting around here. So does it mean you live nearby?”

“My ex and I used to live around here. He still does. I bought myself a cottage in the countryside six months ago,” she answers.


“Oh, it’s out in Berkshire,” she says.

“On your dating profile you said you live in London,” I point out.

She says nothing. I’m starting to go off my food. Why do women insist on telling lies on their profiles?

I soldier on and try to help the evening end as civilly as possible. It’s clear to me that we have nothing in common and I would have more chemistry with a blow-up doll.

“So where are you travelling to next?” I ask, thinking travel is always a safe topic of conversation, remembering her profile mentioning her love of travel.

“I told you in the pub all about my upcoming diving trip next week to the South Pacific. Don’t you remember? Weren’t you listening?!”

“Oh yes. Sorry, I forgot,” I lie, sheepishly. So that’s what she was squeaking on about.

Mercifully the evening comes to an end naturally. I pay for the pricey restaurant meal because I’m a gentleman idiot. I offer to escort Diving Dame to her train station but she declines my offer. I give her a peck on the cheek as we say goodbye while she clumsily shakes my hand.

The next day I get a text message from Diving Dame that reads: “Thank you for a wonderful evening. You’re quite the gentleman. I’m just not comfortable with so much chivalry. I’ll be in touch when I get back.”

I’ve never heard from her since.

I’m learning that I have a Triangle of Temptation: great personality or pretty face or big breasts and at best I only get two of those three. In this girl’s case there was none. This was the worst date of my life…so far.

Moving on…

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) I must ensure that I’m not her first date. 2) I must choose the venue where we meet so that conversation is possible 3) I must avoid single-photo profiles.

Date #16 – Teacher Gal

So now I had a fuckbuddy in Tech Titan, but that wasn’t good enough. I wanted and deserved someone remarkable who I could give my heart to and she would do the same for me. Finding “The One” was still my highest priority and to the dating sites I turned. Spotting a pretty face on MatchAffinity, I was wonderfully surprised to see that she was from the same part of the world as me. Her I just had to meet and I quickly fired off my standard approach email.

She responded within hours and for a few days we swapped messages at night with her wanting to know a lot about my family history. She was four years younger than me and a teacher at a boarding school in a town half an hour’s drive from me. I dubbed her ‘Teacher Gal’. I had to suggest twice that we meet up before she agreed; she seemed very cautious.

Was she ‘The One’?

We met at a funky hotel bar next to the river in her town on a Tuesday night. She arrived a quarter of an hour late, perhaps in an attempt to make a grand entrance. From the instant I saw Teacher Gal I liked the look of her. (Golden blonde hair is always a good start with me – deep down I’m quite superficial.) She had a girlish face with rosy cheeks, soft, smiley blue-grey eyes and was of above average height for a woman. She was a little oddly dressed with a black knee-length skirt, blue floral blouse, brown leather boots and brown chequered cotton jacket. She was wearing a necklace of pearls, but it was the overly large white flower thing on her jacket that let down her look. It reminded me of a fake flower a circus clown would wear to squirt water into an admirer’s eye.

We ordered drinks, found a table and sat down to what I was expecting would be an interesting conversation. Initially Teacher Gal was a little guarded, which isn’t too unusual for a woman on a first date. With time, as it became evident that we had rapport, she relaxed (I noticed that her shoulders had dropped) and she started laughing more. I can be very funny – I make me laugh.

Getting hungry I suggested that we eat something. She seemed reluctant to join me in a meal, but once she saw how much I was ordering she must have found her appetite too because she relented and asked for a main course. It seemed that she had decided that this wasn’t going to be a quick-drink-after-work kind of date.

I found her skittishness puzzling but knew from talking to my other dates that some women have had bad dating experiences. Perhaps her previous date was a nightmare that lead to her crawling out of the window in the ladies? Perhaps she had it in her mind that our date would be just a quick drink and then after an hour she’d go home? Perhaps Teacher Gal was dreading getting spinach caught between her teeth? Whatever her mindset, I was going to have a meal and, truth be told, string the evening out for as long as possible because I was enjoying talking to her. The cultural affinity was refreshing.

For dessert I had tiramisu while Teacher Gal went for a tumbler of the most expensive whiskey available on the planet! Her choice surprised me because I had always equated whiskey with alcoholics; it was my father’s poison of choice. Thus my father’s alcoholism was the cause of my internal negative reaction to my date’s choice of dessert. It didn’t sit well with me at all, but I said nothing about it.

Nevertheless conversation flowed easily and she started initiating topics and showing more animation to her demeanour, which pleased me. It seemed she was warming to me; perhaps it was the alcohol loosening her up? It was now dark and the pub was emptying out, closing time was approaching. I was enjoying being with her because it felt so comfortable and familiar talking to her about our past lives, forgotten loves, paths followed and lessons learned, all of which seemed quite similar to me.

“I know it’s late and we’ve just met, but I don’t suppose you feel like going for a walk along the river?” I asked.

“I’d like that. It’s a nice evening,” she said with a coy smile. I don’t think either of us knew what it was like outside as it had been almost four hours since we met.

This simple gesture and her response told me that she was not only comfortable with me, but that she was enjoying herself too and didn’t want the evening to end. I paid for the meal and drinks, dismissing her feeble offers to pay half. Out into the cool evening air we went, following the pedestrian path next to the river, with just the moon for company as weeping willows caressed the velvety water. I turned to her and uttered those immortal words, “Tell me, do you like chicken?”

“I love chicken, “ she replied.

“Good. Would you like to take a wing?” I asked, offering her my arm, which she coupled up with while letting off a little girlish laugh. Arm in arm we walked in the moonlight, talking about everything and nothing in particular, content to just be beside each other.

After a few minutes I noticed that Teacher Gal seemed a little cold, so I took my jacket off and slipped it over her shoulders, ignoring her objections. She smiled appreciatively at me as my nipples told it me that it was colder than I realized. I brazenly put an arm around her shoulder in an effort to share body heat and this made her smile even more.

Conversation died down as we approached her car, which I recognised was the same as my previous car.

“I had one of these,” I couldn’t help but say as we stood beside it, facing each other.

“Yes, it is a good car. But it isn’t an XYZ. I’d much prefer one of those and in red,” she said naming my red sports car that was sitting outside my home. The coincidence of her having a thing for the same car as me lead to a rush of chemicals that spilled out like a flash-flood over the back of my brain, giving me that warm fuzzy feeling that I crave.

The moment I had become curious about as the evening wore on had arrived and in its own good time as is its way. I looked Teacher Gal in the eye, slowly stepped forward, put a hand on her waist and with my other hand cupped the side of her face, putting a few fingers through her hair and touching the back of her head. I leaned forward and gave her the slowest, gentlest kiss I knew how.

I felt breath exhale out of her nostrils onto my top lip as our lips touched. I kept my eyes open and saw her close hers as she tilted her head slightly. Teacher Gal had very soft lips and I knew that my approach was the best one as I felt her body lean against mine, as she stood on tippy toes to kiss me.

Before she got a chance to pull away or use her tongue, I withdrew. I wanted to leave her wanting more. She kept her eyes closed and slumped against me as I wrapped my arms around her body. In that speechless moment she felt so delicate and vulnerable. Gone was the guarded demeanour, finally replaced by a woman looking for love.

My kiss had melted all her defences. My hours of reading forums and websites about the art and skills of seduction were starting to pay dividends.

Reclaiming my jacket I bade her goodnight and we promised each other to get together again. I stood and watched her drive off, not too sure what to make of the night, slightly exhilarated but not entirely convinced about Teacher Gal. There was definitely a connection of some kind, but I didn’t get the feeling that she was ‘The One’, but how can you ever really know on a first date?

I was learning that first dates were like a bikini: What they suggest is provocative, but what they conceal is vital.