“I was just starting to fall for you,” Busty Czech laments in reply to me telling her that we won’t be seeing each other any more. It’s been a long Monday and I’ve spent it checking my thoughts about her and The Saffa one more time before deciding that I get a much better feeling from being with The Saffa.
I make the phone-call I’ve been dreading after 8pm. I find the usual string of words I’ve used with other women to let down Busty Czech as gently as I know how. I say what I have to as slowly and compassionately as I know how.
“I’m in shock. I didn’t see this coming,” she says as I scrunch myself up emotionally on the other side of the phone.
“Are you still coming on the trip with me on the weekend?” she asks.
“No, I won’t be. I’m sorry,” I say with a heavy heart.
“So I suppose you won’t be taking me to the airport either?” she continues, the true implications of my words still not having sunk in properly.
“No, I won’t be doing that either,” I reply, biting my lower lip.
“I think I know you well enough to know that you won’t change your mind,” she says.
I keep quiet. Why add to the damage?
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you can come on the trip but on a friend’s basis?” she asks.
If she knew there was another woman on the scene she’d go ballistic. I think it best that she doesn’t know because why add anger to the mix? There’s also no way I can go away on this trip because then I’d lose The Saffa for sure and she’s the one that I want.
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I counter. If we did go away it would probably lead to loud screaming sex, our hearts in turmoil and an even more complicated situation for us both.
After a few moment’s contemplation “Oh, okay,” she says, seemingly resigned to our new fate.
The call takes a more practical route by way of me suggesting alternative logistics for her to get to and from the airports involved and dealing with her luggage that would be too much for her to handle by herself.
Her tone subsides to that of pained acceptance as I end the call. I know she’s going off to cry her eyes out on her bed now.
I have to stop doing this to women.
This was not the best way to have ended the day that was my birthday.
My next morning starts with my phone having an epileptic fit from all the messages The Saffa has sent me on WhatsApp, text and email overnight. I call her from my bed and tell her that I said adiós to Busty Czech. Her silent response hints at a sense of relief on her side, but maybe I’m reading too much into it.
I’ve been thinking about how The Saffa’s been perceiving matters between us thus far. She must really want me if she’s been so patient about my getting rid of the unwelcome extra person on the scene. I don’t think I’d have been as understanding as her. Maybe she has things to teach me?
We end up indulging in sexting with us sending photos from our phones that get both of us off. I confess that I initiated this. The Saffa is sitting in a bay window at her employer’s home. The old lady she’s looking after is still asleep. The Saffa is wearing only that blue silk robe that she suggestively takes off, one photo at a time.
The Saffa’s as naughty as me, possibly naughtier. She seems willing to follow my lead. By comparison she’s a lot more fun than Busty Czech, the latter is riddled with issues and negativity.
“That’s it, work that cock. Suck it,” I say, as if I’m talking to cheap stripper sucking me off in the back room of a dingy club of an insignificant former Soviet republic.
Busty Czech doesn’t make a sound and her action with her mouth becomes more intense in response to my words. She likes being told what to do; she’s submissive.
On her own initiative she stops sucking and sticks her tongue out, still keeping her eyes closed, starts running her tongue around the tip of my cock before lashing the length of my shaft with it several times, making sure that as much of my penis is as wet as possible. She resumes sucking on my cock, effortlessly moving her head backwards and forwards while keeping her lips latched onto it.
Possibly tiring of this she pulls her mouth away, perhaps to give it a rest, she brushes her face with my erection, slowly taking turns to slide it over one cheek then the other. An idea comes to me.
“Slap your face with it,” I instruct.
She complies, slapping one cheek repeatedly with my cock then the other cheek several times. As she does so I encourage her with, “That’s it, good girl”. She opens her eyes while she does this and I can see that behind the slits of her mask she is thinking. Her eyelids are flickering at the camera.
“You’re not taking video, are you?”
I say nothing and she sucks on my cock a few more times.
“You’re not taking video? Oh my god, you’re not?!” she exclaims, recoiling away from me but keeping her hand on my cock and jerking away on it. Leaning back like that has put her exquisite, puffy breasts on display. They are quite a sight for horny eyes.
I guess the fun for the day comes to an end now. I try to think quickly.
“You can get stills from that. It’s better picture quality,” I say. I think my American cousins would call this a ‘Hail Mary pass’.
She leans forward and puts her mouth against my cock, but then pulls away again.
“Ha! I can’t believe it,” she says, laughing.
Again she leans in toward my cock with her mouth. Maybe we haven’t finished.
“You tricked me,” she says before putting her head down and resumes sucking away on the best part of me.
Now she’s aware that she’s being filmed and is looking directly into the lens.
“Nobody’s going to see it. You’re wearing a mask,” I say.
Busty Czech laughs to herself with my cock in her mouth. She proceeds to repeat almost everything that she has already done with my cock, licking and sucking it, but this time she’s looking brazenly at the device, seemingly enjoying herself now.
She stops for a second and bounces the tip of my cock repeatedly against the button nose on the end of her mask, smiling as she does so. A silly laugh precedes her taking my cock in her mouth and she swallows as much of it as she can. Busty Czech is enjoying this now, in the same way that other women who I’ve filmed also initially were against the idea but after a while got into it. Alcohol and a camera seems to make many women lose their inhibitions.
Busty Czech opens her mouth, sticks her tongue out and slaps both sides of her face with my cock while looking directly into the lens.
Just then my memory card on the phone fills up and I remember that I still have the footage of The Saffa sucking on me, especially my toes, that has taken up so much space.
Busty Czech continues to worship my cock with her mouth but I can feel that I’m getting closer to cumming. She made it clear the last time we got physical that she hates having cum in her mouth so I have to orchestrate an alternative ending for the inevitable.
“Where do you want my cum?” I ask. I’ll let her have input into what happens next.
“I like it on my breasts,” she says, releasing my penis from her mouth, but still giving it a handy.
“You’d better lie on the sofa then,” I instruct.
She gets up and positions herself on the sofa by lying on her back and cupping her breasts together. I wish my camera was still working to have captured this sight.
I straddle her with one of my feet on the ground and the other leg bent and alongside her ribs. My cock drops naturally between her breasts. Busty Czech licks her hand, smears the saliva between her breasts and then places my cock neatly between them, smothering it. With her hands cupping her boobs she starts moving them quickly backwards and forwards.
That’s something of an expert move she pulled there, lubricating her cleavage like that. How many guys have fucked her boobies?
I can barely feel a thing. Her breast tissue is so light, like cotton-wool, that there is almost no sensation. Yes, it’s a wonderful sight down there between my legs, but it’s doing nothing for me.
“I want to see you jerking me off onto your tits,” I say, hoping not to give offence.
Without a word she grips my cock with both her hands, one behind the other, commencing a perfect hand-shandy. She deserves some pleasure too, so I lean back and slide a hand into her panties. There’s a bit more stubble since the last time my hand was down there. My fingers touch what must be the cord for her tampon; must not ensnare that. Busty Czech spreads her legs and her pussy is so wet it feels like I’ve stuck my hand into a tub of jelly. My fingers begin stroking her swollen clit.
“Oh yes!” she exclaims.
Shit, she’s not going to start screaming again, is she?
Mercifully all I hear is her moaning sweetly as I play with her clit and she jerks me off. This position might not be in the Karma Sutra and for good reason; it’s getting uncomfortable for me. If I stop playing with her I’ll disappoint her, but I’m nowhere near cumming. I need some naughty talk.
“Do you like this?” I ask.
“Uh-huh,” she replies.
“Do you like having your pussy played with?”
“Uh-huh,” she repeats.
“Do you like having a cock in your hands?”
“Do you like making a cock cum between your tits?”
“Yes,” she utters, speeding up her hand motion.
“Do you like the feeling of hot, sticky cum on your tits?”
“Oh, yes,” she says.
“Or would you prefer to feel to feel my cock in your pussy?”
“Oh god,” she splutters. I’m still rubbing her swollen clit, now erect like a mini-penis, so is she close to cumming?
“Or would you prefer to feel my hot,sticky cum in your bum?”
“Oh god!” she exclaims and her body starts shivering and shaking as she cums.
My words and implied ideas of anal sex have had the desired effect and Busty Czech lets off a blood-chilling scream that her neighbours must have heard. Are they used to her screams I wonder? Her sudden scream is so distracting that my erection has subsided a little. I’ll never get used to her screaming during sex. Hell, this wasn’t even full sex.
I straighten my back and, impressively, Busty Czech is still jerking away on my cock while she comes down from her orgasm. She still has that silly leopard-print mask and matching ears on. Her tits are bouncing around beautifully as her elbows are pushing them in as she works my cock. It’s wonderful sight and my full erection returns.
It’s not long before I feel a bolt of sperm shoot up from my balls and launch itself out of the end of my penis. Busty Czech doesn’t make a sound as my cum starts flying around, but bizarrely she opens her mouth in what must be an involuntary reflex action. Maybe she does want my cum in her mouth? People are often turned on by the thing they claim to dislike. The thought of my sperm in her arse sent her over the edge.
My baby-batter mostly collects in her cleavage. She lets go of my cock which is going limp now and she pushes her boobs together, forcing some of the cum up and out of her cleavage, spilling in every direction. Busty Czech lets go of them and her boobs flop down, then smears the sperm into her breasts with the tips of her fingers. I just watch her as she does this.
I slouch down on the ground next to the sofa and we look at each other as we pant like happy hunting dogs.
In this moment Busty Czech feels so right to be with. I feel torn. If The Saffa wasn’t on the scene I’d be happy to let things proceed with this sweet Slav. Ah, but sex aside, she doesn’t feel like The One. Our chats at night have started to feel icky, like I’m being her emotional crutch. I’ve been that before for someone else and I’m not going to let that happen again.
Busty Czech goes to clean herself up while I put my jocks on. Now is still not the time to dump her. Only a heartless monster will do that now. My dating experiences have not yet degraded me into being that guy. However, I should really leave soon and go home.
“Can we please go lie down on my bed?” she asks, returning to the lounge.
How can I say no?
We cuddle on her bed and a pleasant after-glow tingles our bodies. Busty Czech is tactile and I like that because I’m the same. Only a minority of the women I’ve met in recent years would I describe as tactile. That surprises me because what more genuine way is there to connect with someone than by touching them?
As dusk descends she falls asleep in my arms. I lie there, thinking about things, about The Saffa, about Busty Czech and about some of the other women I’ve been involved with. I realize that I need to feel a sense of awe for the woman I’m seeing, but that is lacking with Busty Czech. Instead the overwhelming emotion is one of pity. That’s not right, I don’t want to be with someone because I pity them. That’ll never work.
I fall asleep into a post-orgasm snooze and get woken by the sound of Busty Czech using the adjoining bathroom. It’s now pitch dark and I have no idea what time it is. I should really get my stuff and go.
Before I can move she rejoins me and is wearing a frilly night-gown from the 1950s, the type I don’t like. She’s gone from being a sexy, screaming cock-jerker to somebody’s grandmother in a matter of minutes.
It looks like she’s ready for bed. She smiles at me.
“Why don’t you get under the covers with me?” she asks.
This day has gone so awfully wrong. I should just have blurted out my feelings when I arrived and then left. No, that would have destroyed her, given everything that she had laid on for me. I can’t walk out now either because that would lead to all sorts of questions. I have to spend the night with her although I don’t really want to.
“I need to wear this,” Busty Czech says as she dons a huge black eye-mask that makes her look like a geriatric. The grandmother look is now complete.
She puts the light out and reverses into me. Like that we spoon and fall asleep together, with very different states of heart. She’s pleased with herself no doubt and I’m at war with myself, silently berating myself for my cowardice.
The smell of bacon wakes me the next morning. I’m alone in the bed and I can hear Busty Czech singing to herself in her kitchen. I go to the lounge to find my clothes and I get dressed hoping that I don’t look too rumpled. It’s a perfect, sunny morning and the light in a mirror catches every crease on my clothing. I try to smoothe what I can because I don’t want to give anything away.
Once in the kitchen I give Busty Czech a good morning kiss. She’s wearing a frumpy one-piece frock that does her no favours. It’s the sort of thing my mother wears around her home and she’s in her eighties. I don’t think that any man wants his woman to dress like his mother does.
Busty Czech’s prepared a wonderful breakfast for me. We sit and eat while she chatters away about nothing in particular. I’m not feeling chatty; I feel ashamed and uncomfortable. She starts talking about our trip to France next week and my soul winces. I have to get out of here.
Not long afterwards breakfast ends and I make my excuses about meeting friends in London at noon as part of my birthday celebrations.
“Enjoy your lunch with your friends,” Busty Czech says cheerily as she waves me goodbye from her front door.
I know I’ll never see her again, I think to myself as I get in my car.
Every man she has known has been a fool for treating her the way they did, but I have joined their shameful ranks.
On Saturday afternoon I arrive at Busty Czech’s home with my heart in my mouth. I have to dump her so that I can have The Saffa. I also have to kiss goodbye to a thousand Pounds for a holiday that I’m now not going to have with Busty Czech. The Saffa is patiently waiting for me to stop seeing Busty Czech so that she can have me to herself, but her patience is wearing thin. This situation has felt like a vice with me trapped in the middle. I know what I have to do and I’m not looking forward to doing it.
Busty Czech greets me at her door and she is wearing a leopard-print dress which strikes me as a bit odd. She’s all positive and bubbly, talkative and perpetually smiling at me. I can’t dump her immediately after walking through the door; I’ll wait until she’s calmed down.
She makes us coffee and we seat ourselves in the lounge. There’s a wonderful smell in the air; what is it? Busty Czech is on a rampage of telling me everything that is in her head. Her thoughts about our trip to the French Riviera in a week’s time dominate. Over her shoulder I notice a wrapped present sitting in the middle of the dining table. She’s like an excited little girl, it’s so sweet.
Our chats at night over the weeks have always had a negative slant to them so her positive behaviour now I find surprising. Why is she being so ebullient? Then I figure out it’s because she’s gone to some effort to lay on a day of treats for my birthday. She’s a Giver and definitely not a Taker. Oh shit, when is the right time to do this?
“How about you open your present first?,” she suggests, getting up to go get it for me.
Two weeks ago she asked me what my cologne was, so I told her ‘Hermes Terre’. She seemed to listen carefully to this, so I’m guessing I’ll be getting that for my birthday.
I open the carefully wrapped box to find a large, dark-blue scented candle in it.
“I simply love the smell of that candle because it reminds me of you. It smells manly,” she says with a smug smile.
I swallow hard; I’m not feeling very manly at the moment.
I can’t dump her now; best to wait a little bit longer.
Her upbeat nature continues until a buzzer sounds in the kitchen. She’s prepared a leg of roast lamb and it’s perfectly done. We sit down after I’ve carved the lamb which she knows is my favourite meat. Does The Saffa know that? Busty Czech has laid on the prefect lamb roast with all the traditional trimmings and her culinary skills impress me. I realize that I don’t know anything about The Saffa’s kitchen skills.
Busty Czech is on a roll and just keeps talking, which suits me fine. I’m enjoying the meal but my mind is nagging me. Now’s still not the right time to dump her. Am I sure I’m doing the right thing? At this moment I’m not entirely certain.
I envisaged walking in here, getting her comfortable and then letting her down as gently as I’ve learned to do, courtesy of all the practise I’ve had doing so with other women in the past two years. Busty Czech seems the least deserving of heartache. She’s done nothing wrong; she’s a wonderful person. She’s nothing like the others that I’ve broken up with.
Shit, I just can’t do it; it’s just too hard.
I have to do this over the phone.
Looking at my plate of food before me it strikes me that Busty Czech is like a lamb, all cute, harmless and innocent. She is the meek lamb and me, well I guess I’m the cowardly chicken.
So here we are, the lamb and the chicken.
My shoulders relax as Busty Czech brings me an elaborate pavlova dessert that she got up early to make. Her generosity is wonderful, but The Saffa can be generous too.
I’m not a big wine-drinker but most women are. I nurse my glass of red for an hour while Busty Czech polishes off the bottle. Not surprisingly, in my experience, the alcohol in her system lowers her inhibitions and she assails me with initially sweet kisses and then lusty ones. If I rebuff her she’ll get upset, she’ll ask me what’s wrong then I have to break up with her to which tears will be added. I can’t stand to see a woman cry.
Busty Czech gets up, disappears into her bedroom and comes back wearing a leopard-print face-mask and bunny ears. It all matches her dress. Ah, this must be part of the birthday surprise she mentioned in her text message. She looks so cute, but what’s this in aid of?
She puts some music on and starts dancing suggestively to it. Well this is a surprise. I can’t dump her now.
“Unfortunately my period started today, but we can have fun in other ways,” she says cheerily.
I’m not sure what she means. I don’t think she’s into anal and she’s not likely to whip out a bag full of toys like Tech Titan did, so what has she got on her mind? I know that some women are at their horniest while they’re menstruating; I’ll have to sit back and see for myself. Fuck it, I’m going to have to forget about dumping her and just have some fun with her tonight.
What’s with women having their periods start at times like these? This is how Life screws with me. Still got to make the best of it.
An idea comes to me and I take my phone out. I’ve never had a woman I’m dating dance for me. I want to capture the novelty of this. I start taking photos with my phone as Busty Czech cracks open another bottle of wine and pours glasses full for us.
She starts dancing again while I snap pics of her. Slowly she starts to unbutton the front of her dress. There’s no sign of a bra as her breasts push against the front of the dress. Something in my groin starts to stir.
Busty Czech strips down to her knickers, all tastefully done and in time to the music. The leopard-print mask and matching bunny ears remain in place on her face and head. I can’t believe she’s letting me take photos of her like this, but I’m not saying anything. She wants to do this for me, so I’ll let her.
Suddenly she stops dancing and takes a seat at the dining table to drink some wine. I’m seated on the sofa opposite her and take some close-up shots. She’s sitting with her knees together in a very lady-like fashion, her breasts dangling down as she takes sips of wine. Damn, she has fantastic breasts!
Thirst quenched and under the affluence of incohol, she glides over to me, gesturing for me to stop taking photos. I put the phone down; why antagonize her?
Busty Czech starts fiddling with my jeans and shirt, unbuttoning both, splaying my shirt open and then tearing my jeans and jocks off, casting them gingerly to one side. Her eyes latch onto my growing cock.
Without a word she sinks down to her knees between my legs and in a quick motion pulls my foreskin back and starts sucking my cock. It feels wonderful.
“Have you ever seen yourself giving a blowjob?” I ask.
“No,” she mumbles with my cock in her mouth.
“I’ll take some photos, then I’ll show you later and I’ll delete them,” I say without waiting for her to say anything else.
Instead of taking more photos I switch my phone onto video-mode as Busty Czech hungrily is sucking on me like a starved lamb attached to it’s mother’s teat.
She is unaware of what I’ve just done and I’m not inclined to tell her, not just yet anyway. Busty Czech closes her eyes and rhythmically sucks away on my cock. As cock-suckers go, she’s one of the better ones I’ve had on the end of my shaft. It’s such a pity that she won’t take my cum in her mouth and then swallow it.
I move my phone to my left so that I can capture more a profile shot and perhaps get some of her fantastic breasts in the footage too.
Oblivious to what I’m doing Busty Czech is happily sucking away on the end of my cock, occasionally stopping to run her tongue around my bell-end or up and down the shaft of my penis. She seems to be in a trance, perhaps brought on by the weird gypsy music she’s playing on the stereo.
After fantastic sex on Saturday we indulged in pillow talk during which The Brazilian hinted that she has a fear of commitment. It stemmed from her childhood and her parent’s unhappy marriage. That’s not too unusual as I’ve met several woman on my dates with similar stories, but I want to proceed with caution and my eyes wide open. I realize that I don’t really know much about her history, so on Monday I decide to go digging. We keep repeating our history until we learn from it.
I found The Brazilian’s Facebook page and saw that her favourite male character from ‘Sex and the City’ (her treasured show) was Aidan. Strangely, that’s my second name. I read up on this character and other than him making furniture and having a kid, I am Aidan in character but less of a doormat. It’s freaky.
She listed on Facebook her two favourite movies as being ‘Out of Africa’ and ‘The Way We Were’. The stories both end in a similar fashion: the relationships fail and the woman is left feeling abandoned. I find that quite telling and take it as something of a red flag. However, I notice something about both storylines: the protagonists are separated for a while before being re-united and their romance resumes before ultimately failing.
Is this her style of relationship? Is this what she likes doing to men? Is this why she asked me on our second date what my favourite type of movie ending is?
When it got to that time of night when Busty Blonde and I would talk on the phone, a little part of me would dread it and then be relieved when the call was over. With The Brazilian I can’t wait to call her; I feel like a pimple-faced teenager all over again. I can’t wait to hear her voice, but I don’t know what we’ll talk about and I don’t really care. We’ll start off with “Hello…” and take it from there.
I have to draw on all the skills that I’ve acquired over the past two years in order to keep The Brazilian. She’s a massive challenge because of her commitment fear, something I can really do without, but hopefully it’s temporary. I don’t want it to become the focus of our relationship; I want mutual love and respect to be our axis.
I phoned her on Monday night, we had a pleasant enough chat – well, it was her venting about a bad customer mostly. I spoke to her about the Farnborough Air Show, something I had mentioned the previous day and her response seemed lukewarm at best. I then asked about getting together the coming weekend. Her response was, “Well, I’ve been invited to a birthday party on the Saturday night, so I’ll probably go to that. I’ve also been invited to a kiddies birthday party on the Sunday. I usually don’t go to those, but this one I might.”
This kiddies party was different because a customer who had stopped doing business was going to be there and The Brazilian wanted this person to feel awkward. Now if she would rather do that than see me, then that tells me loads; she’s vindictive and can be confrontational. She also doesn’t know who or what is good for her. It also tells me that I’m not a high priority. Of course I’m accepting at face value that she’s telling me the truth. Ah, my good ol’ trust demon furrows his hairy brow, his dark eyes glow as he grips the bars of his cage and starts tugging at them…
“Okay, no problem, “ I say. Of course it was a problem. I want to see her again but I get the impression from her words and their tone that she isn’t exactly chomping at the bit to see me again. I’m making that old mistake of getting too invested in a woman I liked too quickly. Old habits die hard, but I can’t help getting carried away like an excited little boy on Xmas eve. I know what I want and I want it as quickly as possible. Seen logically, the prudent thing to do is to re-activate my dating profiles and keep my options open. That way I don’t allow myself to become too attached too soon which might spook her and result in pain for me.
I ended the call on Monday night saying that it was her turn to call me. Let’s see how long it takes before she calls me. I’m going to give her time and space to miss me. I won’t initiate any kind of communication on Tuesday. If I don’t hear from her at all on Tuesday, then late that night I’ll go on to the dating sites where I switched my profiles off last week and start creating options. I use that word ‘option’ because that is exactly how I’m starting to feel to her.
I would love to have the chance to say to her, “Isn’t time you let go of an idea you told yourself to believe a long time ago when you were a little girl? We all hold on to ideas that actually hold us back from getting what we want. Your ideas about commitment are wrong and redundant. They have not served you well. Don’t you think it’s time to leave them behind and move onto something more useful?”
Tuesday and I’m writing about Krazy Girl for my blog. A part of me is becoming very aware of the similarities between Krazy Girl and The Brazilian: coming on all fiery and excited in the beginning then suddenly blowing cold and then disappearing. Is the excellent sex impairing my judgement again? I’m struck by another similarity between the two in that Krazy Girl went to great pains to keep my existence secret and, although it’s only been ten days with The Brazilian, she told me that she has informed nobody of my existence too. I need to proceed slowly and with caution, not just to avoid scaring her off, but to protect myself.
I go on to Tinder to re-read my messages with The Brazilian, looking for clues and see that she was active on it 3 days ago and had removed one photo and replaced it with another. Why do that if you think you’ve met somebody? You wouldn’t. I have to accept that her fear of commitment is a massive problem and that I should start taking steps to protect myself from possible harm. I’ll cool it with her, let her do more of the running by way of initiating contact and see what happens.
It dawned on me today that so far she has not said anything or done anything that indicates that she’s interested in a relationship. Over the course of the day there was absolutely no contact between us. I was determined to not initiate communication. She can make an effort too.
I’m wondering if she was unimpressed by my place. It didn’t fit in with her expectation. Most women have an idea that they generate in their own heads about what a guy’s place will be like, because it’s part and parcel with their fantasy of the perfect man coming along out of nowhere and, of course, he’s rich too. It’s a great fantasy and most women buy into it and many live their lives according to it. My place is basic, it’s not fancy or flash in any way. Has it done it’s job of warding off another gold-digger?
Late on Tuesday night, during the World Cup game in which Brazil was losing five nil at half-time to Germany, she sent me a Whatsapp message that said, “You do know that I’m half German?” I left it a few minutes and responded with “Call me.” She didn’t call.
I remember her saying that she wants an easygoing, drama-free relationship. I took that to mean that she has only known the opposite of this. I now see that she is the cause of the drama. This hot-cold treatment I’ve seen before and I don’t like it. I’m too old for silly fucking games.
I’m starting to think her primary interest in me is sexual. Anything else is just noise. So be it; as long as I know the score. I won’t go getting my hopes up; the likelihood of disappointment is high. A pity, because I really like her.
Wednesday and I’ve seen that she’s been active on Whatsapp over the course of the day when I’ve gone on it to chat with friends. Yes, I would check when last she had logged on too and it was as often as me at a minimum. So, no real communication in two days. I’m feeling angry and I go onto Tinder, reactivate it and get a match within minutes and started swapping messages. I go on to a few of my trusted free dating sites and reactivate my profiles. I write to two new women on PoF.
I’ve started to subscribe to the expression that people come into our lives for a reason, a season or a lifetime. My instincts now tell me that it is going to just be the first reason with The Brazilian. The fact that she had not lived with a boyfriend since 2002, when she was 26, I should have taken as a massive red flag. She clearly has issues about commitment and relationships because I think it’s only natural to want to live with somebody if you love them.
The Brazilian’s obviously not relationship material. Does she revel in self-sabotage so that she can get her kicks out of feeling scorned? How many men has she done this to and how many more will experience this?
How many more women like her will I encounter? What percentage of women are like her? The mistake was obviously mine in that I still emotionally believe that having sex with someone is an act of commitment. I should know better by now. I have an increased need to want to visit a STD clinic now.
Thursday and I resolve that if I do hear from her again, I’ll wait that amount of time to get back to her. I’ve been so bothered by her behaviour, the blowing hot then cold, that I’ve done some research on the internet about it. The common advice is to leave her be, then only contact her as often as she contacts me. An interesting article contended that physical attraction has a very short use-by date and should best be exploited as quickly as possible.
However, I have to face facts. Nobody’s that busy that they can’t call or text me. She’s just not that into me. The way I feel about her now is largely disappointment. I’m also feeling a little foolish in myself. Connecting with someone on Tinder seems to be just about the sex. If I never hear from her again I won’t be too surprised or disappointed. I shouldn’t have got my hopes up like I did. Stupid Boy. Stupid, stupid boy…
Friday drifts by and I don’t look at anything involving The Brazilian. Swapping messages with other prospects feels tedious; I’ve had the wind knocked out of my sails. On Saturday morning, out of boredom and frustration, I go on to Tinder to see who was out there. I flick over to The Brazilian’s profile to see that she had logged on at 11pm the previous night.
Monday night and to my great surprise The Brazilian phones me at 9.30pm. She tells me that a troublesome customer had really upset her the previous week and she was having sleepless nights because of it. To boot she also had a cold and spent most of Saturday sleeping, not going to her friend’s party on the Saturday night nor the kiddies birthday party on the Sunday. The conversation was mostly her venting about her bad customer and unthinking staff. I found it boring, but had mastered the art of saying “uh-huh” with other women many years ago. She seemed still keen to go to the Farnborough Air Show on the coming weekend. The conversation ended after an hour – our longest chat via phone yet – with her saying twice, “We’ll speak soon, yes?”
I was pleased to hear from her and very surprised because I thought she was lost to me. I’m sure that there’s lots that she’s not telling me. I think this period of silence between us will do me a lot of good. I am looking forward to seeing her again.
I think I’ll surprise her with my red sports car and then we’ll have a nice barbecue with my friends. Depending on the weather we’ll either see the airshow on the Saturday or the Sunday. I hope it’s the former because I’ll then have an excuse to sleep over. I don’t expect sex, but it would be nice to feel her fall asleep in my arms.
If my reading of the situation is correct, then her phoning me was a massive act of commitment on her part. The way she said “speak soon”, the almost pleading tone, which surprised me, is a sign that she really wants to see more of me. I’m very happy to oblige. I’m already thinking of taking her to the Bristol Balloon Festival.
I didn’t phone her on the Tuesday as I didn’t want to seem too keen again, but besides that, there was little new to discuss. On the Wednesday night I spoke to my friend about the upcoming Farnborough Air Show and the weather forecast is rainy, except for the Sunday afternoon. I called The Brazilian at 8.15pm and ended up leaving a voice message. I then sent her a Whatsapp message just to make sure. Then I realised it was a Wednesday night, it’s when she seems to disappear. Peter Sarstedt said it best, “Where do you go to my lovely?”
I saw on Whatsapp that she logged on at 10.15pm and saw my message. I was tempted to phone her, not expecting her to answer because I would probably hear train noise in the background or a restaurant scene. My trust demon insists that she was on a date with another guy.
I now don’t trust The Brazilian at all. This is going to fizzle out quickly so I need to make the most of what’s on offer. If I do get to spend a night with her again, I’m going to slip on a condom and fuck her in the arse because that’s all she’s showing herself to be good for. If I’m really lucky and naughty, I might film this with my phone as a keepsake. I didn’t get to do that with Krazy Girl and so badly would have loved to have a video of me fucking her.
The similarity of this situation is not lost on me. Sweet Thing was followed by Krazy Girl, almost two identical sets of relationship styles – submissive and compliant followed by unavailable and difficult. Is Life playing games with me too? Is there something that I’m being shown for a second time for a reason? Is there a vital life-lesson somewhere in all of this that I’m missing?
On Thursday The Brazilian sends me a message on Whatsapp saying that she had developed tonsillitis and that it is very contagious so we won’t be going anywhere on the weekend. I texted her back asking if she would like any company over the weekend. No response for several hours. Then it dawned on me; she’s not interested in me. All the silence, the excuses were just her way of trying to brush me off. I know what a woman is like when she is interested in me and this isn’t it. I feel like an unwanted puppet on the end of her string.
I send her this Whatsapp message: “Sorry, I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake…message understood…you won’t be hearing from me again…good luck and goodbye.”
It is the shortest and most brutal message of its kind I’ve ever sent, but it reflects my mood. I feel cold and numb inside, a familiar numbness that was starting to feel like an old acquaintance that will never be a friend.
LESSONS LEARNED:1) It is now a fact to me that only by the end of the third date will you know if there will be a relationship. If there’s any doubt, then there’s no doubt. 2) We all have our own relationship style and for some people it is a negative one. 3) Tinder appears to be a hook-up app for people only interested in sex.
I can’t continue like this. I feel that I’m being dishonest with two women who deserve honesty. I’m sneaking around behind their backs and I don’t like how that makes me feel. This is not me at my best, more like me at the worst I’ve been with people. I’m looking for love and this isn’t the way to find it. I have to make a decision before one of them finds out about the other and I might lose what I’m looking for. It’s decision time.
Busty Blonde: She is very considerate and sweet. I trust and respect her. I have a wonderful sense of tranquillity when I’m with her, a calmness that feeds my soul. Does she feel like “The One”? No. Well, not at the moment. However, on paper she is almost everything that I need: positive, fun, devoid of drama, same taste in almost everything, gets my humour. The only thing “wrong” with her is that she isn’t as pretty as I would like. With time all our looks fade, so I’m not letting a fresh face influence me like it used to. I know and accept that there are imperfections about me in her mind too, but she’s decided to live with them.
Travel Gal: Her positives are that we share a love of travel and dogs. She’s a great cook and I enjoy eating good food. I feel intellectually stimulated when I’m with her. I trust and respect her too. However, her negatives weigh more. Her way of speaking irritates me. She’s starting to feel like a ‘Misery’, someone prone to being down in the dumps. Our last date was no fun at all; I drove for two hours to be bored for over a day. I sense that her mask reserved for early dates is starting to slide and I’m getting to see the real her. A major issue for me is that she just won’t suck my cock. I love getting a blowjob and a lifetime of no suction would feel like a prison sentence to me. I think that most men would feel that way.
There’s something else going on inside me that is influencing my thinking. I’m tired of reading women’s profiles that bear little resemblance to themselves in real life. I’m tired of meeting women who are more than five years older than their photos. I’m tired of wasting time, money and effort on oddballs, baby-brainers, gold-diggers, Miseries, psychopaths, confused cuties and emotional black holes.
I’m tired of internet dating.
I’m tired of a dating life that feels like an emotional roller-coaster. Yes, it’s given me some great life experiences, taught me necessary lessons and delivered good and bad sexual adventures, but I’ve had enough of it. I really want to lose myself in the warm, fuzzy cocoon of a committed relationship, especially one characterized by mutual love. I want to hold hands with and face the same future with someone who, for once, has my best interests at heart. I want to feel like I’ve found the best person I could be with. I want to share life with someone who would push me around in a wheelchair if need be and wouldn’t abandon me, because she’s with me for who I am and not what I can do for her.
Worryingly I suspect that I’m not entirely ready for what I seek. My trust issues have abated but are still present. I feel somewhat brutalized by my online dating experiences. Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl were massive disappointments to me. I was falling for both of them when it abruptly ended and the surprise of that exacerbated the pain. I’m concerned that in some ways I might be on the rebound. My shenanigans with other women has rocked my faith in womankind. Country Girl and Musician Gal were bitter experiences. Realizing that my Exgf is a cold-hard psychopath was a stunning revelation that has made me doubt my ability to know what someone is about. Feeling emotionally safe with a woman is something I yearn for but am finding increasingly rare to experience. I’m terrified of being taken for a ride by another woman. I’m scared of making another mistake; I don’t think I can deal with that. I need someone who can be patient with me. I’m not sure of much in the relationship department at the moment.
Yet a life without love is a life not worth leading, that I am sure of. I’m just not a selfish person and perhaps that will always be my undoing. I have to share my life with someone because any other kind of life is just not good enough. In order for that to happen I need to be with someone who wants the same things as me. I need to proceed with caution, I need to be with someone who makes me feel safe.
Busty Blonde is the most honest, decent and positive woman I’ve met through online dating. She is remarkable for that alone. Is that a good enough foundation from which love can grow? Perhaps. I need to be patient for that to happen because I know that love can’t be hurried. Patience, yes, that’s what I need…and also have to give.
Decision made: I going to see where things lead with Busty Blonde.
I phone Travel Gal, emboldened by my decision, but I still hate this part of dating. This crazy little thing called life is so much easier when you have a plan because you know what you need to do and you know what doesn’t suit the plan. Sometimes other people are not part of the plan, I know this, but it will always pain me to tell them this.
Travel Gal answers in a demure tone. Has she been expecting this call?
“Are you feeling better today?” I ask because of her cold, trying to soften the impending blow with a bit of common courtesy beforehand.
“No. I had to put my dog to sleep today,” she answers.
Instantly I feel like shit. I’m calling to dump her and she’s upset over the death of her loyal companion. He’s been more faithful to her than I have been. There’s no way I can dump her now. I’ll give it a few days and then try again. Maybe I’ll just make myself scarce and let her phone me when she feels better?
“I’m sorry to hear that. He was magnificent, possessing the sweetest personality I’ve ever encountered in a dog,” I say, meaning every word of it. Shit, that’s going to make her feel worse.
Travel Gal starts crying. I fall silent. Idiot.
I hate it when a woman cries. It takes me back to when I was little boy and I’d catch my mother crying after yet another fight with my father. Acidic, sepia-coloured memories of those dramatic days of my childhood mix with my feelings about having decided to dump Travel Gal, then they blend with the sound of her snorting back tears over the phone. I get a lump in my throat and my bottom lip quivers; I fall silent again. It’s the best I can do right now.
There’s no way I can dump her on this call.
After a minute of stifled sobbing Travel Gal regains her composure. I’m struggling to think of ways to make this call more pleasant for her without raising her hopes about me. My brain has slowed down too much under the weight of her news. I’m struggling to think of a way out.
“I get the impression that you’re calling me for a reason of your own,” Travel Gal says, breaking the heavy silence.
Shit, is she a mind-reader? I’ve hardly said anything. What does she mean exactly? Have I missed something?
“Uh…uh…,” I stammer like a horny, virgin teenager arriving at his date’s front door only to have it opened by her father.
“C’mon, out with it,” Travel Gal orders.
Wow, is aggression part of her grieving process? Fuckit, this is awkward. I don’t know what to say right now. Shit, let’s get this over and done with.
“I’ve been thinking about us. I’m sorry to say but I’m not convinced that we’re right for each other,” I say as compassionately as I know how. Well, she asked for it.
“Why?” she says directly without any hint of tearfulness. I’m surprised by her sudden change in attitude.
“Um, I think that we’re in different emotional places right now. Being more than two hours driving time apart is proving more of a pain than I had anticipated. I also think that in bed we’re not that well matched,” I say.
Too much honesty? I hope that she doesn’t ask for details. This could get messy. I’ve given her enough truths and more will only add to her hurt. Please don’t say “why” again…
“I see,” she says icily.
I don’t know what to say next. This call hasn’t gone anything like what I expected or am used to. I’ve still got so much to learn.
“Can I tell you something?” Travel Gal says after a few seconds of silence.
What the hell is coming my way now?! Am I about to lambasted with a verbal tirade of man-hating nonsense? Is she going to tell me something that will crush my world? Is there another guy on the scene? Has she seen me with another woman? Did she crack the password on my phone?
“You need to get some new underwear,” she says snottily.
“Sorry, what?” I blurt out. Where the hell has that come from?
“The first time we got intimate I was put off by your undies,” Travel Gal says.
“Well, they weren’t brand new and I wasn’t expecting anything to happen between us that day so I didn’t give it much thought” I say.
“That’s good to know,” she retorts.
“I guess there’s nothing much else left to say,” I proffer.
“Yes, you’re right. Goodbye.”
That was unpleasant but I don’t deserve better. I’ve been a shit with her although she doesn’t know this. I must and can do better in my conduct.
Okay Busty Blonde and patience, over to you…it’s time for a relationship.
“Feeling frisky?” is the first thing I say to The Irish Cougar when we awake after our night of unrestrained passion. The look in her eye said, “yes” and that’s all it took before we were at it again. It wasn’t long before we were doggy-style on the bed, with me pulling her hair back and my thumb in her bum. She certainly was a little cum-machine and she squeaked her orgasm out within minutes. Not long afterwards I unloaded fresh baby-batter into her.
She had to get to work, so a frenetic flurry of activity ensued on her part just before I was ushered out of the millionaire’s apartment…without being offered breakfast. It mattered not in the scheme of things and was totally in keeping with her selfish ways. I smiled to myself on the bus that took me back to my car because I felt that I had exacted my bit of revenge for her deceit…by deceiving her.
I felt no compulsion to ever see her again. Other than her sexual abilities I couldn’t stand anything about her. I couldn’t believe a word she said. Later that night I sent her the following email. I know that women prefer being dumped in person or over the phone, but I wanted to put it in writing so that it could serve as a reminder to her.
When I figured out your real age, I thought to myself “What is an almost 50-year old woman wanting with a 42-year old?”
“Ah, she’s just out for a bit of fun.”
I have kept an open mind about this, looking for evidence to the contrary.
In my world, if someone helps you move, pays the congestion charge, etc., it is customary to take them out for a meal.
Imagine my disappointment last night when you didn’t even offer to pay for the meal.
That oversight served to reinforce my perception that you’re out for yourself.
There is something in your profile that has bothered me and I think now that’s it’s all interrelated.
You’re looking for and am used to men having far more money than I currently have. I’m currently back at square-one: a 20-something kid starting a new life. I have my doubts that I can live up to your expectations regarding lifestyle. I have no doubt in my mind that as time were to go by that this would become a bigger problem between us. As I’m writing this, I’m getting ready to go off to Aldi and Lidl to do my groceries. I have never spent £70 on 3 carrier bags of food from M&S and probably never will. I have no doubt that your opinion of me would plummet if you saw my home.
My only 2 relationships ended with the same realization: they were with me for the money AND they had deceived me.
I was so excited after our first date. You can’t imagine my disappointment when I read your LinkedIn profile and saw your true age. I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt.
Your lying about your age was a cardinal mistake. To me it feels as if trust was strangled to death at the outset. My thinking about this is “If she lied about something so important, what else has she lied about?” I catch myself not believing half the things you tell me. It’s not natural for me to be like that. I’m by nature a very trusting person and have been badly taken advantage of in the past. Maybe I’m hyper-sensitive to deceit nowadays, but the slightest, smallest of white lies does not sit well with me at all.
You said that you’re looking for your soulmate. Me too. My soulmate would never have lied about anything, let alone her age.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this.
I just can’t see a way forward.
I wish you all the best.
You are remarkable and deserve the things you want.
I just don’t think we’re right for each other.
Her response came the next day and it was lame, centring on how wonderful her new life was going to be. I almost felt sorry for her…almost.
I’m struck by how quickly things between us degenerated. Our first date was promising but it was obviously my discovering her deception that halted matters abruptly in my heart. With every interaction her true personality came to the fore. Now just a matter of weeks later and it feels like I hate everything about her. I really need to stop being so easily impressed by a woman on a first date.
Telling lies on a dating profile is so stupid. The truth ALWAYS comes out, just how long it takes varies. Once the deceit is revealed, trust is damaged. In my experience women seem to lie about their age, weight and appearance. Women I’ve met on dates tell me that men lie about their height, jobs and income. It’s an age-old case of women trying to make themselves more physically attractive, while men try to appear to be able to make a woman feel safe physically and materially. Playing “I fool you, you fool me” only makes fools of each other.
This incident with The Irish Cougar has lowered my opinion of women even further. It has been on a downward slant for quite some time now. I’ve become aware of how acute my trust issue is, but every passing woman is making it worse, cementing what is already there. In my quietest moments I fear that I might never trust a woman again; it’s getting that bad.
I’ve always thought womankind to be something of a mystery, what with their unpredictable ways, inconsistent moods, mercurial decisions and emotion-driven behaviour. They’ve been a puzzle that I’ve been trying to solve all my life. I don’t think that I’m any closer to understanding women, but instead what I am learning via online dating is taking the shiny sparkle off them for me.
I used to think that the vast majority of women are good, kind, giving and supportive and only a few bad women existed on the periphery of society. It now seems to me that it’s the other way around and that a truly good woman, the kind I want, is a rarity.
I started out on my dating quest as a White Knight and with every new woman I meet it feels that I am becoming increasingly grey. I find myself doing things I ordinarily wouldn’t for reasons that are unfamiliar to me.
The shine is fading from my armour…and I’m not sure what to make of it all.
Wild Child looks sternly at my now fully-erect dick and I can see the temptation in her eyes. Time stands still. She licks her lips. Is she going to go down on it? Did she want to feel my cock filling her mouth? Would she look up at me with her beautiful blue eyes as she moved her head backwards and forwards with my penis in her mouth? Does she like sucking cock? I reckon she does. I can almost already feel her tongue doing circuits around my bell-end.
“No, I don’t think that I should. In fact, I think I should be going. It’s getting late and I’ve got a long day of viewings tomorrow. I don’t suppose I could trouble you to give me a lift to the train station in the next town over? It’s the line to my town,” she says, sitting up, straightening her clothing and bleached blonde hair that is somewhat dishevelled.
I now give up and stand up, put my cock away and smarten myself up. We get in my sports car and I drive to the station that she needs to catch her train from. I’m not feeling as charitable as to drive her all the way home again. I wait on the platform with her, letting her talk at me as usual. She doesn’t seem upset or shocked in any way about what just happened. Maybe it’s not all over? Everything with Wild Child is so grey; nothing is black and white. I have no idea what she thinks about or feels for me. It’s all so grey.
My phone burps into life with a text message, but I ignore it for fear of seeming rude. Funny, I wasn’t afraid to whip my cock out, but my phone is a no-no? Wild Child’s train arrives and I kiss her goodbye on the lips, to which she giggles.
I get in my car and check the text message. I can’t believe it! It’s from Krazy Girl!
“Hi. I’m working night shift on my own in XYZ Town. I’m bored. Don’t suppose you want to come keep me company?”
I was sitting in the middle of XYZ Town! What’s the chances of that?! And I’ve still got a respectable chubby in my pants…and I’m horny as all hell now. We’re less than a mile apart. I know that if I went to wherever she was that within a couple of hours she’d have my cock in her mouth and that would just be for starters. She’s the best shag I’ve ever had. I can’t believe my luck.
Oh, the temptation!
No, I’m not going.
Yes, I’d love to have some more of the best fucking I’ve ever experienced, but I know that afterwards my world will be turned upside down again. One thrust into her pussy and I’m hooked like a vegetarian tasting bacon. Tomorrow I’ll be totally obsessed with Krazy Girl, but I know that again she’ll play coy and distant games with me. The pain of that and the inevitable rejection I just can’t handle. I don’t deserve it and I don’t need it. I’m not getting on that roller-coaster again and I’m not going to let that roller-coaster ride me either!
You see, I suffer from what is called White Knight Syndrome. Apparently a lot of young men have this and they outgrow it, but I haven’t. It’s a deep-seated psychological affliction whereby I am irresistibly drawn to women with problems; damsels in distress. I make it my mission to help her with her problems, in the belief that my doing so will result in me looking like a hero to her; I’ll be her White Knight. She’ll get to see just how competent and dependable I am and my reward will be her undying love for me. It gets more sinister in that the focus of the relationship is her problems and issues, thus the spotlight will always be on her, never on me. It’s a very subtle form of control that can never work in the long-run as it will choke the woman’s affections. It’s a fool’s paradise, but at least I’m aware of it. When I learned of this syndrome after my divorce I knew that I had to be less of a White Knight and more of a Grey Knight.
I resist the temptation – the damsel in distress – that is Krazy Girl and I don’t respond, but instead go home, feeling proud of my having done what I know is the right thing for me. I lie in my bed and think more about what is right for me. I come to the conclusion that spending time with women who just aren’t right for me is bad for me in several ways. First, I’m wasting time that can’t be replaced. Second, opportunities to meet The One are passing me by. Third, it’s eating away at my emotional capital, my reserves of goodness that is best spent on someone who deserves and appreciates it.
I resolve that I must say goodbye to Wild Child sooner rather than later.
A few days later Wild Child tells me that she has a function after work on Wednesday night. I’m still deciding how to say goodbye to her; doing this will never come easily to me.
At just before 11pm on Wednesday night Wild Child sends me this text message:
“I’m totally pissed and been smoking hashish! Still in London and no idea how I’m getting up in the morning!”
I’m shocked, disgusted…and relieved. The latter emotion dominates because it now makes it easier for me to dump her, it vindicates my suspicions about her and makes it obvious just how wrong for me she is. The thought of her drunk and doped up makes my body cringe.
Despite being appalled, I do think of her’s and other’s safety. I offer to fetch her in London and drive her home as she’s in no condition to be driving, but she declines. I offer to fetch her at a nearby station if she gets off there and she can spend the night at mine, but again she declines. I feel no urge to take advantage of her condition, I’m now so disinterested in sex with her. Her irresponsibility only makes things worse for her. She’s reckless; I have no need for someone like that in my life.
The next day I send her a text message, laying out my thoughts and feelings. I emphasize my never tolerating drug use. I tell her that I need to trust my woman to exercise self-control when she’s away from me. I wish her all the best in her search (which I believe will be lengthy). I do this via text message because if I spoke to her on the phone I would lose my temper. As for doing it in person, quite frankly, she’s not worth the effort.
Her response is “That’s absolutely fine. I didn’t think the chemistry was there hence not ripping your clothes off. Good luck to you too. Take care.”
LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Don’t go on a date for the sake of it 2) If I don’t instantly like the look of her, I won’t with the passing of time 3) I can’t yet get a grip on what a woman is thinking and feeling when she’s with me; I must develop that otherwise I could be wasting my time 4) Women will go on repeated dates even if they think that the chemistry’s missing.