Tag Archives: first date

Date #56 – The Artist – Final part

It’s a bitterly cold Wednesday noon at the end of February 2015. I get to Tower Hill almost an hour earlier than our date, so I scout out the area and find a coffee shop near the Dickens Inn that I’ve never been to. I don’t want to spoil The Artist on the first date despite my wanting to make a good first impression. With time to kill I go to another coffee shop close to where we are to meet and I sit thinking about her and how this date could turn out. I’m really nervous and I don’t know why, but I suspect because I sense real potential with her despite the odds being against me. I know that in her country of origin – somewhere in central Europe – people are incredibly class and status conscious and if she’s of that mindset then we’re both wasting our time. Nothing ventured, nothing gained; it’s time to go find out.

As I sit nursing my over-priced coffee, I realize that this is the best I have felt about myself in several months. Something I’ve been wondering about is did my state of depression come about because I come off a high induced by copious amounts of exciting sex with glorified strangers? There was certainly a pervasive adrenaline rush that I was operating under for several years; I think of it as a prolonged sexualized state. I stopped the sex and the cold turkey stage was my depression?

I can’t think about that now, it’s finally time to meet The Artist. I make my way over to the exit to Tower Hill Tube station where I find a good spot to see and be seen. Thumbing my phone, I’m standing sending her a text message saying that “your knight in dented and tarnished armour is at his spot” when a crowd of people come through the turnstiles. I send my message and look up, wondering if she’s a new arrival. Out of the corner of my eye I fleetingly spot someone who might be her, but I don’t stare. It is her and she comes up to me.

The first impression of The Artist is not a good one. I had been wondering if she might be overweight, but the size of her shocks me. Then I realize that she’s wearing a poncho and her arms are by her side and that makes her look bigger than what she is. Her face is pleasant enough but not nearly as pretty as in all the photos I’d seen on the internet.

I kiss her hello on both cheeks out of habit, despite reading up the previous night that in her culture that that is not the done thing, but she seems happy enough about it. I’m wearing my regular first date outfit of blue jeans, white shirt and smart blazer. Without saying a word she slips a lapel of my jacket between her fingers and I think that she tries to say that I look very smart but I suggest that we get out of the way of the crowds.

“Are we going to St Katharine Docks?” she asks.

Fuck it. I was so hoping that it would be a wonderful surprise for her. So few Londoners even know it exists because it’s right next to Tower Bridge, an area heaving in tourists all year round so locals avoid it.

“Yes,” I say, with a scowl on my face.

“I’m sorry, have I ruined your surprise?” she asks.

“You’re no fun,” I retort and we laugh.

Her laugh is nothing special, but at least she has a sense of humour. People from her country are not famous for their sense of humour. I really can’t be bothered to conjure up an alternative plan on the spot so I decide to soldier ahead with my plan. I really want to see her in surroundings familiar to me, that will make it easier to see her in context.

“How do you know about St Katharine Docks?” I ask.

“My parents brought me here on holiday when I was a teenager and we stayed in the hotel there,” she replies.

“Oh, by the way, how do you pronounce your name?” I ask, not sure if it’s the French or German pronunciation. She tells me and it’s the German version.

“Do you know how to pronounce my name,” I ask, curious as to whether she knows how because native English-speakers struggle to get it right. She says it correctly and I’m impressed. She probably asked someone at work.

As we walk to St Katharine Docks the banter between us is relaxed with a healthy tinge of nervousness at times on both our parts. She’s very smiley and chatty, but I’m still nagged by a feeling of disappointment because it looks as if she made no effort to get dressed up for this date at all. I find that a little disrespectful. In the moment I realize that it’s perhaps not an entirely bad thing because if she was drop-dead stunning I would be so intimidated that my dating behaviour might be thrown off kilter.

We settle into our seats at a table in the coffee shop that I had scouted out earlier. Banter is incessant and comfortable, consisting largely of me asking questions and her doing the talking. She does like to talk. We order coffee and a tiramisu each. Most women on a date are very reluctant to eat anything, preferring usually something neutral to drink that they can nurse for a while. As they become more comfortable in my company they relent and order something, usually because hunger has caught up with them. Not so with The Artist, oh no, she keeps talking and still manages to finish her tiramisu before me. I don’t think anybody has managed to do that before.

As we talk it becomes evident to me that we are an intellectual match for each other. We both have an interest and ability to observe people’s behaviour. We both love history and travel, both have lived in several countries and speak several languages to varying degrees of fluency.

We have many other significant things in common in that we both come from unhappy childhood homes. Her mother died when she was 22 and my father died when I was thirteen. She is also an only child; I think we might be able to understand each other in a way few others can.

I find myself talking about the same old things that I have with the dozens of other dates that I’ve been on in recent years, but today it feels different; today it feels like it really matters. Swapping our life histories feels like the natural thing to do and I find hers mildly interesting. I’m paying attention because I know already that I want to see her again. From my side I feel some chemistry, but of course I have no way of knowing what she’s feeling.

As she speaks I become more taken with her appearance. I can see the good pictures of her on her profile, so if she makes the effort she can scrub up nicely. She has pleasant green eyes that seem soft and loving. Her skin is on the milky-white side but still touched by the sun, yet there are few blemishes. I don’t think that she’s the 38 years old that she states on her profile, she looks younger, but I’m not going to say anything, but will instead see how long it takes for her to come clean with me. Her golden-blonde hair up tight in a confused bun probably adds a few years. I bet she’s beautiful with her hair hanging down, just like in her profile photo that I’ve stared at so much.

So far I’ve come across with active interest and remember to go passive disinterested on her, so I deliberately turn sideways and lean back against the window behind me. She almost instantly leans forward, keeping the distance between us the same, which tells me that she’s very comfortable with me and wants to maintain the vibe.

I can feel the sun on my back and she gets some sun on the front of her, nevertheless I realize that is on the chilly side in this coffee shop, probably from the refrigeration equipment. It surprises me then to see The Artist every few minutes taking another layer of clothing off until she is only wearing a thin vest-like top. I make a concerted effort to not let her catch me checking out her breasts; I know it comes across as lame and immature to a woman notices a man doing that. I also know from female friends and Busty Blonde that their breasts are something they are particularly cautious about.

So it surprises me further when The Artist sits back in her seat, puts her arms around the back of her seat and essentially sticks her breasts out at me. I deliberately don’t look, struggling manfully to fight Nature and keep looking her in the eye. Only when she looks away a few times do I stare at what I consider an amazing rack; I would love to fondle and kiss them. How does she not fall over when she walks? Patience; she’s either subconsciously trying to attract me or is deliberately doing this for whatever reason. I would prefer it if it was the former because that makes it more sincere and powerful.

Conversation between us twists and turns easily and naturally. It becomes evident to me that we have a very similar way of looking at matters and interpreting them. I sense that she has a gentle nature, but more importantly I come to the conclusion that she is a Good Girl and a Giver. I can trust her and I already know from her life story that I can respect her. I’m starting to sense serious relationship material here.

Its been a couple of hours now and I don’t want this quick coffee date to end any time soon, but it’s getting cold in here and these seats are uncomfortable. I didn’t want to do this on our first date for fear of spoiling her if I thought that there would be a second date, but walking over to the Dickens Inn is the obvious thing to do. Will she want to do this? It’s a big assumption to think that she’s as interested in me as I am in her, but ‘he who fears rejection never knows love’.

“I’m getting hungry. How about we go share a pizza and a drink over there?” I suggest, nodding toward the Inn, holding my breath as I await her answer.

“Yes, I am too. Sounds like a good idea,” she says without any hesitation.

Oh yes, I think she’s feeling what I’m feeling too. Her smile and eyes hint at this. I also get the feeling that she wants to touch me; I don’t know why I think this, but I do. She goes off to the ladies and I guard her belongings that she has left at the table. I sit there in a mild stupor, contemplating the hereto unimaginable in that I might have finally found The One. Stop it, I’m being stupid, it’s only been a few hours…but I can’t help feeling this way.

Upon her return I say “My turn,” but I don’t go to the ablutions and instead go settle the bill for our coffees and cakes. I steal a glance her way and she’s sitting staring out at the marina, smiling to herself. She looks happy.

I return to our table and help her get her layers back on. She seems quite at ease with me doing so, unlike some of the other women I’ve dated who didn’t have a clue what was going on or didn’t like it. The Artist is as classy as I was expecting. Good, she might appreciate some of my old-fashioned touches and in the next few hours together I’ll know for sure, not just about that, but a host of other things too.

“We need to pay,” she says.

“I’ve already taken care of it,” I respond with a wry smile.

“Oh, well then thank you,” she retorts.

“You’re welcome,” is all I say. Hmm, she has manners too; that’s good. So many of my dates haven’t had the common decency to say ‘thank you’ for anything.

We get seated in the Dickens Inn at a quiet table away from the hubbub and my regular waiter gives me a knowing wink. He’s not done that before. Does he know something I don’t?

Pizza and wine is ordered quickly, something I pay attention to wondering if she’s a ditherer. To my delight she’s decisive and orders the spiciest pizza on the menu and asks the waiter for a bottle of tabasco sauce. She likes her food spicy, which pleases me because I know it’s a sign of her being an enthusiastic lover.

We make pleasant small-talk about our travels and I ask where she wants to go to next. It’s a ploy I’ve used in the past with other dates, getting them to project forward about something positive as this makes for a pleasant date. Today my question isn’t about mind games, it’s genuine interest. The Artist rattles off a series of places that I’ve already been to, but I say nothing, pleased again that she shares an interest in similar places. I can see myself going back to these places with her, especially China, Japan and Turkey.

We lose ourselves in conversation and an idea comes to me as we finish dessert. I do my old dating trick of presenting her my spoon laden with dessert to see if she’ll play along. She has the same dessert on her plate but to my delight leans forward and with a naughty tinkle in her eye takes my spoon in her mouth.

My heart thunders as I smile.

Another idea comes to me, all my moves are coming out tonight.

“What colour are your eyes?” I ask.

“Light green,” she says.

“I can’t see. Come closer,” I respond.

She leans forward again, leaning her breasts on the table.

“I still can’t see. Closer,” I say.

The Artist smiles, I think she’s rumbled my plan, but nevertheless leans over as far as she can.

I lean forward, my lips stopping just short of hers. I look her in the eye.

She almost stands up out of her seat, her elbows on the table propping her up and our lips meet.

Her lips feel like fine strands of silk.

She has no hesitation in kissing me, that’s good. As first kisses go it’s not bad, but not as good as I would like. Maybe I’ve been spoiled in the past?

The Artist smiles and sits back in her seat, there’s a hint of a blush.

“Did you write to me hoping that I would answer?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, with a coy smile.

The restaurant staff noisily start closing for the night and we realize that we’re the last patrons. I settle the bill while The Artist goes to the ladies. She makes a point of thanking me for paying when she returns to the table and realizes what I’ve done.

Walking back to the Tube station I stop her twice and under a clear moon above we embrace in increasingly passionate kisses. I don’t want this night to end. I want to talk more, get to know more about her, make plans for the future and walk around holding her hand. I resist the urge to extend the evening and risk spoiling it somehow. I’ve learned it’s best to end a date on a good note, leaving the woman wanting more. We say our goodbye at the Tube station, agreeing to be in touch again.

She is one of the prettiest women I have met for a date. I struggle to think of a woman I’ve met with bigger breasts than her. She is definitely my intellectual equal and we both love history. I think that she’s very sweet and has made her fair share of mistakes in relationships.

I’m disappointed by her poor dress sense for a first date; a shawl, a gilet and a poncho is not very elegant. In the grand scheme of things that’s trivial.

Can I live with her imperfections? Yes, at the moment they seem petty. Do I realistically think that I can do better than her? Possibly, but it will take a long time. Do I think I can fall in love with her? I’m inclined to say ‘yes’, but it’s only been one date.

I consider it quite an achievement to have gone on a date with her. I’ve felt a bit on the defensive the whole time since I first saw her profile because she seems a social class above me, now having met her I still feel that way. However, I want to see where things lead with her. There are two milestones in the future, the first is getting her to sleep with me and the second is to have a relationship with her. I’m pretty confident that I can bed her, but it’s too soon to say if we can have a relationship.

I am so taken with The Artist that on my train home I send a text message to someone whom I’m supposed to meet on the weekend saying that I’ve met someone else and that her and I won’t be meeting any time soon.

The Artist feels good and right, perfect even, but I’ve been here before.

Jeff Buckley – Hallelujah

Date #56 – The Artist

I was browsing my Happy Humping Ground dating website in the middle of 2014 having just ended it with Busty Blonde when I spotted a face that equalled perfection in my mind. It was desire of all kinds at first sight. Her profile was short but enticing, I just knew that I’d be seeing her one day…I just knew. However, always the pragmatist I told myself that the likelihood of her writing back to me was small because she’s new on the site and probably swamped with emails from guys. I’ll give it a little time and then make more of an impact once she’s dealt with the clowns that descend on a new profile like piranhas to a swimming tapir.

I then become embroiled with The Brazilian, The Saffa, The Busty Czech and The Cockaholic and go on other dates. Time flies by and I still think of her every time I think of that dating site. Over Xmas 2014 the site gives me a free weekend of messaging and I decide to make contact with her. I was disappointed to see that her profile had disappeared. I make contact with a few other prospects but nothing comes of it.

It doesn’t matter because I’m still bewildered by my experience with The MILF of Xmas and all my raunchy but soul-sapping dating experiences before that. I drunkenly step up to verge of suicide and in splendid isolation fight my own demons for a while.

I forget about her and the site until one night at the end of January 2015 I spot her on Tinder, but we didn’t match. I’m surprised to see her on there, but I guess Tinder is mainstream now.

It’s now late February 2015 and I’m disenchanted with online dating, especially the free sites. Looking at my spreadsheet of my dating history, I can clearly see that 80% of my dates off free sites were bad ones and 80% off paid-for sites were good dates. I hide my free dating site profiles and unhide my profiles on Happy Humping Ground and the national newspaper’s dating site.

On the Happy Humping Ground I’m pleased to see that the profile that captured my attention is back online. I notice too that the website has introduced an innovation whereby users can ‘like’ each other’s photos. I ‘like’ her main photo, the one I find mesmerising, add her profile to my ‘favourites’ and leave it at that. There’s no guarantee she’ll notice my attention nor even act on it. I go exploring other profiles on the website, not expecting to hear anything from her.

A couple of hours later my blood turns cold and my face drops when I see that she’s sent me a message, but I can’t read it because I’m not a subscriber. I instantly decide to subscribe, but first I do a search to find a discount code because this site is getting pricey. I can’t let this opportunity pass me by. I’ll always wonder what could have been.

Her message simply reads, “Thank you for liking my photo.

I find it underwhelming, but I haven’t subscribed for nothing. I want to at least meet her, I’m that taken with her. I do a Google Images search and find out her name, her job and her Facebook account. She’s almost five years younger than me. A photo on Facebook hints that she has enormous breasts, g-cup minimum. All her photos of herself are of her with a tight-lipped smile. Does she have bad teeth, I wonder? Something that bothers me a little is that her eyes are almost lifeless and sad if I really study them. I think they suggest a history of hurt, so I know to proceed slowly with her. Is she another Misery?

I find out what kind of art she specializes in and it’s not too far removed from my own passing interest in that genre. She even lectures on the subject in London. So, she’s a teacher of kinds; that means she’ll be a bit intense if my other experiences with teachers are anything to go by. I decide to message her and ask what art she is into and tell her of my passing interest in something similar.

I think of her as The Artist.

My ruse works, she’s intrigued and a flurry of messages ping-pong across the internet all Sunday afternoon. Every time one of her messages comes in, my heart skips a beat. It feels almost like I’m starting dating again and it feels good. I suggest meeting up and she agrees, so we fix a day and swap phone numbers. I send her a text message and she quickly responds. We’re set to meet on Wednesday, which feels like an eternity away. Conversing with her feels good. I can’t wait to meet her.

On Monday morning I get the idea in my head to talk to her on the phone. I’m aware that I might be getting carried away here so I want a reality check. I send her a text message suggesting that we talk in the evening. I’ve never been a fan of a so-called ‘screening call’. In my dating experience nothing good has ever come from it, yet I feel the need to do so with The Artist.

An hour later she responds with a firm “I’m not a fan of phone-calls with strangers.” Her response surprises me and reminds me of Baltic Babe in its directness and frankness. Not necessarily a bad thing in my book as it shows some strength of character. I back-peddle, make a joke about wanting to see if she had a deeper voice than me and press on with fixing a place to meet on Wednesday. Have I blown it?

No, she’s still interested and asks me to suggest where to meet. I take the lead and suggest my tried and tested spot outside Tower Hill Tube station. I’ve taken so many other dates to St Katharine Docks, why not her too? It’ll help my performance if it’s on familiar ground. I respond with, “I’m going to take you to my favourite place in the world…

Her response starts with “That sounds exciting…

Is she as sweet as she seems or is she bored and just using dating as a social outlet, pampering her ego by having men buy her meals and drinks, like many women on the dating scene seem to do? Time will tell.

Am I seeing what’s there, or am I projecting what I want? In recent dates I’ve paid more attention to the build-up to the first date. I’ve tried to make it feel more like a romance that is is unfolding, trying to make a fairytale come true, just in case whoever I’m interacting with is The One.

I keep telling myself that she’s highly unlikely to be The One, that she’s too artsy-fartsy for me. That she’s too high-brow for me and I’m just a bit of rough in her world. However, the heart wants what the heart wants. The last time I was this excited about meeting someone was Krazy Girl, almost two years ago to this day.

It feels like I’ve come full circle, going to the dating website where it all began 32 months ago. I’m concerned that I’m becoming desperate to find love. I know I’m in the danger zone where it’s easy to make a mistake, a mistake to get involved with somebody all wrong for me or a mistake while pursuing someone so right for me. I know that tomorrow I’ll need to draw on all my skills and experience to deliver the correct image of a polished man. I must at all costs avoid coming across as desperate.

For some reason this feels like a date with destiny. It’s possibly desperation on my part kicking in, but I like to think that I know a good thing when I see it.

Could she be The One?

To be continued…

Date #55 – The Nurse

I recognize a pretty face on Plenty of Fish (PoF) that I haven’t seen for a while. It’s not unusual for me to see faces disappear and reappear on PoF because I’ve been using it for over two years and people do embark on relationships that don’t work out. I’ve been there, done that too.

This returning face and I had swapped a few brief messages more than a year ago but she seemed evasive and I didn’t pursue matters because she was undecided about having children. Now on the back of discovering a hack for PoF, I’m getting more messages than ever before and while dealing with these I notice her memorable face. She seems to have moved from a town to the north of me to a town closer to the south of me. Most importantly in the process she has also decided that she doesn’t want children. Her profile is witty and she has a homely look about her that makes her seem different to the other faces on this dating site.

On a Wednesday night I write to her, commenting on a witticism in her profile and quite honestly expecting to hear back from her. After all this time and all these messages I’ve developed a feeling for when I know that I’ll get an answer. To my surprise she doesn’t answer.

Late on Friday afternoon I get a message from her, saying that she had responded on Wednesday night using her phone but then checking her PoF email on a computer she sees that her response was never sent. I find her story plausible but am also struck by her determination to be in contact with me. A little keenness on a woman’s part is always a good thing in my burgeoning dating book.

We start swapping messages and by Saturday lunchtime we’re talking on the phone. I’ve never been a fan of the so-called ‘screening call’ on the phone because I think that so much of communication is non-verbal that even a phonecall can be ambiguous. Also accents get exaggerated on a call, which might put some people off me. However, this one goes well and we seem to connect, discovering that she works in my town and that her father used to live in my apartment complex.

It also surprises me to learn that she works as a nurse in a school a couple of blocks from me. I thus think of her as The Nurse.

She tells me that when we first swapped messages on Pof that she was also in contact with a guy whom she ended up having a relationship with for a year. I ask about her now not wanting children and she says that that was always the case, but her friends had told her to put ‘undecided’. Just how much of her profile was created by this committee of well-meaning friends?

We talk for over an hour and there’s no shortage of banter, but I realize that The Nurse seems to attach a negative slant to every topic of conversation. I end the call by suggesting that we meet up one night in my town after work. She responds affirmatively and I leave it there, slightly concerned that she’s a Misery, but my curiosity is in charge.

The previous night I had met Tall Gal and tomorrow I’m meeting Cultural Allsorts, so my dating fortunes are still favourable. I’m not allowing my hopes to venture further than mild interest in The Nurse.

On Monday morning I get a text message asking if we can meet after work, at 4.30pm, to which I agree. I’m less than ecstatic, but at least its local and shouldn’t be too expensive. I’m not expecting much, it’s just unfinished business.

Could The Nurse be the One?

I walk the mile to the pub and it’s early February, so it’s chilly out. I hope that The Nurse offers to give me lift home. She’s there before me, sitting at a table for two and from the get-go I don’t like the look of her. The Nurse is a lot older than her photos; they’re at least five years old. I now think it the norm that women use old photos on their profiles, but I’ll never like it. When will this shit end?!

She’s got many wrinkles around her eyes whilst in her photos she has none. The Nurse is also gaunt and doesn’t look healthy. Despite this she has a remarkable rack, e-cup minimum, but ignoring this latter facet I’m underwhelmed. I know enough about women’s hair habits to know that she is probably largely grey under that carefully worked on, unnaturally glossy head of uniformly dark blonde hair.

I sit down at the table she has chosen and banter flows easily. I think my being relaxed makes chit-chat easy because I know that there’s no physical attraction from my side and therefore little hope of any kind of relationship. I’m treating this as a social outing now and my demeanour must put her at ease.

Exactly as I expected The Nurse attaches a negative slant to everything. She doesn’t moan but can’t help but present the negative side to any topic of conversation. The novelty of that wears off very quickly; ho-hum. She’s also a naturally highly-strung and intense person. Nevertheless her body language is positive, open and relaxed, occasionally she leans forward when talking to me. I’m sitting back in my seat and I know that I’m passive disinterested, leading proceedings by initiating topics of conversation and suggesting drinks or something to eat.

After a couple of hours of conversation it occurs to me that The Nurse is a mixture of three women whom I have dated in the past: Wild Child in appearance with a similar face and big tits, Lusty Lass in negative outlook and Pretty Teacher in intensity.

Having been on more dates than most people go on in their lives, after listening to The Nurse’s account of her upbringing, I can conclusively say that if a little girl goes through a turbulent childhood, her relationship history in adult life will be the same.

Her father was a philanderer and her own longest relationship has only lasted three years; most seemed to last less than a year. She speaks about some of her exe’s with an acidic bitterness, especially one whom she lived with for eight months of their three year relationship.

I think there must be a particular personality type that is attracted to nursing, or nursing turns women into this type. The Nurse is intense and highly strung, while the similarity in personality to The Pretty Teacher is striking. I wonder if she is OCD too?

I’ve come to expect some nervousness or guardedness in the first hour or two before a woman lets herself relax in my company, but this woman is being herself. The vast majority of people can not put on a positive, relaxed physical posture while being emotionally uncomfortable. Tonight’s date is physically at ease, so this is how she is when emotionally comfortable. No wonder she’s single again and had so many relationships. She’s what I call a Misery – she puts a negative spin on everything, chooses to share negative stories, has a generally dark atmosphere about her, it’s as if ominous rain-clouds perpetually follow her.

There is a growing collection of metaphorical red flags draping the table between us; you can’t see any wood. There isn’t any cause for optimism with her in any sense. I’m getting bored, such is my disdain for this person and, remembering the words of The English Shrink, I feel jaded by yet another disappointing date.

I decide to turn the conversation interesting over dessert. Well, interesting for me.

“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, not sure what her answer will be.

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

I’m surprised, her answer tells me that she’s exciting in bed. She has a good body and nice tits, but I still have no interest in shagging her.

Like so many women on a first date, she declines having any dessert, but I decide to be naughty. I have a mouthful of the chocolatey tiramisu, she watches me slowly put the spoon in my mouth. I scoop some more up and rest my elbow on the table, extending the spoon just over halfway across the table towards her. She smiles and shakes her head, saying “No, thank you.” I ignore her words and keep my arm steady…and make sly eyes at her. She notices this and we’re at a little standoff, a clash of wills. I don’t move and we maintain eye contact without saying a word.

After a few more seconds she slowly leans forward, still looking into my eyes and puts her mouth around the spoon, closes it and gives me the kind of look with her blue eyes that I think she would if she had just taken my cock in her mouth. Slowly pulling her head back she releases the spoon and it’s clean. We keep strong eye-contact and don’t say a word. I can see she’s running her tongue around inside her mouth, savouring the taste of all that chocolate and cream, then without blinking slowly swallows, all the while maintaining strong eye-contact with me.

I love moments like that. I’ve done it with several other women and it is a turn-on for me in so many ways. First, it says that her will is weaker than mine. Second, she is prepared to submit to me. Third, it tells me that she probably has a naughty side. Fourth, it is clearly a simulation of oral sex and her doing that tells me she doesn’t mind or perhaps even enjoys doing that. I think it also stirs something inside a woman; some might get turned on.

We’re the last people left in the pub and the staff are starting to close up. “Shall we call it a night?” I ask.

“I think we’d better. I’ve got school in the morning,” she says.

I think we’re both surprised as to how long this first date has lasted. I go to the counter and settle the bill, which was £60, a lot more than I thought this evening would cost me. I go back to The Nurse and help her put her coat on.

“Aaw, you’re trying to be a gentleman,” she says with surprise.

“I’m not trying, I am,” I retort. She’s obviously not used to this kind of consideration by a man.

I escort The Nurse to her car which is parked next to another small car. There are no other cars around in the car park.

“Which of these is yours?” I ask, wondering if she’ll realize that I walked here.

“That one,” she answers, gesturing to the smaller, older one. “Look, there’s frost on the windows,” she says and gets a scraper out her car and begins cleaning her windows.

“Would you like me to do that for you?” I ask, again being the gentleman that my mother raised me to be. I’m also feeling a little surplus to requirements.

“No, I can manage,” she says. These thoroughly modern, independent English women insist on making life hard for themselves. “You really don’t need to wait around,” she chides.

“I’m not leaving until your car is running,” I respond with a smile.

Once she finishes clearing the frost she says, “Thank you for dinner. I’ll get the next one.”

I just smile and kiss her on each cheek. I don’t have the heart to say that there won’t be a next time. She obviously enjoyed the evening and wants to see me again, why spoil things now? I’d rather she fell asleep feeling good for a little while.

The Nurse gets in her car and closes the door. I watch her drive off into the black night. It’s at least -1C and I walk home.

She is a good person but not The One.

I’ve been here before, several times in fact. She is Tech Titan. She is Sweet Thing. She is Busty Blonde and Busty Czech. She is like all these woman who seemed promising while they thought I was their One. I know now that she isn’t going to be The One and that I should not go down a familiar road that leads to that dead-end of hurt and regret.

The next morning I send her my standard ‘thanks-but-no’ text message. At lunchtime she responds with “I enjoyed the evening with you too. That’s fine. Good luck.

The thought of The Nurse and her permanent negativity makes my spine shiver. I wriggle my shoulders to shake off the feeling of yuck that threatens to enshroud me.

I disable my profile on Plenty of Fish. I now think of it as ‘Plenty of Freaks’.

Diary of Dreams – Tears of Laughter

Date #52 – Lovely Lawyer

When I was seeing Busty Blonde, Travel Gal and going on one-off dates with the two Russians at the end of 2013, I got an email off the newspaper site from an intriguing blonde. I had enough to contend with, so I responded with “Sorry, I’m not looking for anyone right now.” The biggest problems I had with her was that she was two years older than me and seemed a little flat-chested; other than that she met the paper-based criteria I have. As I write this it’s a year ago all that was happening.

A couple of months after I had finished with Busty Blonde I remembered this intriguing blonde as I clicked through the newspaper website, seeing who’s new and what’s changed. Her profile was exactly the same as before and she had recently been online. It had recently occurred to me that the dates who contacted me first tended to result in a higher quality of interaction. I used the free one-liner chat-up facility to see if she might still be single and interested in lil’ ol’ me. The next day she checked out my profile but didn’t respond. Hers was the only profile on the site that was of interest to me, but her lack of response told me that there was no point in subscribing.

Now fast forward six months to just after Christmas 2014 and matters between me and the MILF of Xmas have ground to a shuddering halt. The newspaper dating site has given me a free one week subscription and the intriguing blonde was the first thought that popped into my mind. I had nothing to lose so I wrote a polite approach email, not really expecting to hear back from her.

The next day she writes back with a lengthy, wordy response that I like the tone of. She even has the foresight to provide an email address, which impresses me. It also tells me that she really wants to be in touch with me. Just from her choice of words I can tell that we’ll get along, at least in the conversation stakes. Will we have chemistry? Will that all-important lust factor be there?

She only has three photographs in her profile, one of which stirs something in my soul, no, not my loins. It’s a photo of her in a light-blue cardigan, her golden blonde hair loose around her shoulders and a daring look in her eyes. It’s a wholesome her with a hint of naughtiness. That photo makes me want to step up to her, put a hand on her hip and with my other hand cup the back of her head, feeling her hair resting on the back of my hand and then stoop down to give her a gentle kiss that makes her body go weak.

Her primary photo is of her dressed in formal attire, presumably heading off for a day at the races and it makes her look so prim and proper that she looks dorky. Not as good look. The third photo is of her holding up a wine glass at some Xmas party or industry awards event. She’s smartly dressed, but her face is partially obscured behind the glass. The tone of that picture tells me that she is social but can be guarded. Are those the most prominent sides to her personality? Does one of those prevail and if so, which one?

The content in her profile speaks of someone who likes variety (same as me) and has an interest in high-brow matters. Her favourite television show is a political satire. She claims to like a good debate, something that doesn’t sit too well with me, but I can hold my own. In the past this has indicated an argumentative personality. I wonder if she’s a sapiophile – a woman whose knickers get wet when talking to an intelligent man?

I write to her personal email address and she responds. All very positive so far, but at the time I’m contemplating suicide. Not the best of mindsets to be in when meeting someone new. My heart isn’t in it really, I’m just going through the motions to an extent.

It’s New Year’s Eve, so I don’t write back, having learned that it’s best to pace things slowly at first, then to increase the level of attention as the day of the first date draws near. She then writes again, on New Year’s Day, asking if I had got her previous email. She’s either really keen or a little intense with OCD tendencies. There’s a reason she’s single, after all, so what might it be?

I give her my mobile number in an email and she responds with hers. We’ve agreed to meet this coming Saturday and I’m looking forward to it. I’m intrigued by her. I connect with her on WhatsApp and suggest we chat. It’s been a while since I’ve done that and I’m thinking nowadays that it’s still a good screening mechanism. I’ll treat this as an experiment. Given that she is Date #52, the harsh reality is that she’s unlikely to be The One.

Her email address has her full name so I Google that; it’s a popular name. There’s a lack of photos and through a process of elimination and findings on the internet I arrive at the conclusion that she’s a lawyer. That doesn’t sit well with me. Baltic Babe and Lusty Lass were both lawyers and Miss Indecisive worked in law. All were intense, rigid-minded individuals for whom fun was a luxury. Could she be different? Time will tell.

I’m really looking forward to this date. Could she be The One?

Not likely, but one day it’ll happen. It could be said that it’s overdue. However, if I am right in that she’s a lawyer, then I’m a little uneasy because I’ve seen her type before. Country Girl, Musician Gal and Pretty Teacher come to mind in that they were all ‘independent’ and married to their jobs. She is likely to be what I call a ‘London girl’, someone brought up on the idea of being an independent woman, secretly carrying an adversarial attitude towards men, bordering on disrespectful.

I’m going to make a concerted effort to lean back in my seat at the dinner table and see how long it takes for her to lean forward. That’s my little challenge for myself, just to keep my dating skills sharp and fresh.

The night before our date she cancels, citing work. I take her explanation with a pinch of salt. Nevertheless she makes a concerted effort to keep in touch via email and text messages. Apparently she’s working on a big deal at work. I noticed in the business news that her employer is involved in one of the biggest takeovers in British corporate history. My faith in her is restored.

Weeks of excuses go by, but I’m not bothered about this because I’m getting my own act together. I need to be in a better frame of mind if I am to find and makes the most of what and who I am looking for. Perhaps all of these delays are happening as part of a greater divine scheme so that when we meet it’s all just perfect? It might be a case of my suffering is going to be rewarded?

Towards the end of January we eventually meet. Some things will never change it seems.

Her photos are at least five years old. I wouldn’t have recognised her if it wasn’t for her walking up to me outside Tower Hill Tube station. That familiar feeling of deflation took its usual place in my being. As we walk to St. Katharine Dock I am struck by how upbeat and lively she is, a pleasant surprise, but I guess my spending weeks by myself in a morose state will eventually have an effect. I’m pretty sure that she likes the look of me given how friendly and tactile she is. We sit down to lunch in the Dickens Inn, but she isn’t interested in food or drink, only in talking to me. It feels like a replay of that first date with Brazilian.

We are definitely an intellectual match and I enjoy talking to her, but I just don’t fancy her. She is too old and wrinkly for me to feel physically attracted to her. We have much in common, want the same things from life – someone to hold hands with when we’re really old and decrepit – both love to travel, exploring strange lands, learning interesting things for ourselves, cooking exotic foods, etc.

Yes, I was right, she is a corporate lawyer, but I didn’t let that stand in the way of anything. She is also very flat-chested, something that would probably bother me more and more as time went by. In terms of personality she is wonderful: open, gregarious, fair-minded and funny.

I think of her as the Lovely Lawyer.

Conversation flows easily, but at times I feel myself getting a little too negative in terms of what we are discussing. She didn’t seem to mind and is often flicking her hair which denotes physical attraction and playing with her ears which speaks of intellectual pleasure. She is indeed a sapiophile and loves getting to the crux of a topic. I spot her nipples hardening under her pale blue cardigan as we discuss the state of the economy. I would have been happy to spend the rest of the day talking to her, but I think that speaks more of my loneliness than anything else.

The Lovely Lawyers starts telling me about her relationship history. It’s quite similar to mine in that she has had a weakness for and a knack of becoming involved with people who are wrong for her. In essence our issue is the same: we want to be loved more than anything else. I sense that she is capable of the kind of love I have to offer and seek in return. Like me, she can revel in love at the expense of everything else, usually at great expense. She could very much be the quintessential woman in love; a rarity in my experience.

It’s such a shame that I don’t fancy her, otherwise she’d be perfect. I really like her personality, but I’ve tried with Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde to look past the lack of lust and it just doesn’t work for me. It’s so sad and I get a little choked up about it. Perfectly good, decent women I am having to pass over knowing full well that I can trust and respect them.

That wow factor HAS to be there, it doesn’t work for me otherwise. I don’t want to go hurting and damaging a great person by trying to do what I know I can’t do. So, Stupid Boy here is growing up and learning to resist what he knows is wrong for him. I’m not going to hurt another innocent woman; I’ve done more than enough of that.

I can tell that she’s happy to spend the rest of the day with me and an earlier version of me would have done so, but I’m more mindful of the other person I’m meeting nowadays. I don’t want to give her the wrong idea and let her get her hopes up. I’m also not at my best right now, so even if I did fancy her, she would run the risk of becoming enamoured with someone who is going to change in the near-future.

Lunch ends and Lovely Lawyers suggests going across the way to a comfortable-looking coffee shop, but I take the opportunity to end the encounter. Her face shows her disappointment, but I think that is better than her becoming embroiled with me. I’ll be a cannonball that she’s dodged, she just doesn’t know it.

The next day I send her my standard ‘thanks, but no thanks’ email message. She responds with words of disappointment.

Meeting her has restored my faith in women to a small extent.

My search continues.

Barbra Streisand-Woman In Love

Date #51 – The MILF of Xmas

I swore to myself that there would be no more dates this year. The experiences with The Cockaholic and The Saffa has left me uneasy with dating. Worse still I’m starting to give up on the fanciful notion of love. In a fit of boredom one night before switching the light out, now a week after ending things with The Cockaholic, I go onto Tinder and within minutes match with someone who is five years younger and ever so cute. I think about it and decide to do nothing. Why bother? I think I know how this will end: either being ghosted or disappointed. The next morning, I realize that I’m in no position to let opportunities pass me by.

I fire off a message and not long afterwards she responds. She seems to want to discuss things, which indicates a cautious nature, but could also indicate a combative style of relationship, constant adversity is what she gets her kicks from. How do I tell? I can’t, this mindset is brought on by my recent encounters, I know this but I can’t help it.

On Friday she suggests a place to meet the next day and asks me what time suits me. I respond within minutes and I don’t hear from her for almost a day. It could be Tinder’s shit notification system not working again. It is also a busy time of year, less than a week before Xmas.

I send her my phone number and half an hour later she puts in an appearance on Tinder and sends me the same message on WhatsApp. We agree to meet on Saturday after lunch in a town halfway between each of us. Christmas is on Wednesday, but maybe it’s come earlier for me.

Could she be The One?

She suggested that we meet at a cake and coffee shop and I get there first. It’s busy and there’s a queue, but no sign of her. I send her a message on WhatsApp saying it’s busy and she responds saying that she’s parking. I go wait outside in the cold for her. There are too many noisy children in there for my liking. It’s one of the reasons I don’t want children i.e. the noise factor. I like peace and tranquillity. This isn’t a great setting for a quiet getting-to-know-you chat.

I like the look of her from the moment I see her. She’s prettier than I expected and despite wearing very high heels I could see that she’s quite short. She tells me that she’s five foot three inches tall. A nice height; I like petite. Surprisingly a table becomes free as we go inside the coffee shop. She takes her Winter coat off and I sneak a peek at her body which is slim and trim. I like what I see so far. I develop an almost instant appreciation for her hair; it’s in the 80s Farah Fawcett wavy tresses style that I love. She’s not a blonde, but fair enough for my liking.

We’re sitting at a cosy table for two and instantly hit it off. She tells me that she’s a speech and language therapist at her local primary school. I find that endearing as it hints at what kind of person she is i.e. caring and supportive. Conversation is easy and I sense that she likes the look of me too; her naughty smile and sly eyes tell me so. She orders a lemon meringue sundae and I have a chocolate cherry waffle. We tease each other by sharing spoonfuls of each other’s choice. I can see that she’s enjoying feeding me. I sense a naughty side to her. It isn’t long before the conversation turns sexual at her instigation, with her starting to talk about 50 Shades of Grey. Yip, she’s thought of sex with me, but so have I. I fancy her and it’s a good feeling.

It doesn’t take long before I get a long-forgotten feeling: she feels right. There’s chemistry, there’s witty banter, there’s physical attraction. I like everything about her so far. I haven’t felt this way since Baltic Babe.

Have I finally found The One?

After about an hour things are going just swimmingly when she lands the bombshell on me: she has a kid. A little boy who is eight years old. I feel so deflated but I try to not let it show. I decide to soldier on and keep being interested and interesting. I think of her as ‘The MILF (Mother I’d Like to Fuck) of Xmas’.

Until now I have deliberately avoided meeting women with children. That kind of relationship isn’t for me; it’s too complicated. The child’s needs will always come first, which is natural, but I fear the times when it puts a brake on proceedings. Another man will always be on the scene and there’s no telling what effect he’ll have on her, especially if she sees him on a regular basis, not matter how fleeting. Making time to see each other will always be a challenge, so the planned nature of things is counter to my free-wheeling idea of romance.

As the afternoon wears on we engage in serious topics of conversation, something that few dates have had the guts and honesty to do with me. We talk about our respective divorces, lessons learned, outlooks on relationships, hopes and fears for the future.

I start to get the impression that she likes intense emotions, it makes her feel alive, perhaps even turns her on. I notice when I become serious and intellectual that she starts playing with her hair, an age-old indicator that she’s liking what she’s hearing. I suspect that she’s a sapiophile, a woman who becomes physically turned on by an intelligent man.

The table next to us is a birthday party for a toddler and it’s a rowdy scene. She’s used to the noise but it’s bothering me, so I suggest that we go sit in a quieter part of the restaurant. Luckily there’s a sofa for two free and I make a beeline for it. We sit side by side but turned askance to look at each other, our knees are touching.

The MILF of Xmas says, “Well, this is cosy,” and gives off a nervous little laugh. I feel myself becoming more attracted to her by the minute. She has a feminine way about her that I can’t resist; in fact, it’s what I want.

If it wasn’t for the kid, I’d consider her perfect so far. We can talk to each other about anything. She gets my sense of humour. I fancy her and am imagining myself making love to her. I can almost hear the sounds she’ll make when I kiss the inside of her thighs. I want her, not just for her body, but because I’m getting the feeling that I crave, that feeling of oneness, of rightness that I’ve only felt a few times in my life, such as with Baltic Babe.

We chat away happily and she tells me that in the Summer she came out of a three-year relationship. I immediately do the maths and, yes, it’s about six months – she’s gagging for it. By now our interaction has taken on a flirtatious nature, largely because of the way that we look at each other. I decide to up the stakes. I start telling her about my being colour-blind. She asks the usual questions about it, then I make my move.

“I can’t tell what colour your eyes are. Could you come closer?” I say.

Without thinking about it The MILF of Xmas complies. Her instant obedience tells me that she is very comfortable with me and might have a submissive streak in her.

“I still can’t see, the lighting’s bad. Come closer.” I coax.

She does, seemingly suspecting nothing. The MILF of Xmas is a bit of an innocent. If so, I can provide her with a lot of fun.

Her face is now very close to mine, so I lean slightly forward and our lips touch. She doesn’t pull away and just closes her eyes. We kiss and it feels good.

Her lips are quite thin, so I don’t feel them so well, but I know that she can feel mine. We kiss slowly and I sense her stiffening her spine.

I pull away and she is rooted to the spot, sitting upright, her eyes still closed. After a couple of seconds she opens her eyes, smiles at me and sits back in her seat. As first kisses go, that wasn’t too bad.

We make some small-talk, as if the kiss never happened. I let her get her composure back, for her breathing to return to normal, then I lean over and we kiss again. This time she’s more active and opens her mouth wide, inviting my tongue in, but I resist the invitation. I move my head to the opposite angle and we remain locked in our kiss. Neither of us give a damn about anyone else in the restaurant.

I sense that her tongue wants to play, so I touch it with mine and that brings her body to life a little more. Our tongues slowly, gently twist and turn, like two otters entwined, spiralling in water. I remember my mouth-pussy test and let my tongue roam in her mouth, something she’s happy to have happen. Her mouth is a little on the small side, so her pussy might be too small for me. However, she’s had a kid and if the delivery was natural then she might be able to accommodate my cock.

I withdraw again and we smile approvingly at each other. This feels so good. I’ve forgotten how this should feel. All the other girls I’ve kissed in the past year or so didn’t give me this feeling. This feels right, so very right. My blood is warm and racing around my body; I can feel an erection coming on.

The MILF of Xmas tells me that she’s flying out on Boxing Day with her son to go visit her parents who have retired to Spain. They return New Year’s Day. The sense of family is a good sign in my book. I feel that I missed out on that in my life, so it’s nice to see in someone else’s.

We talk, laugh and kiss for hours more. We talk about movies and music and watch YouTube videos on my phone. I’m having a good time and it seems she is too. It’s now after 8pm and I decide it’s time to end the date, otherwise we’ll end up spending the night together. She stands up and I grab her coat and hold it so that she can put her arms in. Once it’s on I pull her hair our from under the coat and fan it out.

“Ooh, I could get used to this,” she says.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say.

“You don’t have to,” The MILF of Xmas says.

“I know that I don’t have to, but I want to,” I respond and we leave it at that.

Outside in the cold air I turn to her and say, “Tell me something, do you like chicken?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Take a wing,” I respond, offering her my arm.

She lets off a little laugh and couples her arm with mine. Like that we walk a few blocks to where she has parked her car.

As I walk The MILF of Xmas her car which is a few blocks away, I’m struck by just how tiny and petite she is. That appeals to my protective nature. At her car we stand and kiss some more in the cold Winter’s air. I close her car door for her, she reverses out, stops to give me a cheery wave and smile, then she drives off.

We made no concrete plans about when we’ll see each other again, we don’t need to, we know that we will. I drive home with a lovely warm, electric feeling shimmering all over my brain. I haven’t felt that in a long time.

The thing that surprises me is how proud I feel to be with her. That’s another feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. That pride is driven by a variety of feelings, such as sensing that I might just have found the type of person I’ve been looking for. I know already that she’s a remarkable person, her goodness shines through and that makes her special to me. I feel like a victor showing off his prize. She is a prize worthy of the best of me.

Bad Company – Feel like making love

Date #48 – Busty Czech

I didn’t really get much further than infatuation with The Brazilian before dumping her. It wasn’t easy, but it was the right thing to do. I’m taking a little time-out from dating, to clear the arteries of my soul, flushing out the detritus of the recent flinglet, I’m writing about my previous dates when I look up The Model on Facebook to see what’s happened in her world. Amongst her friends was a face I had seen somewhere before and I quickly realized it was from my Happy Humping Ground dating site.

Earlier in the year, when I had started seeing Busty Blonde, my subscription to the site was approaching expiration and I hadn’t visited it in months. I made one final visit to see who I might be missing out on. (My doing so should have told me something but I was blind to it.) There was one profile that stood out, a Czech lady who had written an original profile that hinted at a heart as well as a brain. I chose not to write to her because I thought the odds of success was low. With only two days of my membership to go, she might not respond in time and I was still feeling a sense of commitment to Busty Blonde. Typically, a few days after my membership ended, the Czech lady showed initiative and wrote to me. I couldn’t read her message and for all I knew she was blowing raspberries at me, so I forgot about her.

Imagine then my surprise when I saw her picture again more than six months later on Facebook. Yes, her face is that memorable and yes, my memory is that good. Busty Blonde has left my scene, the fling with The Brazilian ended three weeks ago and I’m still on the trail of love, albeit less proactively than before.

I revisit my Happy Humping Ground dating site to re-read the Czech lady’s profile. Yes, she’s all that I remember and she’s interested in me. That’s very flattering to a fragile ego. Any man on a dating site will tell you that it’s rare to get an approach email from a woman, so when it happens he takes the writer very seriously. It’s one of the reasons why scammers and catfish are so successful on dating sites.

While I’m on this site I come across a profile that freezes me in my seat. It’s of a woman with the perfect face, a Mona Lisa smile and sparkling green eyes. I investigate this profile and she’s as close to perfect in her choice of words as I have ever seen. I even do a Google image search which reveals her name and profession; I follow her online presence. I think of her as The Artist. At any other time I would have approached her, but my subscription has run out and it’s a pricey one. The odds of her responding are small even if I did. No, I’ll leave this be for now. One woman at a time.

I check out the Czech lady’s Facebook profile and think to myself, “Fuck it, I’ll send her a ‘friend request’ and a polite message. I have nothing to lose.”

Within an hour the Czech lady accepts my request and we start swapping messages via Facebook. One of the first questions she asked me struck me as a bit odd.

I know this is a weird question but can you pls tell me how tall you are.

I tell her that I’m over six foot tall and she quickly responds with:

Sorry I only asked as I don’t feel comfortable being taller than a guy.

I still shake my head in disbelief that women are so obsessed with a man’s height, but we men are obsessed about female attributes too. I wonder what my dating life would be like if I wasn’t tall with a head full of dark hair. Pretty much like my best friend’s, who is short and balding, i.e. quiet.

After that question we engage in good positive banter and by the end of it we have agreed to meet on the coming Sunday. She was uncertain about her ability to travel far, which puzzles me but I say nothing, so I leave it to her to suggest somewhere that suits her. The next morning was a Thursday and it started off with a text message from the Czech lady with the details of our meeting. Over the course of the day we swapped several dozen messages. She certainly was keen; almost too keen.

The next day she was having lunch with The Model and later that evening she sent me a text message with a few details of her friend’s positive reaction. Initially I thought this very sweet, but my secondary reaction was to wonder about her mental state a little. She seems unusually upbeat and positive. Did The Model give me a glowing review?

Is she The One? Or is she another nutcase? Time will tell.

It’s a stiflingly hot Sunday in late July as I sit in the shade on the patio of the pub she has nominated. As usual I got here early and bought a cold cider before finding a good table. She’s now a quarter of an hour late; women seem to think it a good thing to be late. They’re wrong; it sets a negative tone.

I hear a sweet, cheery “Hello” from behind me, I turn and it is a smiling her. I stand to greet the Czech lady and am instantly struck by how tall she is and, I must confess, better looking in real life than what I was expecting. I am so used to women not being as attractive as their chosen public photos that I’ve learned to brace myself for the worst.

She’s wearing tasteful three-quarter length khaki trousers and a light floral patterned Summer blouse. It looks like she’s just been to the hair salon; I don’t think she’s a natural blonde. I can’t help but notice two other things about her once she has sat down. First, how many crows feet she has and secondly, how large her breasts are: at least g-cups. After my experience with Busty Blonde I’m starting to think myself an expert on women’s bra sizes by just having a quick look.

After brief banter I go to buy her a regular ginger beer that she asked for, thinking to myself, “spicy drink equals hot lover?” That certainly was the case a few weeks earlier with The Brazilian. Strangely, ginger beer is my favourite non-alcoholic drink.

We get down to making the expected small-talk about how I came to find her on Facebook and our mutual friend. I now begin to think of her as the “Busty Czech”. Her photos hid that attribute well. Large-breasted women do tend to try to hide their assets. Men make it very obvious when they stare at a woman’s boobs and it must get annoying very quickly.

Busty Czech seemed very nervous for the first few minutes, catching her breath as she spoke, sitting erect on the edge of her chair, as if she was on a job interview. I was my usual calm, relaxed self, sitting back in my seat, speaking slowly and smiling politely. Hell, after all the dates I’ve been on this was my now natural demeanour; I didn’t even have to think about it any more, my performance has become natural.

I fear that I am becoming Hank Moody, the lead character from Californication. All the women whom I’ve introduced to this show seem to love this character. I ask them why and the answer is almost always the same: “He just doesn’t give a shit.” For some reason women like that in a man. The more relaxed I am on a date, even bordering on louche, the more women seem to want me.

Because she is so nervous, I just let her do the talking, occasionally asking a question that spurs her to talk more. I can’t help but look at her breasts whenever she looks away. I can almost feel the weight of them in my hands. I can just imagine resting my cock between them and having her push her breasts together, burying my cock with ease.

For some reason Busty Czech hasn’t had lunch, so we go into the pub’s restaurant and share a pleasant meal. We make polite small-talk and I think it safe to say that we get along very well. She has calmed down and is laughing more naturally, which I now know to be a good sign. With dessert and drinks finished, the bill arrives and she offers to pay her half.

“I’m very old-fashioned. With me the gentleman always pays,” I say with a smile.

Her smile and aura tell me that she wants to throw her arms around me and kiss me. It’s nice to be with a woman who genuinely appreciates my old-fashioned gestures.

The Busty Czech goes back out to the patio to find us a table while I get us more drinks at the bar. She finds a quiet table away from rowdy children, her thoughtful attention to detail is not lost on me. She gives me a beautiful smile as I join her with our cold drinks. I’ve barely sat down when she speaks.

“I’m recovering from a bad illness for the past few months. It started in May and I’ve only recently gone back to work,” she says, as if confessing something.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you over it?” I respond.

“No, not completely. I’m only working half days and at the end of it I’m exhausted.”

She is clearly physically not healthy. But what of her emotional and psychological state I wonder. Severe illness takes it toll in unseen ways. She elaborates enough for me to fill in the blanks.

“What has really surprised me is how this illness has knocked my confidence. Being bed-ridden for a month and then going out into the world again, it feels like I’m learning everything for the first time again,” she confides.

So she was not mentally or emotionally healthy too it seems. It’s a red flag because she’s not herself. Her judgement is questionable, she’s operating from a position of weakness, her feelings towards me will change when she feels better. I might see her differently then too.

Nevertheless, I like her because I can see that she is a good, gentle, decent woman, someone I can trust and any relationship with her would be a relatively easy one. Yes, I’m thinking relationship so soon already…again. I wasn’t expecting this, instead expecting just another date.

Silently enthused with my findings so far, I sound her out with my walk in the Magical Forest. Her answers are: 1) “I’d climb a tree”. This tells me that she runs from her problems. Most people give that answer. 2) “I take my clothes off and go for a swim”. That tells me that she loves being in love, the same as me. 3) “If there was cheesecake on it, I’d help myself, but if there wasn’t any then I’d knock and ask for permission to eat something.” I find that an interesting answer. It suggests to me that she could lose control for the right thing (or person) but would otherwise show restraint and respect towards life and its participants.

After my experience with The Brazilian I’ve come to the conclusion that the most important answer was the second one, the waterfall that is a metaphor for love. If my other half has a very different approach to love, then it just isn’t going to work between us. Dealing with problems and approach to life are now secondary to me, because I can provide the leadership and strength for that in a relationship; that would be nothing new for me.

She laughs heartily about this little quiz and finds it charming. I’m relieved at her reaction because some women don’t like to be psychoanalyzed like that. To inject a sense of fairness I tell her my own answers and she appreciates the insights I share. She is good-natured and not easily offended. That’s a welcome change from some of the bags and bitches I’ve met.

With a bit of deft coaxing Busty Czech tells me more about her life before today. It sounds like a typical London Girl’s existence. Weekly drinks with the girls, shopping for unnecessary things on weekends, watching box-sets alone at night, binge drinking and eating, boring job, arsehole boss, crazy exes, the occasional online date.

ABBA’s “The Day Before You Came” springs to mind, not because I’m looking to play the hero who rescues her and whisks her away from it all in a whirlwind romance, but because of the monotony of her existence…and the touch of sadness that I detect in her tone.

“Can I ask you a favour?” she says.

“Sure,” I say. What’s coming my way now? It’s been going so well.

“Can you give me a lift home? I’m a bit tired and these heels are murder,” she says, nodding towards her feet.

Only now do I spot that her heels are almost two inches high. Oh, that means she walked here. Not very practical. No wonder she was late. Hang on, is she inviting me back to her place? Sex on the first date? Er, no, I’ll resist the urge. I don’t want to start a relationship wearing pussy-vision; got to stop doing that.

I lead her to my car and her jaw drops when I open the passenger door for her. I guess she’s not used to being treated like a lady. I wonder how she’ll react if I ever get her on The Hook? Hmm, yes, sex with her…yes, please.

Driving just two blocks I pull up outside where she lives and we sit in the car saying our goodbye. She leans over to give me a quick kiss on the lips, which makes me smile. It was a daring thing for a woman to do, to make the first move like that. She has an adventurous side to her. I sense that she has enjoyed her time with me and that she is now in a very upbeat mood. I decide to go for it, to make my own move, a more important one.

“I don’t normally do this so quickly, but have a think about whether or not you want to see me again,” I pause deliberately and watch her eyes widen before continuing, “…because I’d like to see you again.”

“Oh yes, I’d love to see you again. There’s nothing to think about, I know,” she instantly shoots back.

With my nearest free hand I cup the back of her head and gently guide her to my face…and I close my eyes and as if by auto-pilot our lips find each other’s. You can tell a lot from a kiss; if it feels like a natural match then any relationship will be of a similar style too. Our lips are a good match as I feel her body rise slightly. After a couple of seconds her little tongue slips into my mouth, something I’ve never really enjoyed, but appreciate the effect that it has for a woman. The significance of her doing this isn’t lost on me; she fancies me too.

Busty Czech gives me one of her beautiful smiles, gets out my car, carefully closes the door and walks up to her front door. I watch this lady disappear through that portal to her routine that might just have come to an end.

Could I fall in love with her? Perhaps, but I don’t get that feeling after our first date. I think that the very recent experience with The Brazilian has shaken my confidence in my judgement. I resolve to not get carried away with my feelings and hopes, because disappointment is becoming my constant companion.

ABBA – The Day Before You Came

Date #47 – The Brazilian

I’m fed up with conventional dating sites and it’s time to try something new: Tinder. I can see how it can be addictive, quickly swiping through faces as if it’s a game. At times I feel like a kid choosing sweets from an old-fashioned sweet shop. I like about one in twenty faces that meet my liberal criteria: blonde. Overnight I start getting matches and one in particular stands out.

She was Brazilian, lived in London and I liked the look of her; that’s Tinder for you. The Brazilian made excuses about not being able to get together because she was moving home and business at the same time. We kept swapping occasional messages for over a week which ended in me giving her my mobile number and suggesting that she phone me. Silence.

Then, several days later, on a Sunday night she puts in an appearance via Whatsapp and we spend a lot of time swapping messages until I ask when we’re getting together, upon which she disappears. Then she reappears on Monday night, we swap many more messages, so I get tired of this and suggest that we talk on the phone, upon which she instantly disappears. I phone and get her voicemail, but I don’t leave a message. She reappears later, saying she had to go get food. We swap a few more messages and I phone her, this time leaving a message. Absolutely nothing in response.

WTF?! Why do women play these stupid fucking games? I now think she’s another Lusty Lawyer, craving attention but unable and unwilling to contemplate anything more than that. A time thief, an emotional cripple, not relationship material, a no-hoper.

Well, I could be wrong. On Friday morning she contacted me via Whatsapp, claiming to have only got my voicemail message now. I didn’t believe her, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and agreed to her request to meet the next day. I suggested noon, but she countered with 3pm. Whatever! This woman seems a little hard work.

Could she be The One?

So there I was on Saturday afternoon outside the entrance to Tower Hill Tube station, taking shelter from a sudden Summer downpour with a horde of bemused, noisy, drenched Japanese tourists. I didn’t have high hopes for this date because she seemed a little flighty and her life had her firmly under control. It was just going to be another date, one to help get me back into the rhythm of dating so that when I met The One, my skills would be sharp and matters would turn out how I wanted. After all, you only get one chance to make a good first impression.

My phone rattled into life with a text message from The Brazilian, “Which side are you?”

I thought about texting back, but then got that familiar sensation that someone was looking at me. I looked up and my eyes met hers through the crowd of tourists. She instantly smiled and my heart skipped a beat; she was as pretty as her pictures on Tinder. I liked the look of her and a sense of relief spread across my body. A blonde haired, blue-eyed, pretty Brazilian? That’s a new one for my spreadsheet.

As she walked up to me I was surprised at how short she was, despite wearing boots that must have added at least two inches. She was still smiling as I kissed her hello on a cheek. What I really wanted to do was scoop her up in my arms and give her a good ol’ fashioned black-and-white movie kiss on the lips. That reaction upon meeting a woman hasn’t happened often for me.

I turned and motioned towards the steep stairs that lead down from Tower Hill Tube station, ready to roll out my “do you like chicken?” gag, but before I had a chance to say a word The Brazilian had coupled her arm with mine. That absolutely stunned me; no woman had done that before. You could have knocked six foot two inch, two-hundred and thirty pounds me over with a feather.

I took that as clear sign that she liked the look of me; we’d hardly said anything to each other. I led us to St Katharine Dock and The Brazilian didn’t know of it. We went to the Dickens Inn and had a pizza each and shared a bottle of wine. She ordered the spiciest pizza on offer which made me think that she was an exciting, energetic lover (it’s a theory I’ve been working on and the findings so far are good).

We sat on the balcony overlooking the marina, initially engaging in the usual small-talk of first dates. I was struck by something unusual; she did most of the talking and it revolved around her telling me about herself. I just sat back and didn’t have to ask many questions to keep the conversation going. In fact, after an hour it seemed like she was selling herself to me. Most women quizzed me on a date, but The Brazilian did not ask a single question about me. I thought this very unusual, but said nothing, instead continuing to listen her rattling off her life in chronological order. It seemed a very well rehearsed script; how many dates has she been on?

As she spoke about herself, I came to the conclusion that The Brazilian was a happy, energetic little person, something that makes my insides turn to cotton wool. Someone who is happy within themselves is so much less hard work than a miserable, anxious person with emotional baggage, which is how I would describe half the women I have met for dates.

“Do you like to cook?” It’s a question I’ve asked my dates only if I sniffed out the slightest prospect of a relationship. I’ve never treated that question as a deal-breaker, more of a fact-finder. If a woman said, “I’m a terrible cook and hate it” on the one extreme, I took that as a hint that they might be a selfish person, a Taker. If, on the opposite extreme of the spectrum, she said, “I love to cook,” I took that as a positive sign that she was something of a provider, a Giver, someone I’d more comfortable with. My ideal answer would be somewhere in the middle, something like, “I enjoy cooking with somebody.” That then is somebody like me, someone who wants to share life, not predominantly give or take. In my years of dating I had never heard any woman say that to me.

The Brazilian’s answer?

“I enjoy cooking with somebody.”

For the second time on our first date you could have knocked me over with a feather. All my blood rushed to my feet; even my cock was in awe. Something at the back of my brain sat up, then stood up, stiffened its spine and said, “Hello, what do we have here?!”

I couldn’t help myself, I immediately launched into to my Magical Forest HeartScan. Her answers were: 1) I’d arm myself – which told me she’s a fighter, the same as me 2) I’d wash my hands and face – which sadly told me that she didn’t throw herself into love and was cautious about it, the opposite of me 3) She’d eat some of the house and then knock on the door to ask permission to enter – which told me that she had a lust for life, was as daring as me, but was respectful and courteous to others; therefore similar but better than me. It was the fact that she was a fighter that impressed me most because nobody else came close to me in that regard. Her attitude towards love was disappointing though, but only because I was hoping for more, hoping that she’d be the same as me, but so far very few women were.

I told her my analysis of her answers, being honest about her approach to love, fully aware that I risk spoiling matters, but to my relief she just smiled coyly and took a sip of her wine. From everything she had told me and her attitude so far, I came to the conclusion that she was looking for a relationship, not just a sweaty role in the proverbial hay. She had my attention, but I was still playing it cool, leaning back in my seat while she sat on the edge of hers.

Lunch was over, the pizzas were good as always, the wine bottle was empty and our stomachs were full and, I think, so were our hearts because we were enjoying each other’s company. The Brazil versus Chile game in the World Cup was about to start so we made our way downstairs to find seats near a television. We got lucky and found a two-seater sofa all to ourselves with a clear view of a screen.

All the while we sat there, for almost two hours I was conscious of three things. First, she had almost no interest in the game and couldn’t take her eyes off me. She was a patriot and her profile pictures included shots of her at Brazilian football games, but today she wasn’t interested. At first it was flattering, then it became annoying and eventually creepy. Secondly, I was fighting off the desire to want to kiss her. I was constantly wondering what her lips felt like, whether she used her tongue, if she made sounds, if she was a good kisser. Thirdly and somewhat bizarrely, I wondered several times what it might be like to have sex with her on that leather sofa. What would it feel like to turn her onto her back, pull her red jeans and panties down to her knees, then lift her legs in the air, unzip my fly, pull my cock out and slide it into her. What would that feel like?

More time went by while I struggled to maintain my composure. I was hoping that Brazil would win the game so that she would be in a more positive frame of mind than if they had lost. Who knew where today might lead? A tonight? The game went to a penalty shoot-out which Brazil won, but I don’t think that my date noticed or cared; she only had eyes for me. This was bordering on freaky now.

The thought had entered my mind that our obvious mutual attraction was so great that it might lead to us going home together. I’d never slept with a woman on a first date; it’s not anything I’ve aspired to and have in the past had opportunity to do so (see The Russian Model). My old code of chivalry dictated that I not even consider let alone suggest this. A long-term relationship doesn’t start like that, I still believe.

With the game over, the date could have ended there. Most people would have done so, I think. However, I felt that it was going well and I was enjoying myself. Not expecting her to agree, I suggested that we go for a walk. This might all end abruptly now.

“I know it’s getting late, but I don’t suppose you’d like to go for a walk?” I said.

“That would be very nice,” were her words. I was reading the situation correctly, it seemed.

As we approached the stairs outside The Dickens Inn, I turned to The Brazilian, about to offer her my arm as she wasn’t totally steady on her heels, when I noticed that she didn’t seem to sure about what to do. In an act of pure instinct, born out of years of doing so with the few women I’ve cared about, I took her hand. It felt natural and right to do so and to my relief she seemed comfortable with this somewhat brazen act on my part. Out of the corner of my eye I think I saw her smile.

We walked around St Katharine Dock, with me taking the lead in the conversation, telling her of the history of the area that I knew by heart after so many dates, but still told it to her as if it was the first time ever I had said those words. This date was starting to feel magical.

Eventually we ended up going into a coffee shop on the Southbank. Seeing as I had paid for lunch, The Brazilian insisted on paying for our coffees, which I was uncomfortable with as usual, but relented because she seemed adamant. I needed the toilet and returned to find her having chosen a table with a padded bench and a single chair in front of it. She was sitting on the bench so I naturally took the chair in hand, but before I could sit down, she said, “Don’t you want to sit next to me?” and patted the seat next to her on the bench.

That simple act blew me away. Here was someone who was obviously comfortable with me and didn’t see me as an adversary, but instead as a partner that she wanted to share things with. No other woman I’d ever dated did that and I had also been to that very coffee shop with many of them. She certainly was setting herself aside from all those other dates. With a smile I sat down next to her.

Light-hearted, fun conversation shot between us, energized by what we were feeling. This is how it should be. Having enjoyed our coffees and banter, we realized that it was getting late. I said, “May I escort you to your station?”

“Yes, please. We need to get to Waterloo Station.”

I liked the fact that she used the word “we”. It sound like we were a couple already. It was starting to look and feel that way and at breath-taking speed.

So we walked to Waterloo Station, holding hands all the way, engaging in endless chatting. She certainly liked to talk, so I let her, which wasn’t a bad thing as it let me get to know a lot about her experiences, her viewpoint and opinions on things and, to my great surprise, she didn’t say anything that I thought was a show-stopper. I was starting to feel a connection with her, a meeting of minds and a hint of a meeting of spirits too. There were a few moments when I felt my heart swell. I could fall in love with her, I knew this already.

We stood at the gates to the bustling platform where her train was waiting to whisk her away from me, to her home, wherever and whatever that was. It felt almost to be the natural thing to get on that train with her, to hold hands as we walked up her street and wrap my arms around her as we fell asleep. I didn’t want the night to end.

Even now my lips get the better of my judgement. I said, “If we were naughty people I’d go home with you tonight,” with a wicked little laugh.

Her eyes darted between mine and I realised that she was taking me seriously.

“Hmm, tempting,” she said with a serious look in her eyes.

“No, not tonight. Not my style,” I said, rebuffing her, slightly concerned at her now obvious desire to want to sleep with me. I should have taken that as something of a red flag; if you sense a relationship with someone, you know there’ll eventually be lots of sex, so why rush it? But I did come across her on Tinder after all.

“Your train is about to leave, “ I said, defusing the situation.

She looked at me, her mind and heart obviously racing, but her lips were the cruel gatekeepers to her words that I would have loved to have heard.

Our eyes were locked on each other’s and I so badly didn’t want the night to end, but deep down knew that it had to, but also I knew there would be more nights, perhaps even better ones, with her.

I recalled something that had worked well with The Finn a few weeks ago, so I used it again, slightly uncertain what its effect would be.

“Umm, I don’t normally do this, but I’d like to see you again. Let me know sometime if you feel the same way,” I said.

“Yes, I want to see you again too,” she instantly shot back with a relieved little smile that showed some of her perfect, white teeth.

“Are you free tomorrow?” I asked jokingly, giving her my best smile.

“Yes, I am. What time?” was her instant response.

“Whoa! I was joking. Are you serious?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Okay, send me a text message with your thoughts and we’ll make a plan. Your train is getting ready to leave,” I said over the noise of an impatient, old-fashioned whistle.

The Brazilian quickly leaned forward and presented her cheek which I equally quickly kissed. It was too soon for our first kiss and the circumstances weren’t right.

I stood and watched her scamper off through the gates and down the platform as other passengers jumped into open carriage doors.

If she stops and turns to smile at me, she wants me.

The Brazilian stopped outside a brooding dark door, turned to me, waved at me and gave me a perfect smile that I can still see today.

Only Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl had this effect on me after a first date…and look what happened. I must be a glutton for punishment…but I really want to get to know her…be with her, because she feels ‘right’.

I feel good. Damn good.

Michael Buble – Feeling Good