Tag Archives: first impression

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 #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 #41 – Busty Blonde

I was swapping messages with Travel Gal when someone else caught my eye. This new woman had words and ideas that intrigued me because I identified with everything she said. The only problem was that she was six years older than me. That was offset by the fact that one of her profile photos showed her in a bikini, sporting the biggest pair of breasts that I had ever seen on a dating profile. I could put the age-gap to the back of my mind and if she was young in spirit then it shouldn’t be a problem. Quite honestly, whenever I thought of her, the image that popped into my mind was that of the bikini photo. I couldn’t help wonder what those breasts would feel like in my hands. In a moment of inspired brilliance I dubbed her ‘Busty Blonde’.

Travel Gal was spending the next two weeks in southern Africa for work, visiting new hotels and game lodges that were hoping she would send business their way. I wouldn’t be seeing her for some time, which suited me fine because I wanted to meet some more women in the hope that I could make an informed choice.

Busty Blonde and I swap messages on the national newspaper’s dating website and we get along as well as can be expected via such a limited, tricky medium. I’m still thinking of Travel Gal’s snobbish way of speaking which irritates me, so I suggest to Busty Blonde that we have a chat on the phone. I have reservations about her because of the age-gap and I’m starting to believe that all women’s dating profile photos are at least five years old. I’m forming a theory that the older a woman, the more likely she is to use old photos.

The Wanderer is sitting on my sofa in my lounge as I withdraw to my bedroom to speak to Busty Blonde one week-night. It’s 8pm and she’s just got in from work. Is this why she’s single – a typical London Girl married to her job, no time for a relationship? Our chat is pleasant enough, but I’m struck by how old she sounds. It feels like I’m talking to a pensioner but I know that voice calls distort our speech which is why I’ve avoided screening calls in the past. Towards the end of the call Busty Blonde sounds serious and sceptical because of the questions she asks me about recent relationships. I find it difficult to discern what someone is saying when I can’t see their face or properly hear their tone. I decide to end the call before it spirals out of control and descends into nothingness.

I’m not too sure what to make of our conversation. It wasn’t sparkling and began to feel defensive for reasons unknown to me. The single greatest thing that comes out of it that I’ve learned that she’s Scottish. That gives some cause for optimism, given my track record with English women. I decide to suggest a date and do so via email, thinking that she’s probably not interested in a man so much younger, but I’m wrong when she responds suggesting meeting this Sunday.

Could she be The One?

It’s a typically overcast grey Winter’s day as I arrive at Tower Hill Tube station’s exit. Instantly I spot Busty Blonde standing waiting for me. The first impression is underwhelming. She looks her age, perhaps a few years more even and I’m not filled with any sense of desire. Lust at first sight is not to be ignored but today it’s missing. I’m not used to dating a woman with wrinkles. She’s wearing an expensive-looking long brown winter coat that covers everything so no sign of those massive boobicles. Busty Blonde gives me a wonderful smile as she recognizes me. At least she has a great smile.

I kiss her hello on the cheek and give her a smile of my own. She’s tall for a woman, coming up to just under my nose. Photos never really give a proper sense of proportion. I can only guess that like most women she prefers her man to be taller than her, which I am, but I’m not sure that I can pick her up if I needed to. On her profile she describes herself as ‘curvaceous’ which is refreshingly honest, but the term can hide a multitude of sins. Those boobies must have extra wobble to them.

As we approach the stairs that lead down to the pedestrian subway, I turn to Busty Blonde and say, “Tell me something, do you like chicken?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Take a wing then,” I say, extending an elbow to her.

She bursts out laughing and a second later slides her arm around mine, shaking her head as she does so.

“That’s so cheesy,” she says.

“Yes, I know, but it made you laugh,” I reply.

That moment was our ice-breaker, the instant from which a bond began to form, the moment when defences started to crumble. I’ve always used that ruse as a way to test a woman’s sense of humour, to see if she would appreciate mine because I can be quite punny. Now I think of it primarily as a way of getting a woman comfortable in my presence.

I lead Busty Blonde to St Katharine Docks, somewhere she had heard of but never been to, despite her having lived in London for twenty years and, as I would learn, worked only half a mile away from it. The world over people do not do touristy things in their own back yard. Instead they scrimp and save, fantasize and plan for the day when they get to see what others take for granted. Funny lot, us humans.

We sit at a table for two in the pizzeria restaurant of the Dickens Inn, somewhere I’ve had dozens of dates in the past year and half. The Slavic waiter who has almost always attended me and my date greets me with a raised eyebrow. Is he silently asking, “Where the hell have you been for the last two months? My tips are down because of you!” Or is he hinting that this date is a little old for me? Maybe he’s thinking, “Ah, the gigolo’s back”?

Busty Blonde and I get along like two horny rabbits, only having eyes for each other and thoroughly engrossed in what the other is saying. We’re an obvious intellectual match and have much in common. We both left high school and have made our way in the world by dint of hard work and having the courage to seize opportunities when they presented themselves. We’ve both achieved managerial positions because of our abilities and not our contacts. I respect her for that.

The afternoon rolls by as conversation wanders aimlessly and easily, lubricated by a bottle of South African chenin blanc. I pepper the conversation with open-ended questions, letting her tell me more about herself in a natural manner. She’s open and direct, just like me, so I appreciate that. Busty Blonde is also far more bubbly and positive than what I was expecting. She seems to one of those people who is permanently happy and positive.

After a couple of hours I come to the conclusion that Busty Blonde is a thoroughly good person, imbued with old-fashioned morals and values almost identical to mine. There’s still an innocence about her, an unblemished view of the world that I used to have until I started online dating. My antics and experiences from dating have taken that innocence from me and sitting there talking to Busty Blonde, I realize that it’s never going to return. It’s gone forever.

The sun comes out to bathe London in a hazy light. With lunch over and the date going well, we mutually decide to stroll along the Southbank. It’s a pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon, walking past buskers, street artists, scammers, galleries, ticket touts and people who have scrimped and saved to visit our back yard.

Busty Blonde and I walk and talk, eventually ending up in a quiet corner of a Thames-side pub. Another bottle of South African wine goes down easily while banter and laughter flows between us. I’m having a good time and so is she. To me it feels like I’ve reconnected with a long-lost friend, but there’s more it than just that. After months of disappointing experiences with other women, in mere hours it feels like she has lifted my spirits, brought me back to life. She exudes goodness and silly fun and for some reason that I still don’t understand, it makes me feel safe with her.

Her coat is slung over the back of a nearby chair and for the first time I get a hint of her mammaries. Even in the snug confines of her blue sweater they’re bigger than I expected. How does she not topple over? There’s a lot of bounce to the ounce there.

By now we’ve each the equivalent of a bottle of wine in us. Does she notice me occasionally peeking at her breasts? Or is she used to men doing that? Well, she did post that revealing bikini photo on her profile. On a dating site doing that is the equivalent of walking topless down a busy road; men are going to look.

Amidst a bout of laughter, under the slight affluence of incohol I lean over towards Busty Blonde, she responds instantly and we kiss. I do my usual thing of keeping my lips soft and using minimal force before being the first to pull away.

“Gosh, you’re a good kisser,” she remarks, blinking frenetically.

I just smile and continue talking about the topic at hand, as if nothing had happened. I’ve never really enjoyed kissing because it does very little for me physically, but I do enjoy the effect that my kisses have on women. It usually gets their sexual motor running. My having just kissed Busty Blonde sends the signal that I not afraid to escalate matters to the sexual level. Other women have told me that this is where many guys fall short because the woman was interested in having sex with a guy but would never make the first move for fear of seeming like a slut or coming across as desperate or gagging for it which usually leads to only a one-night stand. I’ve never been backward in coming forward so this has never been a failing of mine.

Something else I’ve learned courtesy of all my dates is that laughter mixed with alcohol turns a woman to putty in my hands. If she starts using the same words as me, parroting my exact words and ideas back at me, then she’s mine. Busty Blonde has been doing that for most of the date. I think it’s safe to assume that she’s keen on me.

The atmosphere between us has now been heightened but conversation is not affected by it. We talk some more before I lean over and we kiss again, this time for longer. This repeats itself periodically for the next hour or so. It feels like we could talk all night but I know not to let a good date end on a flat note by letting it go on for too long. Busty Blonde must be reading my mind because she starts saying that she needs to go home as tomorrow is going to be a challenging day at work for her. I didn’t ask what that meant but I was intrigued. In hindsight I should have asked.

By now darkness has spread itself over London, shadows smothering light, warmth giving way to cold. I don’t relish the thought of another Winter alone. What would Busty Blonde think or say if she knew that The Wanderer would be keeping me warm tonight?

I walk Busty Blonde to her Tube station and the banter between us just keeps flowing. This date has been a pleasant surprise, but I’ve learned not to put too much stock into a first date. We kiss one last time before she gets on her train. She beams at me once more from her seat before being whisked away.

Two fun dates in the space of a week. Maybe me and older women are a better match? Maybe I’m seeing things differently? Maybe I enjoyed this date with Busty Blonde because it felt like she had brought me back to life in some way? Whatever the reason, I want to see Busty Blonde and Travel Gal a few times more each. None of us have committed anything to each other, it’s ‘all just dating’. That’s an expression I saw recently that helps make me feel less guilty about dating several women at once.

With that said, is now a good time to mention that I also have the attention of two Russian ladies whom I’ll soon be meeting?

Evanescence -Bring Me to Life

Date #39 – English Shrink and the psychopath revealed

I feel the need to test my hypothesis about English women being all wrong for me, so I reactivate my dating profiles which results in a flurry of activity at my keyboard. The national newspaper’s dating site reveals to me someone that I find appealing. She’s English and a psychiatrist. This could be interesting.

It’s a rainy Friday night in November as I make my way through the huddled masses of rush-hour commuters. Banter with the English Shrink has been positive and short and after only three emails she agreed to my suggestion to meet up. She lives in my county but has suggested that we meet in London after her work ends. I’ve now been unemployed since August and don’t mind a visit to London for what seems like a promising date.

The English Shrink texts me to say that’s she’s running late and I answer that I’ll grab seats for us at the bar she has suggested meeting in. I find it unusual that a woman has been so emphatic about where we meet, but I go along with it. I’m not the type to sweat the small stuff.

She eventually arrives a few minutes after 6pm and the first impression is a poor one. Her platinum-blonde hair is wild and looks as if it hasn’t seen a brush since breakfast. Her clothes are old and shabby. Her face is far more wrinkled than the solitary photo on her dating profile. Dammit! I forgot my rule about single-photo profiles!

Then she smiles.

Oh my gawd. She has almost black teeth!

She is obviously an ex-smoker. I so hope that my face doesn’t show my feelings. I’m here now, so may as well make the most of this. Who knows, it might get better.

I order her a non-alcoholic drink and we sit side by side at the bar. It’s quite casual sitting like this, not so formal and adversarial as a restaurant table would be. Maybe we’ll end up in a restaurant later? I’ve set the whole night aside for her and wonder if we might catch the same train home as we might be living next to the same trainline.

After the initial chit-chat she launches the first serious question of the evening.

“Do you feel jaded by internet dating?” she asks.

“Umh, I’m inclined to say that I am. There have been times when it has felt like hard work,” I answer truthfully, perhaps too much so.

She says nothing and looks at her drink. Shit, I must remember that I’m talking to a psychiatrist here. Memories of my only date with the German Shrink hurtle forward to the centre of my thoughts. I remember her saying that analysing people was a professional hazard in her private life. Am I being analysed now too?

“How about you?” I ask.

“Yes. I’ve also had my fair share of dates,” she says.

In that moment, for reasons still unknown to me to this day, the date died there and then. The English Shrink’s answers became shorter and her eye contact became sporadic. Conversation became laborious and the atmosphere between us became stultified. What in my mind was promising to be a fancy restaurant for dinner became a Burger King for one on the way home.

At 7pm the English Shrink’s words nearly knock me of my perch that was the bar stool.

“I’m sorry, but I have to get going. I’ve had a long day and tomorrow is another early start for me,” she says.

I’ve learned that when an English person uses those words “early start” it actually means “I would rather be home alone watching shit on television eating crap out of a cardboard container.” Fine, that’s her choice. I’m not particularly taken with her. In fact, I’m disgusted by her teeth. I don’t find her physically attractive at all, more to the contrary.

“Well, we’re both heading for the same train station now, so may I escort you?” I ask, sticking to my unappreciated gentlemanly ways.

“Uh, uh…uh…oh, okay, let’s go,” she says after suspicious hesitation.

We walk and talk as we cross soaked streets, avoiding buses and cars that might splash puddles onto us. I’m going home and I’m just being friendly and civil. I know that we’ll never see each other again and I’m fine with that. Once at the train station that serves our county I continue with my old-fashioned manners.

“May I escort you on the train until my stop?” I offer.

“Uh, uh…uh…no. There’s something else I need to do first,” she says and gives me a polite kiss on my cheek.

I’m speechless, smile a confused smile and watch as she turns away and walks out of the concourse into the darkness outside.

An English shrink could only handle an hour of a date with me. Jeez, what was that about? Am I that repulsive?

I get myself a Whopper meal and sit eating it on the train. My head is spinning, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened there. It took me longer to get to the date than what the date actually lasted for. What did I say or do that was so wrong?

Ah, it must have been my admission that I felt jaded by internet dating. Yes, that must be it. Of course, English Shrink went off extrapolating and analysing all that and must have come up with a conclusion that she didn’t like.

Stupid! There’s something else that I’ve forgotten about. She’s English! One of my reasons for going on this date was to get confirmation of my theory that English women are unsuitable for me. Well, how much more evidence do I need?

It was only when I got home did I realize something else. The date was so short because she had another date to go to! That’s why she walked back out of the station. That’s why she was hesitant about catching a train with me. That’s why she wanted to meet in London and why she specified where to meet because her next date was nearby.

By 8pm I’ve thrown myself down on my sofa. It feels like I’ve hit an all-time low with online dating. It feels like it’s been a big waste of time, energy and money. My opinion of women, English women especially, has hit rock-bottom and is digging it’s way to Siberia where it will no doubt freeze to death after being beaten to a pulp by heartless Russian female prison guards with moustaches because it had committed the heinous crime of arriving without enough money.

Flicking through television channels leads me to an interesting documentary about psychopaths. I think it’s because I’ve just had an encounter with a psychiatrist that this televisual fare appeals to me. ‘Psycho’ is a term we all use, but it’s something I know nothing about. I’ll watch this as a way to distract me from my miserable dating life.

As I sat there watching this show I slowly became cold as blood drains from my upper body. Aspects of psychopathy being detailed were uncomfortably familiar to me. Each trait identified led to a little tick-mark in my head about someone I knew!

To be continued…