Tag Archives: first kiss

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 #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

Cock-eyed Brazilian

The next day I’m speeding towards the trendy part of London where The Brazilian lives. My heart is pounding and there’s a little itch in my groin as thoughts of her race through my head. Could this be it? Is this Her? Finally, after all this time, effort and disappointment, could I finally have found The One?

Stop it. It’s only been one date, fool! You know the rules by now. Only get excited by the end of the third date because only then do you know if the feelings are mutual. Getting excited now is just setting myself up for a big fall. Keep it together. Be more Passive-Disinterested; it drives women wild.

I keep thinking about how much I wanted to kiss her yesterday. I even went home and looked up what the term for it is. Basorexilia: the overwhelming desire to kiss.

After more than an hour’s driving I get to her home which doubles as her business. I’ve always had immense admiration for anyone who runs their own business because I know how hard it is. We greet politely at her front door and it’s just cute kisses on each of her cheeks. I’m pretty sure that the real kissing will come later in the day.

In the blink of an eye we find ourselves on my picnic blanket in a nearby public park. Earlier I’d been to the shops as soon as they opened and bought everything anyone could want to eat at a picnic. The Brazilian is pleased with my surprise and suitably impressed by my selection. Conversation is easy, positive and energetic. She laughs at my every joke, but there’s much more going on between us.

The electricity between us is palpable and I want to kiss her. How and when should I make my move? I think she’s too much of a lady to make the first move. Almost all women are like that though; they want the man to initiate proceedings. Luckily for me I’ve never been afraid to lead.

As if on cue a cluster of rain-clouds speedily collect overhead and start spitting on us. I’m prepared for this and hoist the largest umbrella that I could find at home. I motion to The Brazilian to join me under it, which she duly obliges. Our shoulders are touching; it’s the strongest physical contact we’ve had so far and it feels good. I’ll try my luck soon. An idea comes to me.

I take a spicy cocktail samoosa and I feed it to her. She laughs as I do so, but she accepts my gesture. I’ve always thought it incredibly naughty and titillating to feed a woman food. It’s an erotic act that touches a woman on several levels. The most obvious mental image is that of feeding her my penis. On the cerebral level it also tells a woman that I am prepared and able to dominate her; that is a turn-on for women too. In my experience women find this act to be a part of foreplay and they like it.

“Oh, there’s a bit of crumb next to your mouth,” I say. There isn’t but I want her to think that there is.

The Brazilian wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I smile to myself. Here we go…

“Nope. You’ve missed it. Let me get it,” I say.

I lean towards her, aiming my lips at the side of her mouth, but stopping just short from making contact. Will she pull away, signalling that she’s not yet ready to get physical with me? Or will she come in and meet my lips, thus showing her attraction and desire for me?

The Brazilian instantly moves her head to meet my lips with hers. Our lips are a perfect match. Our first kiss is slow and gentle. I just make my lips available and let her rise to the occasion. Whenever I’ve done this within a few seconds a woman is getting into the kiss as I can feel the energy within her rising, she closes her eyes and her breathing intensifies. It’s when I notice the breathing that I pull away, thus leaving her wanting more. As I pull away from The Brazilian she opens her eyes and they’re ablaze with passion. There’s something I need to know.

“When did you first want to kiss me?” I ask.

“From the very first moment I saw you standing outside the station.”

“Really?” I was surprised.

“Yes, and the whole time we were sitting on the sofa in the pub watching the Brazil game, all I wanted to do was kiss you.”

“Guess what? I wanted to kiss you then too.”

We both smile and then share a kiss that seemed to go on forever. Spots of rain fall on the ground around us as we kiss, but I don’t recall feeling a single drop land on me. It was one of those moments when the universe stood still, just for us, as our lips and tongues entwined, bonding not just our bodies but our souls too. I knew then for sure that I could fall in love with her.

Seeing as we’re having this moment of honesty and she’s forthcoming, there’s something else that I need to know.

“Tell me something. What kind of relationship are you looking for?” I ask, this question driven by the niggling fact that we found each other on Tinder.

“More than anything, I want a relationship free of drama.” She answers with a plaintive look in her eyes.

“Me too. I’ve had enough drama to last me another lifetime.”

I think for a few seconds, feeling her gaze still upon me, I turn and say, “I won’t hurt you, but you can hurt me, because I can take it.”

“I won’t hurt you,” she says softly.

The clouds multiply and an English Summer downpour forces us to abandon our picnic.

“How about we go back to my place?” The Brazilian suggests.

“I don’t think we have much choice,” I say, starting to pack everything away. I haven’t driven for so long only to go home after a couple of hours. I’m quite happy to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon with her snuggled up in my arms, watching movies, chatting and kissing occasionally. I think it’s too soon for sex; we only met 24 hours ago.

In the car park I pack picnic gear into my car and I watch as The Brazilian happily skips over to a rubbish bin to dispose of surplus packaging. She looks so cute and I spot her breasts bouncing. I hadn’t noticed before that she has surprisingly large breasts. Until now she’s kept them hidden away under a tasteful scarf, like most big-breasted women do. Hmm, I look forward to playing with those one day. Patience.

Back at her place she makes us coffee and we get comfortable upstairs in her lounge area which is cluttered with unpacked boxes. The downstairs of her dwelling is reserved for her business. We sit side by side on her new fabric sofa as she flicks through television channels trying to find something that might distract us. We’re in serious danger of ripping each other’s clothes off and fucking like rabbits, such is the sexual tension between us.

The Brazilian finds a mindless rom-com and we pretend to watch it. She excuses herself and goes to another room, returning wearing a tight t-shirt and flimsy tracksuit trousers. She looks so sexy and her breasts are on full display. Damn, they look squeezable!

Hang on, what’s going on here? I’ve been in this position before. It was with Baltic Babe when she returned to the lounge wearing a nice little nothing too. Sex was on offer that night and I turned it down, then haven’t seen her since. If you say no to a woman she won’t offer again because her ego couldn’t risk or tolerate another rejection. A woman will only offer herself to you once. Is The Brazilian signalling that she wants sex?

She throws herself down on the sofa, snuggling up next to me. After a minute of silence The Brazilian snaps me out of my train of erotic thought by uncharacteristically asking me a question about myself.

“What’s your favourite type of ending to a movie?”

“At the end of the movie, ‘When Harry Met Sally’, Harry says to Sally, ‘when you realize that you’ve met the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, the rest of your life can’t start soon enough’,” I say.

“I like that. It’s beautiful,” she replies and sighs.

I cup her face and we kiss…and keep kissing. The Brazilian is getting turned on, the sounds she’s making tell me so. What do I do? Should we go all the way? No, it’s too soon for my liking. I want a loving relationship that has sex as the finishing touch on top, not the foundation of where it all started. Am I wrong in this regard? Perhaps, but it’s what I’m comfortable with. Fucking first then hoping for love afterwards is not likely to work in my opinion.

The Brazilian comes to life, opens her eyes that are blazing again and pulls away from me. She gets up and clambers onto the sofa with both feet, deftly stepping one foot over my legs before lowering herself down onto my lap, facing me. She slides her arms behind my head and starts grinding her crotch into mine.

To Be Continued…

Disastrous second date

I remembered The Finn telling me on our first date that her favourite cuisine is Turkish, so I did research on the web and found the best Turkish restaurant in North London. I make a booking for the next night and in the evening talk to The Finn about my plan. Unfortunately she had already been to that restaurant, but I wasn’t going to make another booking elsewhere.

On the day I get there very early and kill time in a nearby busy coffee shop. Two young women are at the table next to mine. One of them, a pretty brunette, keeps looking at me. I find that flattering but I do nothing about it. I don’t think I’ll ever have so-called ‘day game’ whereby I chat up a stranger whom I find attractive. In the recesses of my brain I keep telling myself that there’s a 95% probability that she will want children. I’d be wasting my time. I ignore her flirtatious glances and coy smiles. In the past two years I’ve had this happen several times and each time I rebuff the unsolicited attention. My friends think I’m crazy for ignoring these opportunities, but I know what’s good for me. Well, I like to think so. What intrigues me is how women know that I’m single.

I meet The Finn at a nearby train station and my initial reaction upon seeing her again is positive. She is the prettiest woman I’ve seen all day. The sight of her makes my blood flow faster. I kiss her hello on each cheek which makes her almost blush, then I lead us to the restaurant.

Conversation doesn’t flow easily and naturally. On second dates you find out a lot more about a person. Well I did. She never asked a single question about me again, which made me think that she isn’t taking me seriously as boyfriend material.

A far greater issue is that it’s becoming apparent to me that, besides a mutual physical attraction, we have very little in common. For example, I asked, “So what’s your favourite kind of movie?”

“I don’t watch much television or movies. I definitely don’t watch horror films.”

“Okay, so what’s the last music concert you went to?”

After much thought she answered, “My last concert was a Nordic music festival.”

“I see. I was meaning mainstream pop music.”

After more thought and an uncomfortable silence she answered, “I can’t remember.”

“Okay, not a problem.”

I’m trying to come across as making polite small-talk, but inside I’m becoming alarmed at her seemingly having little cultural pursuits and what she is into is nothing like mine. I’m trying to not make the date sound like an interrogation, but her answers or lack thereof was making it so. Nevertheless I persevere.

“What kind of books do you read?”

“I definitely don’t read horror stories.”


What’s a guy to do?

For the rest of the evening it felt like I was pushing an elephant up a mountain. Conversation was as dry as the Atacama Desert. Her impenetrable answers give me no idea about whether she’s a Taker or a Giver, but quite honestly, I now don’t care because she’s become boring to me. What chemistry there was is fading.

I decide to stop asking questions and let her deal with the awkward silences. It’s an old dating tactic of mine to not break the silence, to let the other person speak their mind as it reveals much. She would do so every time by starting to talk about her favourite pastime of hiking. I hate hiking.

By the time the meal ends I have come to the conclusion that we have very little in common. Our interests and pursuits are worlds apart. The question is: Do I take this as an opportunity to broaden my horizons or do I decide that we have little basis for a relationship? This was to play on my mind.

Neither of us feel like dessert as the Turkish meal we had just shared was sublime. We chose to settle the bill, which I paid despite her offering to pay her half. I sometimes wish I wasn’t such an old-fashioned gentleman, but letting the woman pay even half would spoil the experience for me.

It’s a balmy Summer’s evening and a very pleasant temperature, so we decide to go for a walk along the high street where there are many boutiques, restaurants and pubs. She seemed to have eaten at every second restaurant that we passed, which surprised me because of how skinny she was. Then I remember that she confessed to having been on many dates.

As we walked past an old-fashioned butcher, she asks me, “Do you like venison?”

“Absolutely. I like all sorts of exotic meats. How about you?”

“Yes, me too. Growing up in Finland we’d have elk after the Summer hunting season.”

“Well, my town has a monthly farmer’s market where there is a butcher who sells all sorts of meats. Would you like to visit it sometime?” I asked, hoping for an enthusiastic response which would indicate to me that she was open to growing a relationship with me.

Instead I get a stony silence.

I now got the impression that she isn’t that interested in me. After all, if the person you were interested in invited you to visit their town with an implied visit to their home, you would jump at the opportunity, right? I feel down-hearted and somewhat confused by her inaction that borders on rejection.

It was now getting late so I escort her to the nearest Tube station. In that time I decide to test her by trying to kiss her. You can tell a lot from a kiss. Maybe this will be a catalyst between us and a relationship will spark into life? We approach an escalator and I stretch my strides so that I can stand in front of her. Was it going to be like the first kiss with Baltic Babe?

I turn around and face her, a naughty smile on my face. She smiles too and I think she suspects what I was up to. I lean forward to kiss her, but don’t go all the way in, choosing instead to hold back just a little bit, waiting to see if she comes in to kiss me too. After all, I don’t want to force myself on her and I was looking for an indication of interest and attraction. If she doesn’t come in for the kiss, then I would know that I was wasting my time and for sure wouldn’t be seeing her again.

The Finn puts a dainty hand deftly on my shoulder and leans forward to kiss me. Her lips are so fine that I can barely feel them. Our lips are badly mismatched and the kiss is unappetising; a big disappointment. It is my worst first kiss ever.

Instead of the date ending on a high, it was a deflated feeling. I got an answer about the level of attraction that she felt for me, i.e. minimal. I have also never encountered such a bad kisser before. I’m learning that a bad kisser gives bad blowjobs.

I wait with her on the platform until her train arrives. Conversation is stilted. She hops on board without any hint of wanting another kiss. We smile politely and I give a perfunctory wave goodbye as the train pulls off. A part of me suspects that I might never see her lovely face again.

Fuckit, I'm going home.
Fuckit, I’m going home.

By the time I get home I’ve decided that she isn’t right for me. Despite a promising first date, this second encounter was a big let down because it became obvious that we have very little in common. Our interests are too divergent and I can’t see a basis for a relationship other than what, at best, seemed like a mutual physical attraction. If all I wanted was easy sex then I’d spend more time on her, letting matters meander to the bedroom…or my sofa after watching Californication. She is beautiful and seducing her would no doubt be a sweet experience. That’s not what I want.

I’ve learned that first dates are about pleasantries and formalities; everyone is on best behaviour. On a second date you find out if you really have anything to talk about. By the end of the third date you know if you want to keep talking. With The Finn I know that I don’t want to keep talking and it’s only been date two.

The young White Knight me would have tried to see where things could lead with the Finn, but I have enough experience, knowledge and, crucially, understanding to know that I would be trying to make love out of nothing at all. That would be foolish and I’m not that fool any more. The me that I have become, this older Grey Knight, knows what needs to be done next.

The Finn was going away for the weekend to Finland for a wedding and returned on the Monday night. That night I sent her the following message:

I’ve spent a lot of time over the weekend thinking of you.

I’m sorry to say, but I have come to the conclusion that I do not believe that we are right for each other.

We just don’t have enough common interests that we can enjoy together. I have optimistically thought that we can introduce each other to new things and broaden horizons together. However, I realistically know that that is not likely to be the case. At this stage of life we are all set in our ways to a large extent and our interests are fixed.

I hope you understand, and perhaps even agree?

You are a remarkable woman and have much to offer – and deserve much in return.

I wish you all the best in your search.

Her response arrived a few hours later:

Thank you for emailing me your thoughts rather than becoming uncontactable. 

I know what you mean by perhaps not having enough similar interests. Although we didn’t really have a chance to find out if something you like could develop an interest in me or vice versa, which has left me slightly disappointed.

Anyway, meeting you has given me hope that there are decent men out there! You are a lovely guy and I really enjoyed your company and our chats.

Good luck with your future dates. 
All the best,

This experience felt cold, icy even. This was my time of Ice. Fire was next, but I didn’t know this.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) A profile’s words has to invoke a sense of “wow – I want to meet her”, not be just a few pretty pictures. 2) Don’t get your hopes up until after the first kiss. 3) Physical attraction is more common than a cerebral connection.

Air Supply – Making love out of nothing at all

Date #44 – The Saffa

Busty Blonde and I are nearing our demise. I go on to MatchAffinity curious to see if there were any new prospects that had joined in the months since I had last subscribed. One of my highest matches is a South African lady who wrote a very direct and heartfelt profile. Although I’m not a member and can’t write to her, I decide to ‘favourite’ her nevertheless. She is just my type: blonde hair, blue eyes and pretty. Maybe one day I’ll contact her.

Overnight she writes to me, having noticed my favouriting her. She sends me a very lengthy email which I can read. In it she asks if I am from a seaside suburb, which I almost was, being from the seaside suburb alongside hers which she had mentioned. Intrigued I answer her email, explaining that I could only send one response for free, gave her my surname and suggest that she Google me and contact me via one of my websites. I wasn’t going to spend another penny on a dating website that had largely taken my money, wasted my time and only delivered a couple of disappointing dates.

I immediately get to work Googling her, given that I had her first name and where she was from. Within seconds I find her Facebook page which is wide open to read. To my amazement we have two mutual friends. I contact one of these friends, asking about our mutual friend. The response is a very positive one, so I make a friend request on Facebook to my prospective date. In my mind I was thinking of her as ‘The Saffa’.

It isn’t easy for me to do all this. I have Busty Blonde on my mind and it feels like I’m cheating on her. My regained sense of moral righteousness is squirming. However, my curiosity and desire to find The One dictates that I at least make an effort to meet this woman; we have too much in common to ignore.

The Saffa and I start swapping messages on Facebook and then text messages on our phones. She works as a live-in carer for elderly wealthy people around England and doesn’t have a fixed address. She has also only been in the UK for just over a year. A minimum wage, homeless person was a drastic drop from high-flying Busty Blonde, but chemistry is vital.

Late on a Wednesday night The Saffa texts me “Hotel California”; just those words. I responded with “The Eagles 1977. Saw them at Twickenham a few years ago” and then went to bed. The next morning I awoke to three more text messages from her in the hours after I went to sleep, telling me that she was with friends, drinking wine and listening to 70s music. I felt quite flattered that she was thinking of me, feeling the need to share her thoughts and feelings with me, not even having met me. I also found this behaviour a little unusual, bordering on disturbing. I appreciated the fact that she liked 70s music because I do too, but texting while inebriated shows a lack of self-control to me. My hopes aren’t high.

Is she another nutter?

We swap a few emails during the week. Mine are short and to the point, while hers are elaborate. She is unafraid of telling me just how much she was looking forward to meeting me. In my mind an impression is forming of a high-spirited chatterbox.

I’m very aware that, courtesy of my experience with Cat Lady, our common heritage will be an immediate plus point. I’ll be at pains to look past that to see if we have any grounds for a relationship. My acid test question will be, “If we were still in SA, would I want to see her?”

In a very unusual plan for our first date, The Saffa invites me to visit her at a friend’s cottage which is an hour’s drive away. The friend was away on business and The Saffa was house-sitting.

Could she be The One?

Well, I met her and she was as I anticipated, except more physically attractive than what I was expecting. Prettier with a flawless skin, plus bigger boobicles than her photos let on; I’d totally do her. An awkward kiss hello at the door to her friend’s cottage was followed by coffee and biscuits in the lounge. Not my typical date.

Yes, she’s a stereotypical blonde chatterbox, but I think she is gripped by a bit of nervousness. It turns out that I am only her second-ever internet date. The previous guy was as tall as her and not significantly taller as his profile said. The Saffa barely comes up to my shoulders. I think it a shame that the majority of women are so obsessed with their man being taller than them, but it works in my favour.

Hours of conversation reveals that we went to the same high school but at different times. I arrived there in the second year of high school which is when she left to go to a new school that opened in her suburb. All my school friends were hers too, yet we never met outside of school. We were like ghost ships in the night, gliding past each other, only visible to an astute observer.

Looking past the obvious South African connection, it becomes apparent that she has some baggage. Her previous long-term relationship of 8 years had ended 12 years ago when her partner died of cancer. Since then she has not felt ready for a relationship. She admitted to a couple of flings, one of which lasted 2 years, but she knew that she never loved him, but kept going anyway. I can’t be judgemental about that one.

It doesn’t take long for me to conclude that she fancies me too, because she started making unnecessary physical contact, brushing my arm or shoulder when speaking to me. We went for lunch in a restaurant in a nearby town and after lunch she responded very well to the “do you like chicken?” routine. Even after having to uncouple she would come back to couple up again.

Lots of positive conversation, but the stand-out items were unfortunately negative ones. Firstly, she intends to return to South Africa one day; I’m not prepared to do that as there a very bleak future there for me because of my skin colour. Secondly, when we were at the restaurant she struggled to make a decision about what to have and had to ask the waitress for a recommendation. This speaks of an indecisive person that is easily dissuaded and doesn’t know how to make a decision. This micro-issue gets magnified in her larger life in that she has moved to and from the UK three times. Thirdly, she has been retrenched 5 times in her life. That is unheard of in South Africa and in my experience speaks of someone who is a problem worker. She also recounted other workplace stores that told me that her employers moved her to a shit job in a hope that she would resign.

I have a dreadful cold, but that didn’t stop The Saffa from planting a big kiss on my lips when I leave. I wasn’t expecting that. I drive home with my head and heart full of conflicting emotions. It’s clear to me that she is quite taken with me. I wonder what our mutual friends have told her about me? Are their words colouring her perception of me? I did very little talking during this date; my man-flu reduced my energy level and I didn’t want to interrupt her.

She openly admits that she is a gypsy at heart, a constant wanderer. I don’t think that that is her intent, I think that’s how things have worked out for her. Is she relationship material? I don’t think so. Is she emotionally healthy? It seems not. She’s like a little bird, given to flight at the merest disturbance. This little bird is controlled by a vulnerability that she has become so accustomed to that it is now part of her nature.

I agree to meet her again for another date, but my hopes aren’t high. I feel like such a treacherous bastard for having anything to do with The Saffa. If Busty Blonde ever found out she’d be so hurt. Out of curiosity more than anything else I’m going to see The Saffa again. I must add that it is with a touch of reluctance.

Oh, there is also the little matter of meeting someone new soon. Now that date I’m looking forward to…

Nelly Furtado – I’m Like a Bird

Date #43 – Tiny Russian

While I was getting ready to meet Travel Gal, Busty Blonde and The Russian MILF I came across another profile that caught my attention. I’m starting to think that online dating is a numbers game in that if you go on enough dates you’ll find someone perfect for you who thinks you’re perfect for them too. So often for me it has felt like a sudden deluge of new potential matches would appear in a wave only to be followed by a drought of interesting profiles. In the past I let new arrivals slip through my grasp by not contacting them as soon as they appeared because I had one or two other women I was in contact with. I’m now riding this latest wave by juggling four women at once.

It’s proving tricky remembering what conversation I have had with whom, especially once I’ve met them. In this case I’m referring to Travel Gal and Busty Blonde, neither of whom suspects that the others exist. For all I know each of these four women has their own posse of suitors. Online dating and relationships can sometimes be a shitty game and we’re all just contestants hoping to win something and it’s not always the same prize.

The fourth woman I’m interested in is also Russian. There’s just something about their appearance and presentation that I find irresistible. I think it’s because they make more of a feminine impression on me which stirs the horny demon in me that makes me want to defile them.

Today’s contender is a few years younger than me so I assume her child to be a teenager. Pretty as can be, light brown hair, beguiling smile, beautiful eyes, a playful way with words on her profile; I just had to meet her. Besides the child issue there is also the fact that she’s only five foot tall. Yes, I was writing about Baltic Babe and needed some reminding of what being with her felt like, partially in the hope that it would provide some new insights into what exactly I like and should avoid in a woman. I have a weakness for sweetness, that much I know.

I send off a humorous email that does the trick and we’re swapping witty, brief messages over the course of a few nights. Of course I’m messaging or phoning the aforementioned three other women whom I have already met. The Russian MILF I’m not putting that much effort into because our date didn’t go that well, but I am inclined to see her one more time. At times all this messaging with women on dating sites has felt like having a second job. It can be hard work and I am starting to get fed up with it all. I can’t keep spending my evenings this way. I can’t wait to find The One.

The Tiny Russian and I agree to meet for coffee on Saturday morning. After my expensive experience with The Russian MILF I’m keeping dates down to short, lunchtime coffee dates from now on. If there’s chemistry, it’ll be there within an hour. My first date with Baltic Babe proved that to me and I’ve been foolish to ignore it for so long.

Could the Tiny Russian be The One?

I arrive at a mini-mall on the outskirts of West London where the Tiny Russian lives. I’m not sure what to expect from this date because my head is full of ideas and thoughts about the other women I’m seeing. As each face pops into my head my emotional state changes because of how I feel about the face I’m thinking of. Having so many women on my hands is stretching my ability to make a sane choice, but it also gives me a freedom not to rush into a relationship. I also find what I am doing slightly unfair to all involved but this is modern dating.

The Costa coffee shop is humming and it’s only ten o-clock. The place is full of yummy mummies and I notice some of them glancing at me. I am the only middle-aged man in the place and I’m alone so it’s to be expected that I evoke some curiosity. The Tiny Russian texts me that she’ll be a few minutes late. Why do women struggle to be on time? Is it really that difficult? Or is it some half-baked ruse they were told to do by some glossy but trashy magazine that they read while being ripped off in a hair salon?

Eventually the Tiny Russian arrives and, wow, she is tiny. She might not even be five foot and she’s skinny. If we got physical I could break her. She’d have to go on top. I might even be able to do ‘The Propeller’ with her: spread her legs wide apart, prop her onto my cock and spin her around like she was a propeller.

I stoop down and give her a kiss on each cheek. I can feel the eyes of the audience upon us as we sit down. We make a little small-talk before I head off to get her a coffee and a pastry. As I stand in the queue to order I think about her initial impression. Yes, she looks like her photos and, yes, she is incredibly pretty. Her English isn’t as good as The Russian MILF’s, but that means her speech comes with that sexy Russian purr that makes my sphincter tighten.

As we use our coffees and pastries as props over conversation, it seems to me that she is very defensive. Most women are in the first minutes of a date with me, but then they relax and occasionally enjoy themselves. From all my other dates I’ve come to know that almost every woman who has gone internet dating has run into two extreme characters: the nutcase and the sex monster. The former is nothing like what they expected and quickly shows why he is single. The latter is only after sex. Both of these creatures freak women out to the extent that whenever they go no a date they can’t help but wonder if this new guy is one of these two denizens of dating. The female equivalent of these is the Baby-brainer and the Gold-digger. Every man encounters those two. I think that’s a shame and an indictment of society, but it is what it is.

Slowly the tiny Russian warms to me and starts smiling and laughing. Perhaps she has got used to my accent? I like hers. It turns out that she has been in the UK for nine years; I would have expected her English to be better. I decide to get more personal with her, seeing as she’s now more at ease with me.

“So how did you come to be in the UK?” I ask.

“I met an Englishman online when I was in St. Petersburg,” she begins.

St. Petersburg? The Russian MILF was from there as well. Could these two know each other? If so I could get into trouble here. No, there’s a ten year age-gap, so it’s not likely.

“He came to visit me in St. Petersburg several times before he asked me to marry him. I wasn’t that interested, but my family forced me to,” she continues.

Does this mean that she was a mail-order bride? I just can’t understand how anyone can do that. I guess my life has never been that hard so that I would be willing to do this. It must have been showing on my face what I was thinking because Tiny Russian decides to tell me more.

“I was young and I didn’t know what to do. My parents wanted a better life for me. I feel ashamed now that I did this, but at least I have a little girl of my own who means the world to me,” she says with a plaintive look in her eyes.

“And the father?” I ask, now prepared for a bombshell. It seems with her anything is possible.

“Well, now we’re finalizing our divorce. We’re arguing over support payments for our daughter. He’s being very nasty and the stress of it all has caused me to be ill for the last year,” she says.

Oh lordy, I feel sorry for her, but this isn’t what I’m looking for. Does this mean that she has money problems on top of all this emotional wreckage?

“Are you back at work yet?” I ask.

“Yes, I’ve been working half days for the past month. That way I do the school runs,” she replies.

“I take it then that your daughter lives with you?”

“Yes, full time. She goes to her father every second weekend,” Tiny Russian says.

She only really has time for a relationship every second weekend it seems. Not the deal or lifestyle I want. My heart feels for her, an attractive young woman who wants to know what love is because it’s obvious to me that she’s never known it, not even the fake versions that I once knew.

I deftly change the topic to something more positive while I ruminate over her. She does most of the talking now and is quite animated. From her words I deduce that she’s not infected with the disease of money-madness like so many people are. She has that sweetness that I find alluring, but I’ve grown enough in the last years to know to avoid that kryptonite. Tiny Russian is a good, decent person who doesn’t want much from life. She doesn’t aspire to have the farmhouse in Tuscany and be draped in labels like her compatriot, the Russian MILF, does. If it wasn’t for her baggage then she is the type of person that I can have a loving relationship with. However, she isn’t The One.

The droplets of coffee left in our cups are cold as I check my watch. I have a lunchtime date with Busty Blonde next. Tiny Russian spots me checking my watch.

“You need to go?” she purrs.

I get the impression that she wants me to stay, to talk some more, but I know that there’s no point.

“Sadly, yes. I’m meeting a friend for lunch,” I say, wincing as I know that I’m a bad liar. I think she’s smart enough to know what kind of friend I’m referring to.

“Okay. I understand,” she says.

“What are you going to do the rest of today?” I ask as we stand up. The difference in height would always make people stare at us.

“I’m going home to prepare for my court date with my ex-husband this Tuesday,” she replies with a pained smile.

I feel so sorry for her. She is one of life’s innocents, a gentle creature who must find all this such an insufferable burden. Where are her domineering parents now? Their ill-conceived notion could never turn out well. I suppose desperate people are prone to doing desperate things.

“May I escort you to your car?” I offer.

“I like that. You’re such a gentleman,” she says with a coy smile.

There’s that playful little imp that I read of in her profile. I feel the need to end this date on as positive a note as I can. It’s the least I can do for her. When last did someone say or do something nice for her? She deserves it. I recently saw a cartoon on Facebook that said, “The woman who asks for nothing, deserves everything.” I think this applies to her.

I chaperone the Tiny Russian to her car which is parked near mine. Her car is an old, small runabout that is the signature vehicle of mothers doing the school run. It’s a life and a world far removed from my simple, selfish existence.

“I guess this is goodbye then,” I say.

The Tiny Russian takes a step back onto a kerb-stone so that she’s a few inches taller. We both smile. She’s so cute and in that moment she reminds me of some of the better moments I shared with Baltic Babe. Her acquired troubles and weight of responsibility disappears and she seems like a little girl again, wanting a boy to kiss her for the very first time. It’s a feeling I like.

I step forward wanting to kiss her cheeks, stoop down toward a cheek, but Tiny Russian ambushes me and latches her lips onto mine. I’m caught by surprise but relax and enjoy our kiss. She’s standing on tippy-toes and her hands are holding onto the lapels of my jacket. I raise my hands and can’t help but put them on her delicate ribcage. God, she feels so fragile. Our lips entwine nicely and she makes a sound of approval. I take that as my cue to withdraw.

For a few warm seconds we stand under the Winter sun, blinking at each other. That was a nice kiss. Before one of us says or does something we later regret I step back and open her car door for her. Without a word she gets in, buckles up, smiles at me, reverses out the bay, gives me a cheery wave and drives off.

What a wonderful little person. I wish her all the strength and luck in the world. If I was religious I’d say a little prayer for her. She’s on her own here, battling an embittered, spiteful man while trying to do her best for her child. A younger me, the White Knight, would scoop her up in my arms and do whatever it takes to make her world right. However, the current me, the Grey Knight, is cynically leaving her to her own battles because I have to do what is right for me. We are both alone having to find our way through our boulevard of broken dreams.

I get in my car, take a moment to shrug off what I’ve just experienced and start thinking about my next date in an hour with Busty Blonde.

Green Day – Boulevard of Broken Dreams