Tag Archives: guilt

Over my head

Yet again I find myself having to choose between two women. Busty Czech is sweet and harmless, but becoming hard work. The Saffa is feisty and fun, but I know that she has been badly hurt in the past and might not be capable of love. I’m struggling to choose, so I resolve to tell The Saffa about my situation when I see her today. It feels like the honourable thing to do. If she walks away then I won’t blame her, but if she chooses to hang around then I know that she’s serious about me.

I meet The Saffa at noon at my train station, she insists on kissing me full on the lips as we greet, which makes me feel uncomfortable. Can she sense something?

We walk to a nearby Italian restaurant to share lunch. The place is empty and we get a table upstairs with the whole floor to ourselves. Perfect for an intimate conversation.

The Saffa is talkative as usual and she’s positive. The latter point is becoming more important in my thoughts nowadays because I’m seeing that Busty Czech is somewhat negative. Our nightly conversations have cemented into a format that involves her first asking about my day then it quickly moves onto her bitching about her job then moaning about her mother’s latest mind games. Tedious; I’m starting to not want to have our evening chat.

The easy thing to do would be to ditch Busty Czech and take my chances with The Saffa. The problem is that I’ve shelled out a lot of money to go away on holiday in a few week’s time with Busty Czech and that money is non-refundable. I need a sunshine holiday and money is becoming tight for me, so I don’t know when I’ll next have a chance to have one. The timing of all this is terrible.

Can I string both of them along until after the holiday and make my decision then? I doubt it. Busty Czech is oblivious to my growing misgivings about her. The Saffa is keen and I won’t enjoy the trip with thoughts of The Saffa hanging over my head. It’s time to come clean. I take a deep breath.

“There’s something I have to be honest about with you. A couple of weeks ago I met someone that I’ve been on a couple of dates with. So far it’s been okay, but I’m still making up my mind about her.”

That’s all I’m going to tell her for now. She’s going to get emotional then angry; that’s what is likely to happen.

After a moment of thought she responds, but not with what I was expecting.

“Well, there’s something I need to tell you too. After we met in April I started seeing another guy. It lasted three months and I did sleep with him several times. I hadn’t had sex in two years until him. I got the impression that that he had someone else on the side, so I ended it in July.”

My mind sprints around as I do the maths. It’s now late August, so she’s probably not processed all the feelings about that scene. Can she be on the rebound? How strong were her feelings for him? Is it safe to have sex with her? Was it a lucky escape on Friday night that she started her period? I feel the need to know.

“Did you guys play safely?” I ask, trying to remember when last I went to that awful sexual health clinic.

“Yes, he used a condom every time,” she replies.

I appreciate her honesty, or what seems like that.

An electrified silence descends between us. We blink at each other, both uncertain about what to say next. Her words have little effect on me; I couldn’t care less if she had been seeing someone, but obviously she felt the need to tell me. I think we’re both now focussed on what happens next. It’s not often that I’m at a loss for words but I am right now. I know that I have to accept whatever comes my way from her.

After some thought she says, “So what are you going to do?”

“I really don’t know. What would you do?” I respond.

“I don’t know either,” she says with a puzzled look on her face.

“Until the way forward is clear for me, how about we just enjoy our lunch?” I suggest.

The Saffa smiles falsely as our food arrives. We eat with long teeth, but after a while she takes a deep breath of her own and becomes talkative again. Lunch ends and I have no plan, now expecting to walk her back to the station and perhaps never see her again.

“I don’t suppose we can watch some more Californication?” she asks.

So we end up back at my place indulging her latest addiction. After a couple of episodes I go into the kitchen to make us coffee and she follows me. I turn and meekly smile as she puts her arms around my neck and starts kissing me.

Her action takes me completely by surprise and I’m not sure it’s the effect of what she was watching or her feelings for me. I think I know where this might lead to.

“Are you still on your period?” I ask.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun,” she replies, uncoupling her arms, grabbing my hand and leading me to the bedroom.

The Saffa pushes me onto the bed and starts undressing me. I’m a little ill-at-ease because I’m not a fan of vaginal sex while a woman is on her period. Oral for me is a given, but what about her? Suddenly I wonder if she’s into anal.

She strips down to her panties and her perfume fills the room. This afternoon I can see more clearly and The Saffa is carrying a few more pounds than a typical woman, but I like that. I like the feeling of a woman who has something to hold onto. A mischievous smile is all I see as she covers my face with her perfect blonde hair before she slowly drags it down my face and across my chest, as if it was a silky feather.

Do you know the difference between kinky and perverted? Kinky is when you use a feather. Perverted is when you use the whole chicken. I wonder if she’s kinky or perverted? I intend to find out.

Her feather-like hair traces a path down my torso, along a leg and she stops at my feet. She slides off the edge of the bed and seats herself on the ground while holding onto my right foot as if it is holy icon. Soft, gentle, slow kisses follow the contours of my feet as her lips become instruments of pleasure.

No woman has kissed my feet before. How novel! It feels damn good too. Wait, an idea hits me. I must film this. My phone is quickly in my hand and I get the video camera function working in record time. The Saffa is unaware of my now filming her.

Expertly she takes her time to tease each of my toes with a slow kiss before sucking each one into her mouth, latching on briefly before releasing it and moving on to the next one. I’m watching and recording this, knowing what she is going to do and nevertheless each time, each toe, feels like a revelation. I’ve heard of ‘shrimping’ but it hasn’t really appealed to me and luckily no woman has asked me for it because I would have declined on hygiene grounds, but my preconceptions are wonderfully wrong.

The Saffa returns to my big toe, runs the tip of her tongue over and around it, teases it with with her bottom lip then swallows it. The warmth of her mouth sends electric pulses firing throughout my body and a little bit of jizz might have popped out of the tip of my growing penis.

My toe makes a popping sound as it leaves her mouth. Her lips start moving up the inside of my opposite leg and she raises herself with minimal effort off the ground and makes her body follow her mouth. Her kisses are measured, as if each one counts for something. The effect it has is that of making my skin a huge, sensitive sexual organ.

She certainly knows what she’s doing but a part of me is wondering about the bigger picture. Is she trying to seduce me into choosing her over Busty Czech? It must be what’s behind her actions. Women have for centuries used sex to get their man. As stategies go it’s not a bad one. It’s good one. A very pleasurable one. Fortunately for me I’m not so easily swayed or seduced any more. After all my dating and relationship experiences of the past two years I have now arrived at a point whereby I can separate my sexual, physical enjoyment of a woman from my feelings for her. Is this what happens if you’ve have too many sexual partners? Sex is now a hobby to me?

Now her tantalizing mouth has made it’s way up to my groin area. She gently licks then kisses my balls. Nothing in the world seems more important to her right now. Her hair is in the way of her face and the camera demands to see her blue eyes, so with my free hand I part her silky hair to one side, revealing her face. Her eyes are fixed on my erect cock as she runs her tongue up and down the length of it. As she reaches the tip she grips my shaft in one hand, lifts it towards her face and closes her eyes as she slowly swallows as much of it as she can.

With utmost dedication and expertise she unhurriedly moves her mouth backwards and forwards over my helmet and halfway down my shaft, repeatedly and deliberately. Time seems to stand still and the only sound to be heard is her saliva being spread over my penis.

“You’re a good cock-sucker,” I say for some silly reason.

The Saffa makes no sound and raises her gaze, her eyes connecting with mine momentarily before she notices the phone in my hand. A small furrow appears between her eyebrows but she says nothing, preferring instead to keep my cock in her mouth. Why do all women look so sexy with my cock in their mouth?

She looks down again and resumes doing what she has clearly mastered. It isn’t long before my balls tighten and I feel a stirring in my scrotum.

“Where do you want to feel my cum? In your pussy? In your mouth? Over your tits…or in your arse?” I ask.

I’ve learned that when you’re suggesting something to someone, the last of the options you present is the one most likely to be chosen. So I’m being naughty and am baiting her, more to check her reaction than anything else. I’m not seriously thinking we’ll end up doing anal.

“Hmm,” is her reply.

“You’d like to feel it in your arse, wouldn’t you?” I tease.


Maybe she’s not into anal after all. I’ll tease some more.

“Imagine me fucking you doggy-style. Then imagine me putting my thumb up your arse as I fuck you doggy-style. You’re going to like that, aren’t you?”

I’ve also learned that when women are in a sexualized state, any suggestion directed at them assumes profound importance. They take it very seriously and are likely to do what is suggested because it is what their brain is focussed on. When the pussy juices are flowing and a cock is in their mouth a typical woman will agree to do just about anything. In this moment I’m planting the seed of what is likely to become an eventuality, the timing of which will take care of itself.

Silence as The Saffa hears my words and keeps rhythmically sucking away on my cock. Seconds later she stops abruptly, releases my penis from her mouth, looks up at me and speaks.

“Stop filming now,” she says.

“Suck it,” I retort.

She complies.

Half a minute later my cock starts pumping and squirting cum into her mouth. It doesn’t disturb her motion or rhythm at all. Somehow she swallows all my cum and keeps on going down on me until I can’t take the pleasure any more.

Once I’ve regained my composure, I reciprocate by sliding my hand into her knickers and playing with her clit until she cums. I leave sucking on her nipples until near the end because that is what sends most women over the edge. The oldest tricks are the best.

The rest of the sunny afternoon is spent lying in my bed, talking, laughing and getting to know each other better. It’s only when I see her off at the train station that the sense of guilt returns, gripping me like a warm vice, as I remember Busty Czech and our upcoming trip together.

The Saffa still doesn’t know about the trip; she’d freak out if she did. Busty Czech doesn’t know about The Saffa; she’d freak out if she did.

No matter how I look at it, somebody is going to get hurt.

It’s all my fault.

My life has generally felt like I’m constantly in shit, it’s just the depth that varies, but right now it feels like I’m in over my head.

The Fray – Over My Head(Cable Car)

Loneliness and The Wanderer returns

Late at night, not every night but only some nights, Loneliness takes me by the hand and drags me silently into a cold, dark, murky corner of my world. There he beats me up, brutalizes me with words that hurt my feelings. His intent is make me give up, to forget about finding love, but I don’t break. Instead I shout back that I shall find Her, that She does exist. I tell him that it’s just a sick game our mutual master called Life is playing and that, if I stay the course, I shall be rewarded. That belief grows in my chest and shines like a bright light from my heart out through my rib-cage. A light so bright that it dissolves that bully called Loneliness and the darkness releases me, falling like shackles around my feet. I defeat him every time. I do not fear Loneliness, because every time he comes to visit, I feel better for it.

I have no problem with being alone. Lately, however, I’ve begun to feel lonely. I’m starting to suspect that it’s more than that: I’m starting to feel unloved. I’m not one for day-dreaming or living in a fantasy; I deal in reality. My reality is that nobody loves me. It’s the focus of every day for me to find someone who loves me as much as I love her. I go about my days doing the things I need to, but that feeling is always with me.

All I want is a cute, pretty, younger blonde, non-smoker who doesn’t want children and is baggage free. All I seem to attract is chain-smoking, cat-hoarding, single mothers older than me of various shapes, sizes and colours. Finding someone that I share an incredible connection with seems like a far-off luxury right now.

Wherever I go, I see them, the women I like the look of. At train stations, on trains, in shopping centres, in the streets, everywhere I go, they’re there. It’s pretty much every second young blonde. I cant help it, attraction isn’t a choice. I see them, but they don’t notice me. Almost never do I catch one of them looking at me. I’m invisible to them. I’m like a ghost, moving about in lonely isolation, devoid of meaningful interaction, bereft of recognition. I’m amidst a whirlpool of women that I want to get to know better, but when I reach out to one of them, they recoil disdainfully with a feminine shrug of a shoulder and carry on spinning around me, teasing me, toying with me, hurting me.

I now have the conversational skills and confidence to talk to any woman, but I know that I’m almost certainly wasting my time. I’m fighting Nature in that I don’t want to have children, but almost all women do. A random stranger in the street is not a good use of my time and emotional capital. Online dating is my best avenue for love because it does all the filtering for me.

I’m starting to think that the woman of my dreams lives exactly there, in my dreams. Life for me revolves around working long days and then spending weekends meeting women who turn out to be just more hay in my haystack. That needle has to be in here somewhere.

The optimist in me has also been thinking about what a relationship will be like. I have some reservations borne out of my new-found view of women. I have questions that I would like answers to. 1) Do good looking women gravitate toward a man with money as a deep-seated seating way of dealing with the inevitable fear of what would happen once their looks fade? 2) Are all 9 and 10s stuck-up, snobbish little bitches? 3) As much as I want to share my life with someone special, I know that I value my sense of freedom that I’m enjoying at the moment. Do I have to trade one for the other? I’m in no hurry to want to live with some, but do want to spend a good amount of time with her. Do we have to live together? I think not. I hope She’s of a like mind.

I also have some new shifts in my paradigm that I’m coming to terms with. 1) I’m realising that a woman having the perfect body but defective personality will not work. A great personality and okay body will last longer with me. 2) I’ve realized that many of my dates were unnecessary. My inner-saboteur was at work. I went on some dates because I wanted something fun to do and, more importantly, it was providing a measure of positivity in my life at a time when I was unhappy at work. I need to be more selective in my dating. 3) I have noticed something else about myself. If I’m with a girl on a date and I catch myself checking out another woman, then the one in front of me is obviously not attractive enough for me. I know that if I’m with someone I do fancy, then other women become invisible to me. I literally only have eyes for her.

The problem is that it feels like I’m entering an emotional Winter. I just don’t feel ready for a relationship any more. I find myself contemplating another Xmas as a singleton, afraid of becoming a charity case again. I’m happily writing away, recounting my experiences. Perhaps the cumulative effect of doing so is the cause of that feeling. However, the experiences of the past year have drawn in to perspective how long my road has been so far and the end is nowhere in sight. It might take me several more such years and so be it. I think of it as a marathon, so it’s okay to take a breather surely?

My dating site subscriptions are starting to mature and I feel no desire to renew. One by one they feel like weighty doors closing to me, noisily and emphatically slamming closed, followed by resounding echoes that shout out my failure. Well, for the time being at least.

I know that in the new year that there will be a deluge of women who have made a New Years’ resolution to “get back out there”, some egged on by well-meaning friends, some fed up of having been the spare wheel at the Xmas dinner table. I know the feeling.

Perhaps I should be like other people and lie about my age on my profiles? I don’t look my age and often get told that I look 35. If I was a real bastard, I would say on my profiles that I am looking to have children. I could have my pick of women by comparison. Then when I grew tired of their nagging for children or their looks faded or any reason good enough for me, I would say goodbye to them and find a replacement. However, I’m not like that.

I am so not the person I was before I began online dating. Who or what am I these days? Am I a player? Am I hopeless romantic? Am I a modern-day Mr Darcy? Am I all of these things…or none? What am I becoming? I’m not sure. The pointers on my moral compass are bent; I’m not sure what is right or wrong any more. On top of that I feel like I’m perpetually in the shadows, observing, rarely seen and never acknowledged. It can’t carry on like this.

The Wanderer contacts me from the icy confines of left field. Her plans for a new life in London haven’t worked out and she finds herself on the brink of being homeless. I take pity on her and let her come stay with me for two weeks until she returns to her native Ireland. She’s wandering again. My kindness is also driven by a sense of guilt because of how things had turned out between us. She was taken with me, thinking me to be her ‘The One’. I wasn’t of a like mind and had to let her down as gently as I knew how. I know that I hurt her at a time when she couldn’t handle any more pain.

I fetch The Wanderer with my little car and load her worldly possessions into it before driving back to my little shag-pad where I unload it all into a now impracticably crowded apartment. She has a back condition and I’m too big to fit on my sofa, so we have to share my bed. I know that I can resist the temptation to have sex with her. I’m now big enough a person to realize just how much that would complicate matters between us. She makes no approach and nor do I. It’s cold and we feel asleep spooning, sharing body heat. I’m not at all tempted to rekindle a romance with her. My mother used to say, “You only know someone when you live with them,” and her words are proving true. I’m an early-bird while The Wanderer is a night-owl. We’re chalk and cheese in so many ways. A relationship between us would never have worked. I feel vindicated in my decision about her.

Unexpectedly some new faces appear on the radar screen that is my preferred online dating websites. It seems there might be some hope after all. A busy run-up to Christmas is in the offing and I’m excited again at the thought of finally finding Her. This Grey Knight is going to be stepping out of the shadows.

The Rasmus – In The Shadows

Pretty guilty date

My quickie with Krazy Girl wasn’t as satisfying as I had hoped for, that compounds my sense of nervousness and guilt as I arrive at Pretty Teacher’s place. Will she be able to sense that I’ve been a naughty boy or is she too absorbed by whatever the hell is going on in her head?

We politely kiss hello as her front door, but all I can think of is are there are bite marks or signs of kissing on my face or neck? Have I overdone it with the deodorant or isn’t there enough? Do I look guilty?

Pretty Teacher invites me inside and she leads me to the lounge. Is this the part where she sits me done and asks me what I’ve been up to? Or is this when she has a heart-to-heart with me about whatever is bugging her?

“Look at what my friends and I did today,” she says pointing at a freshly decorated Christmas tree that occupies a window bay.

It’s only mid-November, a bit early for a tree to be going up, but I say nothing. Instead I make approving sounds and Pretty Teacher beams her delight. She seems in a better mood today. I might just get away with this.

“C’mon, lets go to my favourite Thai restaurant,” she says grabbing her jacket.

I know not to quibble as we walk to her car. She always wants to drive, even though she’s a bad driver. That might take some getting used to. It isn’t a surprise to me either that we head for the same town we’ve always gone to, even though there are several others equidistant. She does like to be in control and for things to be predictable it seems.

The banter as we drive is okay, with her telling me about her morning that became an afternoon too with her friends. I consider her tone and demeanour neutral. We drive up an empty street where the restaurant is but Pretty Teacher can’t make up her mind where to park. As if it makes any difference. Eventually she chooses a spot. Memories of Miss Indecisive come flooding back. It seems I really am getting to see similar personality types on the dating scene.

The Thai restaurant is empty and we have a choice of tables. There are times when I want to be more assertive and do the choosing and this is one of those times because, driven by my sense of guilt, I let Pretty Teacher decide where we should sit. After some umming and ahhing she chooses a table, but hardly are we seated when she says another table is better and we move there.

Conversation now dries up while we inspect the menu. I try my best to get conversation flowing, hoping that it will be like our first date again, but she’s adopted her iceberg routine again. Why am I bothering? Well, I want a relationship, not a fuckbuddy thing like I have with my Exgf and Krazy Girl. I’m hoping that things between Pretty Teacher and I flourish into a wonderful romance, that becomes a life-long lasting love.

It’s important to have dreams and goals, things that make us get up every day, things that give us pleasure, things that make life worthwhile.

Right now Pretty Teacher is not giving me any kind of pleasure. She’s sitting there staring at me, scrutinising me. Has she spotted something? Is there lipstick on my collar? Have I been rumbled?

With merciful timing a waiter arrives to take our order. Pretty Teacher can’t make up her mind about what to eat, so before she does I give the waiter my order. I usually wait for the lady to order first, but the waiter starts to look bored and I’m beginning to think that Pretty Teacher is an annoying ditherer. She might be one of those people who stands in a queue in a fast-food outlet but still don’t know what they want by the time they get to the counter.

Conversation is as dry as the Sahara until our food arrives. We sit eating in stony silence. Fuck, this is hard work. I can only guess that she has spotted something incriminating on me and now she’s deciding how to broach the subject. I can see that it is tricky for her if she has. You don’t want to accuse someone you’re dating of fucking around because you could be wrong and then unnecessary damage has been done.

Dessert is eaten in silence as well. There’s still nobody else in the restaurant and the silence is echoing off the walls. It’s starting to feel like I’m a prisoner in a holding cell waiting to hear judgement, followed by sentencing. She gets out her phone and plays some online scrabble. Or is she texting a friend her suspicion, asking what to do? What if she does confront me, accuse me? Me being me I’ll probably confess to my infidelity. I’m a terrible liar; my face was not made for poker, but more for radio.

Out of guilt I pay the bill, Pretty Teacher offers to pay her half but I dismiss her offer with a shake of my head and a smile. We walk back to her car, it’s chilly tonight so I offer her my jacket, which she declines. Once at the car I open her door for her, to which she just smiles.

As we drive out of the deserted town a drunk woman staggers out of a pub. She lurches into the road a few yards in front of us. Pretty Teacher slams on her brakes and we skid to a halt. The drunk stops, turns to us, raises an upturned hand and extends her middle finger.

Pretty Teacher goes berserk! She starts screaming and swearing at the other woman who probably can’t hear her. I’ve never heard a woman swear like that before and I’m shocked. The drunk staggers off, but Pretty Teacher keeps hurling verbal abuse after her. An angry foot hits the accelerator and we speed off in to the darkness.

Hmm, maybe she’s not as classy as I would like. She seems quick to anger and her knowledge of crude swearing would impress a battle-hardened soldier. My opinion of her takes a turn for the worse, but I can’t be too hypocritical because if she knew what I was up to hours earlier…

We sit in silence as she drives. I sense that she’s fuming to herself about the drunk, which suits me fine because it takes the invisible spotlight off me for a while. I sit thinking about what happens next. Is she hoping/needing/wanting to get physical with me once we’re at her place? I’m not really in the mood, not because I’ve just shagged Krazy Girl, but more because I’m not desirous of Pretty Teacher. Her shit behaviour and uncouth outburst has put me off her somewhat. However, if she does want to fuck then I’ll oblige, but I need to down the purple helper I have in my jacket pocket first and give it half an hour to kick in.

Back at her place she makes me a coffee. Shall I take the Viagra now? I decide not to because I first want some signs that she wants whoopee. Just like last time I was here we sit side by side on her sofa, but this time we stare at the Christmas tree. Pretty Teacher seems more interested in it than she is in me. We sit with empty mugs in our laps, not talking. Any minute now she’s going to say something important.

“It’s been a long day for me and I have a stonking headache. Shall we call it a night?” she eventually says.

I’m not entirely sure what the last part means because it’s ambiguous to me. Am I sleeping over or not?

“So am I sleeping over?” I ask.

“I’m afraid not,” she says with a dead-pan look on her face.

“Okay, not a problem,” I say as I get up. A sense of deja vu creeps in. Didn’t we have this conversation the last time I was here?

Pretty Teacher stands next to me as I put my jacket on. Her arms are folded. I don’t give up easily, it’s something of a character flaw I’m starting to think.

“How about you come visit me on Sunday?” I suggest.

“Okay, we can talk about it tomorrow night,” she answers.

I drive home feeling conflicted. Yet again I’m angry and frustrated at her attitude towards me. I’m also unimpressed by her outburst at the drunk; she was exhibiting quite low-class behaviour during that incident. I feel guilty and ashamed for having fucked Krazy Girl earlier in the day. That frolic has left me feeling confused because Krazy Girl might have another guy on the go herself, that’s what I’ve deduced from her bruises.

I don’t know what to make of all this.

Looking back on it now, there was no way I could have predicted what happened next.