Tag Archives: Irish Eyes

Something died

I was sitting alone at home on a rainy Sunday night, staring blankly at my television, my thoughts racing in circles trying to understand what had happened with Krazy Girl and all the other women I had met in the previous 10 months. I was trying to make sense of it all when an unusual chill came over me, unlike any other I had felt before. It was coming from behind me.

A giant invisible hand gripped me, picked me up with ease and dropped me into the Arctic Ocean that had appeared out of nowhere. Everything became cold and dark. Natural buoyancy and the vice-like grip of the icy water propelled me to the surface. Thunder and lightning raged overhead in the pitch-black night sky as a vicious wind swept up the waves. Pieces of jagged ice sped past me, carried by a strong current as bigger, dangerous icebergs were threatening to crash into me. I started swimming towards a flatter sheet of floating ice; I knew I only had a few minutes to survive the freezing water. My clothes were becoming heavy and were betraying me, trying to take me under, into the dark, lonely depths below where nothing and nobody mattered.

Between the booms of thunder I could hear voices, chattering voices, women’s voices. I couldn’t see where they were, but their high-pitched sounds were becoming louder.

“Help me!” I shouted out, in a pathetic attempt to be heard above the roar of the storm.

“Hahaha. Hahahaha,” the women’s voices answered, laughing at me, in a cacophony of mockery and scorn.

I tried clambering up the sharp sides of the sheet of ice, pulling myself up as forcefully as I could, but I was struggling. Hypothermia was setting in, my muscles weren’t working as they should; my clothes felt like a dead weight pulling me back into the black waters that yearned to be my grave. With the last of my strength I pulled myself up over the edge, as I did so there was a strange snapping sound. It felt like a piece of me had broken free from inside my chest, morphed out of my ribs and slipped into the eager waters so quickly that I couldn’t see what it was. It was gone forever, whatever it was.

I woke up realizing that my single glass of wine had put me to sleep. Or had it?

Something inside me had indeed snapped and then died.

Months of unrewarding, demanding dating had taken its toll and I was now angry. I was angry at women, all women. I was angry at women because of their seemingly endless messing me around. I was angry at their insatiable need for silly fucking games.

I was angry about all those many pointless nights I spent swapping messages with dozens of women on dating sites that never led to a date because they just couldn’t bring themselves to meet in person. They preferred hiding behind a screen, basking themselves in male attention without having to give or do anything in return. How women had jerked my chain and wasted my time. I was sick of it.

Why couldn’t they just be happy to be with me? Why couldn’t they just accept that I’m a good guy with a lot to offer? Why must they dwell on their past to the extent that they sabotage their present and future and embroil me in that? Why do they treat me with suspicion when there is no reason for it?

Why couldn’t they just want to hold hands as we walked? Why couldn’t they be happy to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon telling each other stories that made us laugh? Why couldn’t it be simple instead of all so complicated? Why couldn’t they be happy and just be looking to add to their happiness?! Why did they have to be so messed up? Why couldn’t they just be normal?! Why couldn’t they be more like me?

Tech Titan was unbearably clingy. Baltic Babe wanted a glorified sperm-donor. Demolition Debbie was still married. The Model was deranged. Miss Indecisive was a serial dater, a female player I suspect. Potty Mouth disgusted me. The Hirsute Russian made me cringe. The German Shrink bored me. Quiet Katie nearly left me in a coma. Sweet Thing wanted me as a slave and dog-sitter in her home. Irish Eyes had her bloody games. NutSlut was an attention-seeking, approval-craving unpaid whore. Krazy Gal, well who the hell knew what she wanted?

It was that last one who really hurt me, the one who did the most damage, because I had got my hopes up.

I had always adored women. I still think that the most amazing creature on our planet is the female human. She is designed for and capable of a multitude of roles, yet still so delicate and sensitive, despite the versatility. I had always thought that women have a far harder time in life than men do. Most men embarrass me because of their weakness. Mother Nature has even decreed a cruel irony in that women tend to spend their last years alone and struggling. Was it because they could cope with it? After my father died when I was thirteen my mother was a single mother, so I know the hardship and even today my heart (what’s left of it) still goes out to the single mothers of the world. I read somewhere that, if a man treats a woman like a queen, it shows that he was raised by one. My mother had raised me to treat every woman like a queen. I revered women, so much so that I had put every single woman up on a high pedestal. They could do no wrong in my world.

I had always thought that the sweetest thing in the world was little girls between the ages of two and four. I couldn’t agree more with Charles Aznavour: ‘Thank heaven for little girls’. To me they are all just so cute, with their big eyes, abundant enthusiasm, their sense of adventure, even their wilful ways. It always made me smile to see a little girl dressed in a chequered skirt, cream cardigan and pig-tails running along, laughing, with an ice-cream in her hand.

Sadly, somewhere along in their development these little girls all seem to fall into the clutches of a Miss Haversham; they become spiteful and mean to boys, determined to play games with them. They develop the mindset and skills that reduce men into mere playthings for them. Men are there to be toyed with, to be accommodated while it suited her, to be played off against another guy (publicly or secretly, it didn’t really matter) and then to be belittled and rejected when the time was right. Little girls grow into young women devoid of respect for men, even before they have life experience of men. Women seemed to think that men don’t have feelings.

The so-called fairer sex were anything but fair to me. The more respect I gave them, the less they appreciated me. My manners and consideration were being mistaken for weakness. Is it possible that I was “too nice”? All those nights of dates where I was the consummate gentleman, pulling back restaurant chairs, opening doors, offering my jacket, making polite conversation, paying for everything. Where did it get me? Fucking nowhere.

A sense of outrage had been accumulating and it finally came out in me. My ex-wife and ex-girlfriend had both deceived me. You don’t deceive somebody you love. Therefore they didn’t really love me; I felt like a fool because of it. Nobody likes feeling like a fool and especially not me. Years of harbouring memories of their deceit seeped to the surface. That mixed with my feelings about my previous dates and an overwhelming sense of frustration bubbled over in my psyche.

I concluded that the nice guy that I am had gotten me nowhere with women. They didn’t seem to value me. Instead, they seemed to want to take advantage of me, to use me. They didn’t want to give me anything, they only wanted to take.

The thing in me that had died was respect for women.

I decided that it was time that I changed my ways and started playing women at their own game.

I harboured out-dated, unrealistic notions about the true nature of women and these ideas were hurting me. You see, I had lived life in reverse order compared to most people. I got into a serious, committed relationship at the age of twenty that lasted until my mid-thirties. I didn’t have that crazy exploration phase that most people have in their twenties. I didn’t go bed-hopping and heart-breaking when I was young. I had skipped all that and consequently I lacked experience and skills when it came to women.

I resolved to improve my skills with women to such an extent that people who knew me would start accusing me of being a player. Yes, that much-maligned male aberration would become a velvety cape that I would slip on when it suited me and I wouldn’t give a damn. No woman would ever again outsmart me, abuse me or hurt me; I was going to make sure of that.

There’s a great line from Californication (for the aficionado it’s season 1, episode 3, minute 5:55) in which Hank says, “A girl knows within seconds whether she wants to fuck, marry or kill a guy” and I think it’s true. I had to stop assuming that the woman in front of me wanted the same things as me. Some of them, perhaps most of them, just wanted to get laid. I hadn’t bothered to find out. All along I had been leaning towards the “marry” angle, a long-term relationship, not just a quick forgettable fumble in the dark to stave off loneliness. The latter was never appealing to me, but perhaps it was time to explore that side of life. Instead of trying to direct the currents of the dating ocean, going with the flow was much easier and who knows what it might lead to?

My father’s advice about there being only two types of women, “Good Girls and Good-Time Girls”, became more poignant. If my date was the latter, I would give her what she wanted and a lot more than she bargained for.

I made a conscious decision that, if I didn’t deem the woman in front of me to be a Good Girl, to be relationship material (I call that Plan A), I would revert to Plan B – to see if she just wanted to get laid, and if she did, to see how much fun I could have with her. It would become a game to see how long it took before I could have my way with her; consequences be damned.

The night of the iceberg dream was the night the idea of all women being a ‘nice girl’ died in my mind, along with the ‘nice guy’ my parents had raised me to be. My White Knight mindset had not served me well and had in fact got me into trouble in the past and it was causing me trouble now by way of unfulfilled expectations – that of finding my queen, The One, and living happily ever after. They were proving to be unrealistic expectations given the environment I found myself in, this crazy online dating scene.

It was now time for me, a whole new me: a leaner, meaner, more selfish me. No more White Knight in shining armour only offering the best of intentions, but instead a Grey Knight, much less shiny and white. A knight still capable of being a White Knight if the reason was there, but now more intent on indulging himself in the sins of the flesh.

Yes, I was going to dive headlong into a sea of pointless pussy. Would I learn to swim or would I drown? I didn’t care.

Either way, no more Mr Fucking Nice Guy…more like Mr Nice Guy Fucking…

Sinnerman by Nina Simone

Irish Eyes were smiling?! Oh yeah?! – Final Part

We connected via Skype and we spoke, hearing each other’s voices for the first time, with me coaxing her on until I heard her have an orgasm. You’re probably thinking that she faked it, but I don’t think so. I heard her go to the bathroom to wipe up and wash her hands.

It was after midnight my time, so it was 3am where she was. We chatted for a little while, getting used to each other’s voices. Hers was a soft, soothing Irish lilt that I liked the sound of. She seemed to have a calm, steady way about her; maybe it was her post-orgasm manner.

It was a mixture of tiredness and embarrassment that lead us to end the call. I had never indulged in phone-sex before and ignoring the novelty factor, I enjoyed it. However, I really did not expect to hear from her again.

The next day there was an email from her, continuing our never-ending conversation and so, in the evening, we chatted via Skype until midnight my time again. Irish Eyes also liked my sense of humour and our conversations were stimulating. We certainly had chemistry on the phone and at times it felt like I was talking to Baltic Babe again. I began to wonder if, practical obstacles aside, that there might be the potential for a relationship with her.

For yet another consecutive night we chatted for many hours until late again. Irish Eyes told me of her plans of coming back to the British Isles to visit her parents in Ireland for Christmas and then to visit and stay with friends in London. After this latest fun-filled Skype chat, I sent her the following email:

Me:

I know it was something of an unconventional or unusual start to what might turn out to be a relationship, but…

on paper, on screen, via email, via Skype… er, um, … nobody and nothing has ever had this effect on me.

At the risk of sounding like a gawky, spotty-faced, hormone-charged teenager …

You I just have to meet.

There. I said it. The truth is out. 🙂

I just can’t do Monday 17th Dec as I have a management meeting in the evening. Any of the other nights afterwards (or all 3 thinking about it if the first goes well) suits me.

If your dad is poorly and you can’t come over to London, I am intent on coming to Dublin because…I just have to know.

Being as realistic and as impartial as I can muster right now, the likelihood is that we meet and its an anti-climax. The odds are against us. You might not like the shape of my earlobes or your perfume makes me choke – whatever. I think this because life has never been this kind to me.

But…

I’m not perfect, you’re not perfect, and if we are lucky, when we’re together it all feels perfect.

There is only one way to find out.

Don’t be afraid. Nothing worthwhile is easy or risk-free. Instead, be enthused.

I didn’t hear from her for two days, which surprised me. I was very intrigued by her and was serious when I said I was prepared to fly to Dublin to meet her, even if just for a coffee. What would make you do that? If we got along in person as well as we had via email and Skype, then I was prepared to wait for her. I was learning that real chemistry is rare. I patiently waited for her response and when it arrived it kicked off a few more emails between us:

Irish Eyes:

Ok. I did get my email set up here yesterday evening.

However, I have been very busy all day yesterday and last night. When I finally got to bed, I crashed out almost immediately.

I have read your email and over the last few days have had time to think.

I hear and do understand what you are saying, where you are coming from, how you are feeling.

You are an amazing guy with so much to offer. And yes, you do deserve the very best of love from a woman and she from you.

And to meet your ‘True Soulmate’. But it won’t be me and I apologise.

I will not be meeting up with you in London or Dublin.

I wish you a every Merry Xmas and love and light for the future.

Take care

Me:

Why? I think the least I deserve is an honest explanation. You have nothing to lose.

I’m not hurt or angry, just surprised. We obviously have chemistry, so why not see if there might be more?

What’s the issue?

Are you scared of something?

Irish Eyes:

I am not scared. But the very fact I feel you are trying to convince me to meet up is not a good start.

We can have chemistry but I am not rushing into a permenant relationship right now. In fairness, I am being up front and as honest as possible before this goes any further.

I joined up with Dating Site to see if I can meet someone compatible but it also has to be on my terms. I also want fun in my life.

I am sensing an urgency in you needing to meet up. I am understanding that you are looking for someone to form a serious almost immediate relationship with. This is not me, at this moment in time. I have decided to come back here to pursue and make this project a success after vacation. I will be here in Iraq for at least a year.

Christmas time is already hectic and prearranged and I have very little free time.

If you wish we can keep in contact but I will not be able to meet you on this trip home.

I won’t bore you with the rest of the emails that flew between us. I’ll just cut to the punchline. I choose the word ‘punchline’ because it felt like the joke was on me.

After a bit of badgering and coaxing, it turned out that Irish Eyes had 8 ‘coffee dates’ lined up and waiting in London for the three days that she was going to be in London. She had already arranged these meetings before we had started communicating.

Why would someone intent in being in Iraq for another year meet 8 men in 3 days?

She also told me that she was staying in a hotel and not with friends as she earlier had said. So was she going to sleep with a different guy every night? Perhaps all of them?

I felt so used, foolish and deceived…

Lessons learned: 1) Some women use dating sites as a playground 2) Don’t bother interacting with somebody who isn’t near you; it’s a dead-end, it wastes time and saps energy. 3) Some women are happy to hide behind a screen without ever wanting to meet; just using me.

Irish Eyes were smiling?! Oh yeah?! – Part 2

Irish Eyes:

Did you kill me?! 

Me:

No, I’ve never killed anyone.

What would you like to have happen next?

What colour are the knickers you’re wearing right now?

Irish Eyes:

Oh fly over now..I will pay you for the service… 

Me:

Fly to me and you might pay nothing… 

Irish Eyes:

Well saucy.. Pinky/ purple.. Who said I was wearing any?!
Can you send a voice recording over these machines so I can have audio recording…
I thought when I went limp I passed out…

I wish I could.. My passport has been taken…

Me:

Have you tried Skype? Is your signal strong enough?

I don’t think you could handle my voice…

I have once made a woman pass out from pleasure…

Pinky/purple. Exotic. I like that. So you’ve slipped them off, have you?

Irish Eyes:

How did you make her pass out? 

Me:

I have skills…

All men think they’re good lovers. Only a few really are.

So I’ve been told.

Have you slipped your knickers off?

Irish Eyes:

Yes.
And why couldn’t I handle your voice?
 

Me:

Have you licked your fingers? 

Irish Eyes:

Why? 

Me:

Why would you?

You’re a woman. You have needs.

Have you licked your fingers?

Irish Eyes:

I don’t need to… I am very very wet already….without touching….

Me:

I think its time you touch yourself just where and how you like it….if you aren’t already….feel good?

Irish Eyes:

Mmmmm..and the batt is dimming… 

Me:

You pleasure yourself to sleep, little lady.

Good night.

Irish Eyes:

Ahh don’t go.. What are you doing yourself? 

Me:

I thought your battery is dimming… or is that from your toy? 

Irish Eyes:

No toys here unfortunately… Am doing a stock up in london when I get over… 25% , now 24…
What are u doing?

Me:

I know a great place in London for toys.

Are you asking me if I’m pleasuring myself too?

Does the thought of that turn you on?

Irish Eyes:

Yes and yes 

Me:

I have an image in my head of you rubbing yourself ferociously, your breathing intense, a few lines on your face, the pressure builds….

Yes, my manhood is fully engorged right now. 

Irish Eyes:

It’s a waterfall here… Soaking…and it’s been a long time…

Me:

Now If I could make you come with my words, imagine what I could with all of 6 foot, muscly me…

How big was the biggest willy you ever saw?

Irish Eyes:

Oh god… Mmm not good on measurements… It’s how you wiggle it that’s more NB…and where… Are you big? 

Me:

I’m bigger than 95% of guys.

Have you cum?

Irish Eyes:

It’s been a while for me… So would you be too big for me 😉

My whole left hand is wet. Am using right one to type and keep up with messages…

Skype me..

Big time…Turn on 

Me:

Take your left hand’s middle finger and slide it in, palm facing up, about 3 cms in and move finger in a come-hither motion slowly and repeatedly…

You know where your g-spot is?

Irish Eyes:

I do… I have a long deep vault so need longer fingers for mine.

Me:

I’ll fit you perfectly then…

The urban myth about a guy’s hands and feet… it’s true.

How did I make a woman passout?

I was fingering her g-spot and licking her clit…

Would you like that?

Irish Eyes:

I have passed out..

To be continued…

Irish Eyes were smiling?! Oh yeah?!

I was trying to come to terms with what had happened with Baltic Babe a few days earlier and feeling lonely on that Sunday night when her email arrived. Her profile on the Happy Humping Ground website had no pictures and her words were feisty. I was intrigued to see where I could push any conversation, to see what I could learn. This outlook, coupled with a growing sense of frustration after months of unsuccessful dating, lead me to not expect much. Her profile said that she was Irish and living in Paddington, London. This is how it started out.

Irish Eyes:

Honest, nice smile, traveller, nearly as witty as myself…..mmmm perhaps!

Me:

Hello Mystery Lady

Oh goodie, my own online stalker – I haven’t had one of those in years. 🙂

So you want to play games, heh? Ok. Let’s play.

There are literally thousands of beautiful and pretty women on this site. Welcome to the club.

I’ve let 8 of them meet me. I found them lacking in the personality stakes. So far, your profile is light on personality. I respect the notion of not having someone be with you because of your appearance, but if you want somebody to be with you for who you are, your profile is going to need serious elaboration. 🙂

I’m not photogenic either. It always makes me laugh when I meet a woman for the first time and she makes the gesture that all women make when they fancy a man. All women can’t help but do this. Want to know more?

We are both so much more than a few words on a profile could ever convey.

“Always up for a challenge”? You’ve found one. 🙂

Within minutes she responded and emails started flying backward at forwards at a ferocious speed. It turned out that she wasn’t sitting down the road from me, but was in fact in Iraq. She was working for the United Nations and would be for another 6 months at least.

I was surprised but not disappointed. I couldn’t get my hopes up over someone I didn’t know the look of and whose profile was basic. We swapped witty, barbed comments about life, dating, past relationships and our jobs.

Then she surprised me and asked for more photos of me. I had nothing to lose, so we swapped email addresses and I asked for one photo in return. What I got was a picture of a set of young, brown Caucasian eyes shrouded in a green birqa. They had a naughty glint to them. I decided to call her Irish Eyes. It was nearing midnight for her, so we said goodnight. I didn’t expect to hear from her again.

The next morning there was an email from her waiting for me when I got up. We swapped a few emails then I had to go to work. When I got home there were more emails from her waiting for me. It seemed that she had a fascination with who I worked for, something that I just wouldn’t reveal to her and it drove her crazy not knowing. While I had her attention and favour, I asked about something that had been bothering me.

Question: why is a woman sitting in Iraq, popping back to Ireland for Xmas and then a few days in London, spending time on a dating site for Londoners?

She answered that it was always her dream to live in London, but that took money, so as a detour to raise money, she had taken a job in Iraq. Then I addressed her by her name, which until now she had refused to give. She was alarmed that I knew her name and demanded to know how I knew. It was her email address that told me. I didn’t tell her that I had Googled her in search of photos of her, that might have spooked her totally. Telling her that courtesy of my email address she had my full name too calmed her. Then I plied her with some more soothing small-talk before asking her for a proper picture of herself.

She sent me a picture that showed her to be a truly beautiful brunette. I was stunned, but made no mention of it. A woman like her would be used to men fawning over her which would immediately make me just like other men in her mind, so I decided to experiment and not pay her any compliment because that would evoke a different kind of reaction in her.

We swapped more mindless banter until she said she badly needed a massage. I saw the opportunity and I went for it…

Me:

I know how to slowly spread warm massage oil across the back… slowly moving the skin around with my warm hands… gently rubbing the oil in to the skin as I slowly roll my hands over weary shoulder blades… then slide my fingers carefully down along either side of the spine down to the buttocks… then more forcefully push up with my open hands toward the neck… feeling tired, sore muscles give way under my touch….

Shall I continue?….

Irish Eyes:

Mmmmm…do

And the neck, don’t forget…

Me:

I know how to slide my oily hands along a woman’s biceps so that she feels pleasure and pain at the same time… I can use the strength in my arms to stretch hers so that little bones crack back in to place…I then grip her wrists and and slide my hands firmly up along her arms towards her shoulders…I gently lean in and blow wayward hairs out of my way… as I caress her taught shoulders, warmly moving her neck muscles…

More?

Irish Eyes:

Ohhhh yes… 

Me:

With my thumb and index finger I roll the muscles in her neck…she makes approving sounds that stem from deep within her… I notice that her breathing has speeded up, but I don’t stop…my hands and fingers engage every little muscle in her neck…they become softer and more supple with my every touch…her body is relaxing and going limp, but her breathing is becoming heavier…I take her right arm and spread it behind her back…her shoulder blade is more pronounced and protrudes…my left hand grips her right wrist…my right hand clasps her right shoulder blade…I slowly, gently, carefully force my fingers under her shoulder blade…I gently massage all that makes contact with my fingers…her body goes totally limp… 

To be continued…