I woke up the next morning feeling like I was losing Busty Czech. It was a feeling that I knew well. Her frown as we said goodbye caused this feeling. Women seem to get to a point in the early days of a relationship where they have to decide whether or not they want to keep seeing a man. I call it the Crisis Point. Women usually withdraw if they’re feeling too much fear, for reasons of their own, usually involving their emotional baggage and mental health. I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter how nice or considerate I’ve been, nor how much fun I’ve provided. Instead women will choose to focus on any negatives and exaggerate them in their heads. I think it’s all part of a very primitive survival mechanism.
So many times now I’ve reached the Crisis Point with a woman and the outcome was her preferring safety instead of me. I’ve become so accustomed to how this plays out that I’m almost expecting it nowadays. I’m thinking that this is what happened with The Model, Country Girl, Musician Gal and The Brazilian. I let off a deep sigh and get on with my day.
Imagine then my surprise when at 9am I get the following text message:
“Good morning. I decided im going to go to France whatever happens as it will be good for me. Change of scenery and i love it down there. I wonder if you still be interested coming with me. I could send u the details to yr email if u text it. See if you would like it. No diving. No climbing. Just chilaxing x “
I respond with: “Definitely! I can’t wait!” to which her text message response is: “Great. It would be a big help if we would get same flights and go together to and from the airport as ill still not be 100 %. And your strong muscles will be appreciated:). Am off to work will email later.”
By the Tuesday night we have booked a 5-star hotel in Antibes and I’ve booked a flight as well as parking at Gatwick airport. It’s hellishly expensive at a time when I have no money coming in and I have to watch every penny I spend.
Over the course of the week we speak every night, never agreeing to do so, but voluntarily making it happen each taking a turn to call the other, totally un-agreed, which is nice. The chats last on average half an hour and they’re quite pleasant and free-flowing. With Busty Blonde there were times when the conversation bored me and I couldn’t wait for it to end. That’s not the case with the Busty Czech.
We make our plans to get together the coming weekend and I’m looking forward to seeing her. Things are a little foggy but I’m seeing a glimmer of a relationship with her. Or am I seeing what I want to see?
On the Friday night she sends me a text message saying that she’s not feeling well and that we won’t be seeing each other this weekend. What, the whole weekend? Why didn’t she phone to tell me this? My trust demon stirs from his slumber, gets up, wipes his eyes, scowls and heads for the bars of his cage.
Is there somebody else on the scene? Is she having second thoughts about me? Is she doubting her own feelings? Am I now so messed up from all my previous dating experiences that I’ve become paranoid?
I resolve to accept at face value her words but make an effort to call her each night at 8pm over the weekend. My trust issues run deep and the scab that covers them is easily picked open.
Over the course of the following week we take turns to call each other and this week the calls aren’t as much fun. She has two major stressors in her life: her mother and her work. Our chats invariably degenerate into her moaning about these two issues. It makes me feel uncomfortable listening to her unburdening herself. It has been a characteristic of my few serious relationships that the working day didn’t end until I had listened to my other half vent about her working day. I don’t think I’ll ever like that and have yet to find a mechanism to avoid it.
On the Saturday morning I drive down to her but traffic on the M25 is a nightmare and it takes me 3 hours. Busty Czech makes a comment or two that indicates that she doesn’t believe that it took me so long. Does she also have trust issues?
She drives us in her car to a nearby town that is quaint and has been used in several Hollywood movies, most famously in “The Holiday”. Her driving is characterised by poor observation and thinking that is slower than the speed she travels at; I didn’t feel safe with her.
Mercifully we find a cosy pub and sit outside on the patio, enjoying a good lunch and easy conversation. I suppose unavoidably the topics become serious and she starts telling me about her last relationship which lasted for three years and came to an end two years ago.
“He hit me.” she said, searching my eyes for a reaction.
“That makes me so angry,” I instantly respond, tapping into a forgotten rage, remembering a time when as a little boy I saw my father kick my mother.
A red mist descends over my vision when I see a man beating a child, woman, animal or any defenceless creature. At school I was the kid who put the bullies in their place and I liked doing so.
“I promise you that I’ll never hit you,” I continue, saying this not because it was what she wanted to hear, but because it was the truth. Her face relaxes, her shoulders sag and she nuzzles her forehead in my shoulder.
She is as sweet as the cutest kitten I have ever seen. I can feel my resolve to not fall for someone quickly again being tested. At the back of my head I know that she isn’t physically well, which can only affect her emotional state, so I wasn’t with the real “her”. I’d only see that once she was better, but how long that would take was anybody’s guess. I had to guard against falling in love with a temporary mirage.
She relaxes and we sit in the sun to share a lunch of tapas dishes and cold ciders. Our conversation revolves around our upcoming trip and it’s clear that we’re both looking forward to it. No mention is made of our sleeping arrangements; I think it’s a given that we’ll get intimate then.
As the afternoon rolls on the sun goes to hide behind a bank of clouds.
“It’s getting chilly now. Can we please go to a supermarket? I need your muscles to carry the heavy stuff if you don’t mind,” she says.
“I don’t mind at all. It would be a pleasure,” I respond. I look forward to the day a woman uses me for my brain.
Busty Czech speeds recklessly through country lanes while I nervously stamp the footwell.
At the supermarket I push a groaning trolley as Busty Czech loads it up. She’s certainly decisive about what she wants. That’s a pleasant change from all the dithering, indecisive women I’ve met in recent years.
She finishes her shop by finding the biggest cucumber the shop has. Holding it erect she looks me in the eye and gives me a naughty smile. Ah so, she has playful side. Let’s see if I can push the boundaries further.
“Are you going to give me a show with that cucumber?” I ask.
“Maybe one day if you’ve been good,” she replies with a devilish look in her eye and a smile that told me it was only a matter of time before I got to see that. I’ve never seen a woman use a cucumber as a dildo before; it should be exciting.
This sudden sexual exchange catches me by surprise. What my dating adventures have shown me is that if I don’t make any reference to sex and the woman is the first to do so, then it’s a sign that she wants to get physical with me. What’s going to happen when we get back to her place? No, I won’t spend the night, must do this properly.
Back at her place I play the role of porter which Busty Czech seems to genuinely appreciate. She makes me a strong coffee and we sit down on her sofa.
Yes, it happened again. It isn’t long before we’re petting heavily with hands exploring each other’s bodies. She makes unusually loud noises as she gets increasingly turned on. I exercise impressive self-restraint and cools matters down before they go too far too soon.
As tactfully as I know how I make my exit, proud of myself for not shagging her when it could so easily have gone in that direction. Not only do I want to show her that I have self-control but I also don’t want her thinking that sex is my highest priority.
The next week is a disappointing repeat of the previous week in that the evening chats are about her moaning about her emotionally abusive mother and the office bitch who might be fucking their psychopathic boss. Somehow through all this noise we manage to make plans for Busty Czech to come visit me. It’s time for my apartment test – will she be disappointed that I don’t have the quintessential bachelor penthouse filled with the latest must-have gadgets?
She has an innocent charm about her that I find compelling. I like it and it makes me feel safe. However, I’m not entirely convinced yet that she’s The One. Her visiting me will be a big stride forward in our blossoming relationship. I’m looking forward to her visiting me on Saturday.
On the Friday night she sends me a text message: “This week has tired me. I’ll be too exhausted to drive to you this weekend. Can we reschedule to next weekend? I’m sorry. Xx”
So we reschedule to the following weekend. My trust demon is stomping around, occasionally furiously shaking his fist at the Gods of Dating and swearing at them. I phone her each night on the weekend to keep her company for a little while.
Another week trundles by of her bitching and complaining on the phone to me each night. I make soothing, sympathetic noises in the hope that she calms down but it takes a long time. I’m starting to feel like her therapist instead of potential boyfriend.
On the Thursday night therapy call she tells me that she not feeling well again and that she’ll decide on Saturday morning as to whether or not she’ll come visit me.
I’m now getting really fed up with this. You can’t have a relationship with somebody you never get to see. Learning about someone via a phone is not my idea of a relationship. I keep my trust demon in his cage, preferring to believe her about her medical condition. However, this is not how I want things to be. I’m feeling disappointed again and somewhat angry.
I still have my phone in my hand when it burps to life. It’s a text message from The Saffa.
“Can I come visit on Friday? I’ll bring dessert. ;)”