Tag Archives: kissing

Hasty plans

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. ;)”

Sweaty third date

It’s Saturday afternoon as I meet The Brazilian at my town’s station. I’m uncertain about how today will turn out. We kiss politely, I shoulder her bag and then we walk to my local supermarket to get ingredients for our dinner. She barely looks at my town; she just has eyes for me and is very talkative. It feels good to be with her again and everyone else seemed to disappear from my sight, so I guess I only have eyes for her too. I’m filled with a sense of relief by her positivity.

Back at my place I get to work making us a Thai massaman curry. That dish takes almost two hours to simmer so I introduce her to Californication which she absolutely loves and can’t get enough of. An episode ends and we start kissing. It was like we had never kissed before and it felt like I had my own private little fireworks display going off above my head.

It isn’t long before we are both naked on my sofa and in missionary position. She grabs the back of my neck, looks deep into my eyes and with clenched teeth says, “I want you to fuck me!”

I duly oblige.

It’s spontaneous sex on my sofa, the best kind of sex, the type that gets sweat, cum and pussy juices all over the covers. It is glorious.

“Hey, the balcony door is still open! The neighbours can hear us,” I say, uncomfortable with what I had just noticed.

“So what. Let them listen. Now fuck me,” she says.

It’s a hot July day and I’m starting to sweat as I heave into her slippery little pussy. The Brazilian is holding on tight, her fingernails are starting to sink into my skin. I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my neck, down my throat, stopping momentarily, then it falls onto her forehead. She feels it land and closes her eyes, opening her mouth in appreciation and letting out a breath of air through her nostrils. She liked that drop. She likes everything we’re doing right now. More droplets of sweat periodically gather and fall onto her face, each time landing somewhere new. Some women like that, some don’t.

Suddenly she starts wriggling under me and I sense that she wants to change position. Maybe she didn’t like my sweat hitting her in the face after all. Without a word I withdraw from her and she scrambles up. Almost instinctively we assume cowgirl position. The Brazilian is lithe and she expertly balances herself on me, straddling me, with just her vagina the only part of her touching me. She bounces rhythmically on my cock, her hands on her knees, a self-satisfied look on her face.

It’s quite a sight seeing a woman doing this. Very few have the physical ability to do this position. Only my Exgf ever did this to me. Krazy Girl tried it but had one foot on the ground which, by comparison, is a bit of cheating. I didn’t complain then and I certainly have no reason to now either.

I watch as The Brazilian closes her eyes and enjoys herself on me. My eyes can’t help but wander to her breasts. She’s at least a D-cup, which is unusual for such a petite frame and thus they look bigger than they actually feel in my hands.

“Aai, paapie,” is let off a few times as she enjoys herself on me. Some women indulge in a shift of power during sex, either giving it by submitting or seizing it. Right now The Brazilian is experiencing the latter. She certainly is quite fit and I think she makes herself cum; it’s the change in tempo, the anguished face and staccato breathing at one point that makes me think so. I guess she doesn’t want my neighbours to hear her cumming. Despite this she keeps going.

It isn’t long before I cum too. I can count on one hand how many times a woman has made me orgasm like this. I stifle my roar and The Brazilian looks down at me, a smug look on her face. She settles down on my groin and grinds herself on me. My sperm must be everywhere in her pussy now. Shit, I hope I don’t get her pregnant. She might not be telling the truth about being on the pill. Ah, there’s my suspicious mind again.

I suggest that we go for a walk because it’s too hot inside, so still in the afterglow we quickly find ourselves in a nearby park. Conversation is driven by the Brazilian who is still chatty. I had decided not to broach the issue of her whereabouts on Wednesday night, but she says something that piques my interest and I have to ask about it. Again it involves her being honest or dishonest.

“So you were born in 1977, weren’t you?” I tapped into what I suspected was unfinished business. I was right.

“Erm…uhm…no. I was born in 76. I lied about my age on my Facebook profile because it’s nobody’s business how old I am,” she says with a touch of defiance mixed with concern.

I look at her and just smile. I heard almost those exact words from the Irish Cougar. It didn’t matter to me how old she was. She could have been much older than me and it wouldn’t have changed how I felt about her. Before I get a chance to say anything, which I didn’t really see the need to, she says, “I suppose you want to leave me now?”

Where the hell does that come from? Is there some insecurity that I’ve touched on? Does she have a suspicious mind?

I stop walking and she does too. I face her, take her hands in mine and say, “No, your age is not an issue. I’m only interested in what you have in there,” gently putting an index finger on her heart. Then moving the finger to her head I say, “What’s in there has been taught and can be changed, but what’s in your heart will always stay the same.”

Her eyes widen and I take that as a sign that she likes what I just said.

Before she feels the need to say anything I turn and continue our walk, leading her. Without looking at her I reach out and hold her hand. She squeezes mine.

An older couple approach us, they are coming down the incline, but they didn’t seem to notice us because they are engrossed in their own conversation which involves some light laughter. After they pass us the Brazilian speaks.

“That couple have such as easy-going relationship,” she says, not realizing that she had just given me the keys to her queendom.

“You know all those other men you’ve been involved with? I’m not them,” I say with a serious look in my eye and smile on my face.

The Brazilian smiles back at me.

Silence breaks out for a few moments before I feel the need to share something with her.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you this weekend,” I say.

“You nearly didn’t,” she replies with a steely look in her eyes. I notice her shoulders stiffen.

“Why?” I have to ask. Here’s a chance to see what’s going on in her head.

“Thursday and Friday I was scared,” she replies.

“And now you see that there was nothing to be scared of,” I say with a smile. Her shoulders relax.

Got you. You know I caught you out lying, that’s why you were scared. Just having her know that I know she’s lied to me is good enough for now. I won’t say any more of it because that might come across as an attack, to which she’ll literally run away from me. No, discretion is part of my valour still, so I’ll leave it be. This knight has learned to stay his sword and only unsheathe it for the battles that matter. She can take this as a warning that I’m not stupid and she shouldn’t try it again.

We go back to my place where we enjoy my Thai curry and spend the night watching Californication. The Brazilian is addicted to that show, which pleases me. As a raunchy episode ends we look at each other in that knowing way. Words aren’t necessary.

I pick her up and carried her to my bedroom. She doesn’t weigh much so it’s easy for me and she’s petite so I don’t bang her elbows or feet on doors or walls. She wraps an arm around my neck and doesn’t seemed concerned that I could drop her, so I guess she has faith in my strength. I notice as I carry her that she is giving me a peculiar look with a wry smile; I would say it is one of admiration and definitely approval.

I lower her gently onto my bed and undress her before reaching for a bottle of massage oil. Her body and skin feel good under my hands and she seems to like my touch.

“He cooks and he massages. What more could a girl want?” I ask jokingly.

“Yes, I know,” she murmurs as I push my hands up her back, alongside her spine, forcing the stress and negative energy out of her body. I give her the best massage I know how.

With the massage over she is totally relaxed and I say, “There’s something I’ve been looking forward to,” as I gently turned her over onto her back. She looks at me with puppy-dog eyes and I can see that I can do whatever I want with her in that moment.

I stand up, get undressed and half lie down on the foot of the bed. I carefully prise her legs open and begin kissing the inside of one thigh and delicately work my way up to her groin before stopping and then starting all over again at her other knee. This time when I get to her pussy I just run my tongue up the centre of her pussy, feeling her lips parting either side of the rough side of my tongue and I feel her clit which is quite fleshy.

Frenetic intense, passionate sex ensues. It felt like we hadn’t fucked for weeks although it was less than eight hours ago. She came twice again, silently as usual but I’m getting to recognize the judders and shudders that her body gives off when she climaxes. This time I was more careful and hosed her down, pouring my more watery sperm onto her chest which she proceeded to rub into herself. It’s quite a sight seeing a woman doing that.

We lay awake until 2 in the morning, just talking to each other. It felt great to look at someone I desired and to hang on her every word. This is what I want, this is what was missing with Busty Blonde.

I awake sporting my usual massive morning glory and I just have to have her one more time. She was dozing in a half-awake state. I rolled her onto her back, being careful to balance most of my weight on my arms, and started to rub my cock between her legs, which as luck or nature would have it, fitted perfectly between her legs and rubbed between her lips and over her clit. She never said a word nor resisted and it didn’t take long before she was turned on and thrusting her hips up towards me, inviting me to put my cock in her. I rolled her over and slid my cock into her slightly moist pussy and started fucking her doggy style which, as I knew from our first night together the previous week, was her favourite position. Most women can’t handle doggy style with me because they find it uncomfortable, but The Brazilian loves it.

She became fully awake and pushed herself up to assume the full position and I just loved watching her hands grip the bedsheets as I forced myself deeper into her and increased my tempo. I gripped her buttcheeks with my hands and forced them apart to take a good look at her cute, pink little arsehole. Did she really want to take my cock in that little hole? My cock is more than four times the thickness of my thumb and my thumb barely squeezes into her arse. The thought of that acts as naughty inspiration. I suck on a thumb and slide it up her bum.

“Aai, paapie, yes, do it,” she exclaims, wriggling her arse as my thumb slides in.

The Brazilian keeps jiggling her butt, seemingly enjoying having something in it. Maybe it’s time to give her what she wants?

I take a moment in mid-fuck to look down and take in the sight before me. Here was a sexy little woman, natural blonde hair, milky white skin with few blemishes, her back to me, her head down, her breasts flopping about, giving off sounds of pleasure as my cock rammed deep into her pussy. THIS is what I wanted. THIS was perfection. In that moment I felt happier than I had in a very long time.

The power of those powerful thoughts and feelings leads to me having my orgasm, somewhat prematurely in my opinion. The brain is indeed the most powerful sexual organ. I can’t pull out in time and end up squirting my load into her pussy. She stops wriggling as she feels me cumming.

“Aai, yes,” is all she says as my warm, sticky cum floods her tight little pussy.

While she showered I did the washing up from the previous day. When she came out of the shower and was ready for the day she came into the kitchen intent on doing the dishes. I cannot describe to you how that simple, everyday act of washing dishes and having a woman offer to do so in my home makes my stomach turn to mush. I take it to not just be an act of respect and appreciation, but a small act of love. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it, but a woman offering to do that floors me every time. Of all the women who have been in my home, only three have actually done the dishes: Tech Titan, Krazy Girl and Busty Blonde.

We went for an alfresco breakfast at a breakfast bar on my town’s high street. The Brazilian wasn’t quite her normal chatty self and she preferred to bury her nose in a Sunday newspaper that someone had left at our table. I tried to make small-talk but she wasn’t interested. It felt as if a wall had gone up between us; a strong, silent, impenetrable wall. It’s as if she had made up her mind about something or was trying to. This felt horribly familiar to me. I’ve felt it before on the last date with The Model, Country Girl and Musician Gal.

I hate this feeling, this atmosphere. I hope that this doesn’t turn out the same way. I really like this one. Got to hope for the best, keep calm, play it cool.

We eat our full English breakfasts in near silence. I give her space and time, but our normally lively banter doesn’t return. I sit racking my brain about what could have happened to cause this change in attitude. I find the silence almost unbearable. Was it something I said or did? Or was it something I didn’t say or do? Why do some women do this to men?

Mercifully breakfast ends which The Brazilian insists on paying for. Then she announces that she has to go home. At the station we share a polite kiss that is an anti-climax to how the last day has been. Her train departs at midday and I’m left standing on the platform, feeling somewhat confused.

I had resolved to make no mention of The Brazilian’s lie I had found out about. This decision was vital because it set me free to enjoy the weekend and it was the right decision. If I had allowed myself to dwell on that issue I would have come across as pre-occupied and unfriendly even, constantly casting a suspicious eye on her words. She would have picked up on this and she would naturally have turned defensive in her thoughts and deeds. It would have been a dead-end weekend and would have strangled our relationship in its infancy. Instead we had a wonderful weekend and I’m better for it in many ways. It’s just a pity that it ended on the flat note like it did.

Later The Brazilian texts me that the train broke down and it ended up taking her 3 hours to get home.

I’m not going to try to get inside her heart. That won’t work. Instead I’ll patiently wait for her heart to wrap itself around mine.

Elvis Presley – Suspicious Minds

Date #47 – The Brazilian

I’m fed up with conventional dating sites and it’s time to try something new: Tinder. I can see how it can be addictive, quickly swiping through faces as if it’s a game. At times I feel like a kid choosing sweets from an old-fashioned sweet shop. I like about one in twenty faces that meet my liberal criteria: blonde. Overnight I start getting matches and one in particular stands out.

She was Brazilian, lived in London and I liked the look of her; that’s Tinder for you. The Brazilian made excuses about not being able to get together because she was moving home and business at the same time. We kept swapping occasional messages for over a week which ended in me giving her my mobile number and suggesting that she phone me. Silence.

Then, several days later, on a Sunday night she puts in an appearance via Whatsapp and we spend a lot of time swapping messages until I ask when we’re getting together, upon which she disappears. Then she reappears on Monday night, we swap many more messages, so I get tired of this and suggest that we talk on the phone, upon which she instantly disappears. I phone and get her voicemail, but I don’t leave a message. She reappears later, saying she had to go get food. We swap a few more messages and I phone her, this time leaving a message. Absolutely nothing in response.

WTF?! Why do women play these stupid fucking games? I now think she’s another Lusty Lawyer, craving attention but unable and unwilling to contemplate anything more than that. A time thief, an emotional cripple, not relationship material, a no-hoper.

Well, I could be wrong. On Friday morning she contacted me via Whatsapp, claiming to have only got my voicemail message now. I didn’t believe her, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and agreed to her request to meet the next day. I suggested noon, but she countered with 3pm. Whatever! This woman seems a little hard work.

Could she be The One?

So there I was on Saturday afternoon outside the entrance to Tower Hill Tube station, taking shelter from a sudden Summer downpour with a horde of bemused, noisy, drenched Japanese tourists. I didn’t have high hopes for this date because she seemed a little flighty and her life had her firmly under control. It was just going to be another date, one to help get me back into the rhythm of dating so that when I met The One, my skills would be sharp and matters would turn out how I wanted. After all, you only get one chance to make a good first impression.

My phone rattled into life with a text message from The Brazilian, “Which side are you?”

I thought about texting back, but then got that familiar sensation that someone was looking at me. I looked up and my eyes met hers through the crowd of tourists. She instantly smiled and my heart skipped a beat; she was as pretty as her pictures on Tinder. I liked the look of her and a sense of relief spread across my body. A blonde haired, blue-eyed, pretty Brazilian? That’s a new one for my spreadsheet.

As she walked up to me I was surprised at how short she was, despite wearing boots that must have added at least two inches. She was still smiling as I kissed her hello on a cheek. What I really wanted to do was scoop her up in my arms and give her a good ol’ fashioned black-and-white movie kiss on the lips. That reaction upon meeting a woman hasn’t happened often for me.

I turned and motioned towards the steep stairs that lead down from Tower Hill Tube station, ready to roll out my “do you like chicken?” gag, but before I had a chance to say a word The Brazilian had coupled her arm with mine. That absolutely stunned me; no woman had done that before. You could have knocked six foot two inch, two-hundred and thirty pounds me over with a feather.

I took that as clear sign that she liked the look of me; we’d hardly said anything to each other. I led us to St Katharine Dock and The Brazilian didn’t know of it. We went to the Dickens Inn and had a pizza each and shared a bottle of wine. She ordered the spiciest pizza on offer which made me think that she was an exciting, energetic lover (it’s a theory I’ve been working on and the findings so far are good).

We sat on the balcony overlooking the marina, initially engaging in the usual small-talk of first dates. I was struck by something unusual; she did most of the talking and it revolved around her telling me about herself. I just sat back and didn’t have to ask many questions to keep the conversation going. In fact, after an hour it seemed like she was selling herself to me. Most women quizzed me on a date, but The Brazilian did not ask a single question about me. I thought this very unusual, but said nothing, instead continuing to listen her rattling off her life in chronological order. It seemed a very well rehearsed script; how many dates has she been on?

As she spoke about herself, I came to the conclusion that The Brazilian was a happy, energetic little person, something that makes my insides turn to cotton wool. Someone who is happy within themselves is so much less hard work than a miserable, anxious person with emotional baggage, which is how I would describe half the women I have met for dates.

“Do you like to cook?” It’s a question I’ve asked my dates only if I sniffed out the slightest prospect of a relationship. I’ve never treated that question as a deal-breaker, more of a fact-finder. If a woman said, “I’m a terrible cook and hate it” on the one extreme, I took that as a hint that they might be a selfish person, a Taker. If, on the opposite extreme of the spectrum, she said, “I love to cook,” I took that as a positive sign that she was something of a provider, a Giver, someone I’d more comfortable with. My ideal answer would be somewhere in the middle, something like, “I enjoy cooking with somebody.” That then is somebody like me, someone who wants to share life, not predominantly give or take. In my years of dating I had never heard any woman say that to me.

The Brazilian’s answer?

“I enjoy cooking with somebody.”

For the second time on our first date you could have knocked me over with a feather. All my blood rushed to my feet; even my cock was in awe. Something at the back of my brain sat up, then stood up, stiffened its spine and said, “Hello, what do we have here?!”

I couldn’t help myself, I immediately launched into to my Magical Forest HeartScan. Her answers were: 1) I’d arm myself – which told me she’s a fighter, the same as me 2) I’d wash my hands and face – which sadly told me that she didn’t throw herself into love and was cautious about it, the opposite of me 3) She’d eat some of the house and then knock on the door to ask permission to enter – which told me that she had a lust for life, was as daring as me, but was respectful and courteous to others; therefore similar but better than me. It was the fact that she was a fighter that impressed me most because nobody else came close to me in that regard. Her attitude towards love was disappointing though, but only because I was hoping for more, hoping that she’d be the same as me, but so far very few women were.

I told her my analysis of her answers, being honest about her approach to love, fully aware that I risk spoiling matters, but to my relief she just smiled coyly and took a sip of her wine. From everything she had told me and her attitude so far, I came to the conclusion that she was looking for a relationship, not just a sweaty role in the proverbial hay. She had my attention, but I was still playing it cool, leaning back in my seat while she sat on the edge of hers.

Lunch was over, the pizzas were good as always, the wine bottle was empty and our stomachs were full and, I think, so were our hearts because we were enjoying each other’s company. The Brazil versus Chile game in the World Cup was about to start so we made our way downstairs to find seats near a television. We got lucky and found a two-seater sofa all to ourselves with a clear view of a screen.

All the while we sat there, for almost two hours I was conscious of three things. First, she had almost no interest in the game and couldn’t take her eyes off me. She was a patriot and her profile pictures included shots of her at Brazilian football games, but today she wasn’t interested. At first it was flattering, then it became annoying and eventually creepy. Secondly, I was fighting off the desire to want to kiss her. I was constantly wondering what her lips felt like, whether she used her tongue, if she made sounds, if she was a good kisser. Thirdly and somewhat bizarrely, I wondered several times what it might be like to have sex with her on that leather sofa. What would it feel like to turn her onto her back, pull her red jeans and panties down to her knees, then lift her legs in the air, unzip my fly, pull my cock out and slide it into her. What would that feel like?

More time went by while I struggled to maintain my composure. I was hoping that Brazil would win the game so that she would be in a more positive frame of mind than if they had lost. Who knew where today might lead? A tonight? The game went to a penalty shoot-out which Brazil won, but I don’t think that my date noticed or cared; she only had eyes for me. This was bordering on freaky now.

The thought had entered my mind that our obvious mutual attraction was so great that it might lead to us going home together. I’d never slept with a woman on a first date; it’s not anything I’ve aspired to and have in the past had opportunity to do so (see The Russian Model). My old code of chivalry dictated that I not even consider let alone suggest this. A long-term relationship doesn’t start like that, I still believe.

With the game over, the date could have ended there. Most people would have done so, I think. However, I felt that it was going well and I was enjoying myself. Not expecting her to agree, I suggested that we go for a walk. This might all end abruptly now.

“I know it’s getting late, but I don’t suppose you’d like to go for a walk?” I said.

“That would be very nice,” were her words. I was reading the situation correctly, it seemed.

As we approached the stairs outside The Dickens Inn, I turned to The Brazilian, about to offer her my arm as she wasn’t totally steady on her heels, when I noticed that she didn’t seem to sure about what to do. In an act of pure instinct, born out of years of doing so with the few women I’ve cared about, I took her hand. It felt natural and right to do so and to my relief she seemed comfortable with this somewhat brazen act on my part. Out of the corner of my eye I think I saw her smile.

We walked around St Katharine Dock, with me taking the lead in the conversation, telling her of the history of the area that I knew by heart after so many dates, but still told it to her as if it was the first time ever I had said those words. This date was starting to feel magical.

Eventually we ended up going into a coffee shop on the Southbank. Seeing as I had paid for lunch, The Brazilian insisted on paying for our coffees, which I was uncomfortable with as usual, but relented because she seemed adamant. I needed the toilet and returned to find her having chosen a table with a padded bench and a single chair in front of it. She was sitting on the bench so I naturally took the chair in hand, but before I could sit down, she said, “Don’t you want to sit next to me?” and patted the seat next to her on the bench.

That simple act blew me away. Here was someone who was obviously comfortable with me and didn’t see me as an adversary, but instead as a partner that she wanted to share things with. No other woman I’d ever dated did that and I had also been to that very coffee shop with many of them. She certainly was setting herself aside from all those other dates. With a smile I sat down next to her.

Light-hearted, fun conversation shot between us, energized by what we were feeling. This is how it should be. Having enjoyed our coffees and banter, we realized that it was getting late. I said, “May I escort you to your station?”

“Yes, please. We need to get to Waterloo Station.”

I liked the fact that she used the word “we”. It sound like we were a couple already. It was starting to look and feel that way and at breath-taking speed.

So we walked to Waterloo Station, holding hands all the way, engaging in endless chatting. She certainly liked to talk, so I let her, which wasn’t a bad thing as it let me get to know a lot about her experiences, her viewpoint and opinions on things and, to my great surprise, she didn’t say anything that I thought was a show-stopper. I was starting to feel a connection with her, a meeting of minds and a hint of a meeting of spirits too. There were a few moments when I felt my heart swell. I could fall in love with her, I knew this already.

We stood at the gates to the bustling platform where her train was waiting to whisk her away from me, to her home, wherever and whatever that was. It felt almost to be the natural thing to get on that train with her, to hold hands as we walked up her street and wrap my arms around her as we fell asleep. I didn’t want the night to end.

Even now my lips get the better of my judgement. I said, “If we were naughty people I’d go home with you tonight,” with a wicked little laugh.

Her eyes darted between mine and I realised that she was taking me seriously.

“Hmm, tempting,” she said with a serious look in her eyes.

“No, not tonight. Not my style,” I said, rebuffing her, slightly concerned at her now obvious desire to want to sleep with me. I should have taken that as something of a red flag; if you sense a relationship with someone, you know there’ll eventually be lots of sex, so why rush it? But I did come across her on Tinder after all.

“Your train is about to leave, “ I said, defusing the situation.

She looked at me, her mind and heart obviously racing, but her lips were the cruel gatekeepers to her words that I would have loved to have heard.

Our eyes were locked on each other’s and I so badly didn’t want the night to end, but deep down knew that it had to, but also I knew there would be more nights, perhaps even better ones, with her.

I recalled something that had worked well with The Finn a few weeks ago, so I used it again, slightly uncertain what its effect would be.

“Umm, I don’t normally do this, but I’d like to see you again. Let me know sometime if you feel the same way,” I said.

“Yes, I want to see you again too,” she instantly shot back with a relieved little smile that showed some of her perfect, white teeth.

“Are you free tomorrow?” I asked jokingly, giving her my best smile.

“Yes, I am. What time?” was her instant response.

“Whoa! I was joking. Are you serious?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Okay, send me a text message with your thoughts and we’ll make a plan. Your train is getting ready to leave,” I said over the noise of an impatient, old-fashioned whistle.

The Brazilian quickly leaned forward and presented her cheek which I equally quickly kissed. It was too soon for our first kiss and the circumstances weren’t right.

I stood and watched her scamper off through the gates and down the platform as other passengers jumped into open carriage doors.

If she stops and turns to smile at me, she wants me.

The Brazilian stopped outside a brooding dark door, turned to me, waved at me and gave me a perfect smile that I can still see today.

Only Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl had this effect on me after a first date…and look what happened. I must be a glutton for punishment…but I really want to get to know her…be with her, because she feels ‘right’.

I feel good. Damn good.

Michael Buble – Feeling Good

Travel Gal surprises

It’s a few days after Christmas and Travel Gal is passing my town on the way back from visiting family so she offers to visit me. At first I’m not too keen on the idea because I don’t want her seeing my place so soon. In the past other women’s opinions and behaviour has changed for the worse. As we speak about it on the phone I’m unable to think of a good enough reason to put her off so I agree to her visit. Only after we say goodbye does it dawn on me that she’ll also be arriving with her dog who is always by her side. My place is neither pet- nor child-friendly, but what can I do?

It’s a cold, dreary Sunday when Travel Gal arrives at my apartment complex. I go down to meet her in the car park where we I kiss her hello on the cheek. She seems happy to see me but has other matters on her mind.

“I don’t suppose your place has space for a dog?” she asks, gesturing towards her companion who is sitting imperiously, staring at us with impatient eyes.

“Of course there’s space. Let’s go up,” I say while hiding my reservations.

I couldn’t say that he stay in the car all day while it’s so cold. Maltreatment of animals is something that gets me angry very quickly. There’s never been an animal in my apartment so this could get interesting. Just how interesting the rest of the day will be I don’t know. I’ve not really come up with a plan or objective for this date other than to cook for her, make small talk, get to know her better, perhaps take the dog for a walk if it isn’t raining or snowing and, if it seems appropriate, introduce her to Californication.

The black lab strides into my apartment, sniffs a round for a few seconds and throws himself down under a coffee table and goes to sleep. That was easy and Travel Gal relaxes too. I take her leather coat and hat and stow them away where Krazy Girl liked to keep her stuff.

The lunch I make for her is essentially the same collection of exotic meats that I’ve made for other women, but she’s had it all before courtesy of her job. Nevertheless she enjoys it and I’ve learned that almost all women are impressed by a man who can cook. We finish off a bottle of chenin blanc over lunch and I realise that she’s not intending leaving any time soon because she’s had too much to legally drive.

After a dessert of butterscotch pudding Travel Gal suggests that we go for a walk, which I take to mean that her dog needs exercise too. We wander around my town and it’s such a grim day that we don’t see anybody. The dog does his business in the nearest park and it’s only as we’re leaving that I spot a sign saying that owners have to clean up after their pets. I say nothing and hurry us along.

As we walk and talk about her familiarisation trip of recent weeks I notice her wrinkles less and less. Her way of speaking that initially grated has bothered me less too as the day has progressed. More than anything I see her cheery smile and mesmerising blue eyes. Her jeans and thick woolly jumper hint at a good body that was hidden on our first date. Do I find her physically attractive? Yes. Can I imagine myself having sex with her? Yes.

Back at my place the pooch resumes his place and, not knowing what I should do next, I resort to putting Californication on. Pretty much like any other woman who has sat by my side watching the first two episodes Travel Gal is amused and can’t stop smiling. Okay, so she has a naughty sense of humour; that’s good.

Normally at this point I would make my move; the seduction would begin. Within minutes a woman would be naked on my sofa while I would be fully clothed. Today, however, I’m in no hurry. I want to take things a little slower with women. The fury in my loins has led me into trouble at times.

I offer to make Travel Gal a coffee, which she accepts and I go to the kitchen. After switching the kettle on I turn to talk to her, thinking her to still be in the lounge, but she’s followed me and is standing in the kitchen. She leaning back against a wall, her hands behind her back and acting as support for her backside. Her one foot is propped against the skirting board and her breasts are pushed out towards me. She’s smiling at me. Fuck, that’s a sexy pose.

Her eyes are saying “come hither” and I decide that a little kiss can’t hurt. I’ll give her one of my soft, gentle kisses and see what effect that has on her. Without a word I walk over to her, keeping my eyes on hers, I place my hands on her hips. She says nothing and just keeps smiling at me. I slide my hands behind her hips and hold her wrists. I lean slightly forward, deliberately stopping short of her mouth, wanting and waiting for her to come that little bit towards me, which she does.

Our lips touch and Travel Gal makes a sound of approval. Has she been looking forward to this? I read somewhere that most women love being forced up against a wall and then having a man lean his weight against her. I’ve never really thought about that and here’s the perfect opportunity to see if it’s true, albeit with a sample of one.

Travel Gal pushes her tongue into my mouth and in that moment I’m taken back to when I was seventeen years old and my high school sweetheart was the first girl to French kiss me. Back then it was such a shock that I lost my balance, toppled us over into a seat and I stubbed a fingernail that turned black the next day. Today I don’t have that reaction any more; it might be something of a passion-killer if I did. Now I accept it as something that almost all women like to do when kissing. They generally don’t seem to like it if a guy does it first, but if they do it first then it’s a turn-on for them. I’ve learned to not initiate and to only reciprocate once they’ve started doing that. It seems to me that a woman will only do so once she’s getting turned on.

So now Travel Gal is turned on. What do I do? Stop matters as tactfully as I can before she’s naked and spreading her legs for me on my sofa? My other dating experiences have taught me that when a woman wants a man to take her and he doesn’t do so, his chance is pretty much lost because she won’t risk being rejected a second time.

I’ve read enough profiles on OKCupid to have arrived at a conclusion about when the time is right for a couple to get physical. It appears that 90% of women want to get intimate within three to six dates with a guy. I was astonished when I realized this and went reading profiles just for the sake of verifying the answer to the question that indicates this. It’s a skewed distribution curve and there are equal outliers who expect it sooner as there are women who want to wait longer. This falls under ‘Another Myth About Women Destroyed’, in that the chaste virgin is a rarity and the truth is that women are more eager sexual beings than most men have been brought up to believe.

One kiss leads to another and I decide to let my hands do the wandering. Travel Gal maintains her pose against the wall as I glide a hand over her body. It’s a surprise to me to feel that she has large breasts, something her clothing has kept well hidden. Naughtily I slide my hand between her legs, deliberately touching her vagina and she lets off a gasp of pleasure. I think she’s ready to fuck; no turning back now.

I force my hand under her jumper and blouse, push it up towards her breasts where I grip a pleasant mound of mammary while we continue to kiss. Squeezing her breast leads to her giving off a little giggle which I take as a sign that she’s not going to resist me in any way. My hand finds her bra clasp and I loosen it with a single movement, a trick I’ve learned in the past year. I return my hand to the nearest breast and she lets off an ‘ughh’ sound as my warm hand takes hold of a cold breast. Damn, these are a nice surprise. I want to see them now.

To be continued…

Maybe tomorrow

I have The Wanderer sleeping in my bed but my heart yearns for The One whom I am yet to find. At the beginning of the year I bought tickets to two pop concerts as acts of unbridled optimism. I believed that by the end of the year I would have found Her and treating Her to artists we both liked would be a nice way to end the year and share our first Winter together. I love the build-up to Christmas in England. There’s a muted buzz in the air as the winds from Siberia arrive, darkness descends earlier each day and Christmas decorations appear everywhere. It’s the perfect time to be in love.

Alas, my plans have not worked out and I have these tickets. Cat Lady and I have sporadically swapped messages via Facebook and WhatsApp, but I think we both know that we’re not meant for each other. She’s still stinging from her last relationship and I’ve realized that I am too, but for different reasons. My trust issues run deep and I’ve recently discovered that I was played by a psychopath. I have little confidence in my ability to assess a woman correctly, hence my little tests and games that I’ve played on some of my dates. They were a crutch for my hobbled ability to trust and a patch for my bruised ego, hiding what was really going on inside me.

Cat Lady and I meet on a rainy week-night to see Chris Rea at the Royal Albert Hall. She’s unfashionably late and Chris is into his routine as we squeeze into our seats. I hate being late because it seems rude to me, but sometimes it can’t be helped. People around us make it known that they don’t appreciate our disruption. Cat Lady whips her phone out and starts taking photos of everything around us; she even photographs the ceiling. A steward comes over to ask her to desist because of the flash. She apologizes, but no sooner is he gone than she continues photographing. If I was thinking this to be a date then I would be very unimpressed. However, I know that this venue and outing is new to her and she’s seeing it all through tourist eyes.

Irritated patrons around us tut-tut and I ask Cat Lady to put her phone away. She fiddles with it, disables the flash and continues photographing the architecture of this historic building. Her pig-headedness is breath-taking and it just reinforces my belief that we would not get along in the long-term. She’s just too stubborn with a bit of selfishness and inconsideration thrown in to make it extra annoying for any man involved with her. This might be a reason why she’s still single in her early forties, never really having had a long-term relationship.

After the show I walk Cat Lady to her Tube station and we make polite small-talk. I do find her easy to talk to and having a common additional language gives us another sense of humour that we can share. At the Tube station I try to kiss her good-night on a cheek, but she moves her head quickly and kisses me on my lips. I’m surprised and give off a laugh. We look at each other, blink and then kiss again, this time deliberately we go for each other’s lips. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing for me and felt like harmless fun.

“Damn, you’re a good kisser,” she says with big eyes as I pull away from her.

I say nothing, she smiles at me and then spins around and disappears into the station. I laugh to myself, wondering what that was about. She is just a friend who likes how I kiss, that’s how I perceive her. Could there be more between us? I don’t think so.

A few nights later and it’s Saturday. I take The Wanderer to go see The Simple Minds at the old Millennium Dome. She’s been a little depressed, she’s tried to hide it, but I can see it. I’m hoping that a night out will lift her spirits. The Wanderer is impressed by the spectacle of shops and restaurants that are inside the dome, so it’s off to a good start. The warm-up act is Ultravox and seeing as we’re both fans of 80s music it comes as a pleasant surprise. The Simple Minds take to the stage and kick the show off with a spectacular lighting display and deafening rendition of one of their famous hits. As is the norm at such events, everyone is standing, which is fine by me because I’m over six foot tall, but The Wanderer is petite and it isn’t long before she is sitting.

She makes for a sad figure and I feel very sorry for her. Life hasn’t been kind to her and I was part of her recent disappointments, something that I feel bad about. I don’t like letting people down. I’ve realized that I should have been even more choosy about my dates earlier in the year, but I told myself that profiles rarely capture what a person is about. If I had been pickier and stuck to my stipulation that single mothers were a no-no for me, then I wouldn’t have met The Wanderer and I wouldn’t have ended up hurting her. I am to blame.

I can’t just leave her sitting there like that, so I sit down too and give her the best smile that I can. The Wanderer feigns a smile. We’re both feeling low. It’s the strangest thing, feeling alone in a crowd. She complains of back-pain, which I believe to be psycho-somatic; her mind is poisoning her body. She’s in a negative spiral that I can’t help reverse.

If she felt about me that the way I felt about Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl, then it can’t be easy sleeping in the same bed as me. To her credit she has behaved herself, whereas I don’t think I could have with the two aforementioned young ladies. Being with me has probably been a mixed blessing for her in that she has a place to stay for a while, but she has had to watch me sit at my computer and swap emails with women on dating sites. If I’ve had to speak to a prospective date on the phone I have always gone to another room. I wouldn’t be surprised if she can’t wait to get the hell away from me.

We’re amongst the first to leave the concert. Once on the train The Wanderer snuggles up to my shoulder and falls asleep until we get to my town. I know that I can only be friends with her and I want it to stay that way. A younger, less-experienced me would have made love to her by now for very silly reasons that I would have regretted the next day. I am growing up after all.

My thoughts turn to the women I’ll be meeting in the next weeks. It’s going to be a busy time for me, which is exciting, but I find myself doubting my being ready for a serious relationship. If I do find Her, then that question is likely to evaporate.

My next date will be number forty. Forty! The common denominator with all these dates is me. There must be something wrong with me. What is it? I need to figure it out quickly because I’m running out of enthusiasm for this dating scene. How much longer do I need to walk on this lonely highway? I’m starting to feel like a desperate hitch-hiker under a desolate sky, hoping that the lights slowing down for me will be someone friendly, interesting and safe.

When will I find Her? Maybe tomorrow? I have a date set up that I’m looking forward to. Maybe tomorrow…

Stereophonics – Maybe Tomorrow

Choosing between two women & a present from Career Girl

I have to choose between two women…again. Last time it was between Tech Titan and Baltic Babe. Today each woman involved is remarkable and in different ways. I can see myself having a very enjoyable relationship with either but again in very different ways. Career Girl is calm and thoughtful, a deep passion, while Musician Gal is fiery and lively, wearing her heart on her sleeve. Which suits me better? I really don’t know.

It’s a dreary Monday morning in September. Sweet, blessed rain is drifting down, nourishing thirsty flora. My soul feels rejuvenated because I have found not one, but two people that I sense I can have many good years with. I feel excited and guilty at the same time. I’m also surprised and annoyed at the sudden and simultaneous wealth of prospects before me. It’s almost unfair that I have to choose.

What makes it worse is that tomorrow I am meeting a third woman that I have been wanting to meet. Am I being greedy? Am I deluding myself that any of these women are suitable? Am I seeing what is actually before me instead of possibly being carried away on a self-induced tidal wave of emotion? How does one know?

Yesterday was my birthday. I was 21 for a second time. I haven’t had much time to reflect on all that has happened between that first 21st and the latest one. I do know without a shadow of a doubt that it has been one helluva roller-coaster ride, this unpredictable life of mine. It looks set to continue in that fashion while I yearn for a stable, loving relationship that will last the rest of my life.

My birthday was marked by spending it with my ex-girlfriend. We have become the best of friends with benefits in my mind, but I know that she wants more – she wants we had before. It all comes out when she asks me questions about other women that I have dated in the past year. I give totally truthful answers, as is my way, but it always leads to her having a tear in each eye…once even with my cock in her mouth. She seems to get some kind of perverse kick out of asking me for intimate details of my sexual encounters with other women whilst we are enjoying each other. It’s like emotional self-flagellation for her, but she did always have a pleasure-pain thing going on. Nowadays it seems to include her emotions too.

Is my shenanigans with my Exgf muddying my mind? Should I cut her loose, for her sake and mine? I don’t want to hurt her, but until I find someone that I want to commit to, it’s hard to ignore the fantastic sex. The bizarre thing is that, since we have started seeing each other again, our sexual escapades are better than when we were living together. It’s not lovemaking, it’s pure, unadulterated lust that comes with a strange sense of freedom to it, unencumbered by emotion, devoid of meaning.

I know that the soundtrack in her mind is playing Elton John’s “Sorry seems to be the hardest word”, while in my mind I hear Stevie Wonder’s “For once in my life”. Not once has she apologised for the things that she did, so it makes it easier for me to do the things I’ve done with her. All good things come to an end and I know that the time to downgrade our relationship to non-fucking friends is approaching fast. I suspect that she senses it too.

I really don’t want to hurt anybody. I perhaps should be more selfish and just unthinkingly have the time of my life, with a seemingly endless supply of interested women at my disposal. My conscience will not permit that. Doing the right thing and doing it right is the legacy that I will carry forward with me. I have to tread carefully with all these women.

Career Girl and I have kept in touch via WhatsApp while she’s been away, swapping several messages each night and a few short ones in the morning. She seemed to want to get to know me via a phone, asking countless questions but I wasn’t too keen on this and only went along with it to a degree. I want to answer her probing questions in person as I feel that’s more fun. I tried to keep the topics light, asking about her day and more about her family, but she wanted to know more about my past relationships. Career Girl is obviously taking me seriously as a potential suitor. I think she might have found it easy to ask the things she did while feeling secure behind a device.

So much of communication is non-verbal, but I did enjoy swapping messages with her. She obviously did too because we would “chat” until well past midnight; one night it was 2.30 AM her time when we said good night. Only once did I try to turn the conversation sexual, an attempt on my part to test her mores and her response was frosty. I wasn’t disappointed but admired her strength of character. I got a warm fuzzy feeling over the top of my brain a few times while texting with her. We definitely have a chemistry of sorts.

When Career Girl got back, I phoned her and we had a pleasant chat. I felt good after speaking to her, but tinged with guilt because I know that here is someone else in the picture. However, for all I know, she has a small following of admirers too.

Musician Gal and I have been swapping WhatsApp messages while she’s been in New York. It’s been a very different exchange with her; upbeat, energetic, positive and more fun. Her words have given me the impression that I’m on her mind often each day. Every couple of hours she sends me a message or a photo. I’m not entirely sure if it’s just her ADHD on show. I need more dates with her to know her better.

It’s a rainy Monday night as I drive up to Career Girl’s apartment; we’re going out for dinner. I alert her to my presence, expecting her to invite me into her place but instead she comes out to meet me. She’s smartly dressed and smiles broadly at me as we kiss each other hello. I’m struck by her shimmering hair; silky fine and light in weight as I cup her face to kiss her mouth.

“Tonight’s on me, it’s a belated birthday present,” she says with her eyes wide.

“Okay, what’s the plan?”

“Can we go in your car because I don’t think you’ll fit in mine?”

“Sure, no problem,” I answer relieved at not having to look like a gorilla in a small car being driven by a smallish woman. I look around the car park and spot a tiny Fiat 500 in which my knees would have touched my chin.

We drive into the town centre and Career Girl won’t tell me where we’re going. She directs me to park in a central public car park and we start walking…and walking…in the rain. The wind is constantly catching my umbrella that I’m trying to hold over her while I get wet. I try and make light of the situation but inwardly I’m becoming annoyed at having parked so far away from wherever the hell we’re going. Eventually we arrive at a pub on the outskirts of the town. The pub’s car park is almost empty; I’m annoyed. I take this as an indication that she’s not the most practical person, which in itself is not a show-stopper because few people are more practical than me. If we are to have a relationship then that’s what I’ll contribute.

We sit down to a surprisingly good pub meal; Career Girl certainly has good taste in eateries. Conversation is initially light and centres on her trip with her family which she paid for. I can see that she’s a generous person and tonight some of that generosity is coming my way. I still struggle to let a woman buy me a meal and I think it’s largely because all my life I have seen myself as the provider in a relationship. It’s novel to let a woman treat me but I’m still not totally comfortable with it.

As I expected she turns the conversation serious and starts asking me about my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend. I can see that she wants to know why these relationships came to an end, so I tell her. Career Girl is particularly shocked at my Exgf’s spying on me.

Sitting talking with her is a pleasant experience. She’s calm, measured, intelligent and ladylike. I draw some kind of comfort from that and it also appeals to my naughty side as I do like to seduce a classy woman; it makes me feel powerful as a man.

Without my asking Career Girl reciprocates by telling me about her past relationships. They seem to be characterised by older men having a problem with her status in the workplace and her earning power. I’m not sure if these guys were immature or egotistical but it makes me wonder if it might turn out like that for me too. I’d like to think not but I’ve never even met a woman who earns as much as she does.

As she talks I sit wondering if she can handle me physically. Could sex with me kill her? I can get rough and she does have a brain aneurysm, so it’s not impossible. I have to know and when she’s finished talking about the guy who walked out on her when she was diagnosed, I seize the opportunity.

“Tell me something, do you think that sex could be fatal given your condition?”

“It’s as dangerous as anything else I do. I certainly hope not. I do enjoy sex, a lot in fact,” she says with a naughty smile and a twinkle in her eye.

Was she just hinting that she’d like to have sex with me soon? Tonight even? I wasn’t expecting that, but if she’s horny then I might have to. If I spurn her then she’ll get upset. I know, if she invites me into her place later then I’ll see how far she wants to take matters. Game on!

When we get back to her place she does indeed invite me in. Her home is spacious, modern, elegant and very expensively furnished. The centrepiece is the cream and white lounge with a very large sofa in the middle of the room. I can just imagine us fucking on it. Hmm, there is a bit of electricity between us.

“Can I make you a coffee? Milk and one sugar, right?” she says.

I’m impressed that she’s been paying that kind of attention. I go seat myself on the sofa, positioning myself for what might be coming in a little while. Should we make love tonight? I’m not sure, but if she wants then I’m up for it. If she just wants to fool around a little then have me leave, then that’s okay with me too. I’m in no hurry; I had good sex yesterday. That’s the benefit of having a fuckbuddy, I’m not spoiling matters with a prospect because I’m horny.

Career Girl returns with a coffee, looks at where I’m sitting and smiles to herself. It’s an enigmatic smile that makes me wonder if she remembering the men who used to sit here or it’s her seat or she’s thinking what I’m thinking. She sits down next to me and starts showing me pictures on her phone from her trip last week. I can’t see much but am getting excited by the feeling of her against me. As the minutes go by she lets herself slump against me and it feels good. She’s like a cat curled up against me, seeking warmth and succour. Career Girl is slender and toned, the top of her head barely touches my chin. I can easily pick her up and manhandle her. I think she’ll like that, but I must remember to be gentle with her because of her condition. Will I remember to do that in the midst of passion? I have my doubts; occasionally I’ll forget.

We start kissing, slowly, tenderly and it feels good. She closes her eyes and revels in it. I’m still not sure why women love kissing so much. It probably goes back to caveman times but I don’t know what’s behind it. All I know is that women expect it and if done properly makes them juicy. It’s not my favourite thing but I do it as much as a woman needs to get her turned on.

It isn’t long before I’ve taken her top and bra off. I don’t look at her breasts but steadfastly maintain eye-contact with her. Career Girl lies with her back on my lap and I start kissing her body. She has perfect, unblemished white skin that I lightly run my fingertips over. She closes her eyes and drops her head down. That can’t be good for her brain I think to myself as I start kissing her body. Her one arm slumps down toward the ground resulting in her a-cup breasts pointing more upward.

Her nipples are hard and erect, the areola small and tight as I lick around them. She lets off sounds of approval as I gently suck a very pink nipple into my mouth. I suck the the rest of the breast into my mouth and run my tongue around the nipple. It’s very easy to suck the other breast into my mouth as I pleasure her. I’m learning that smaller-breasted women feel more with their breasts. It’s as if there is a limited amount of sensors allocated to each woman and as her breasts grow her ability to derive pleasure diminishes. My Exgf has g-cup breasts and she can’t feel much, but that might also be from all the mouths that have sucked on them and all the cocks that have fucked them.

In the moment it occurs to me that last night I was watching a woman fucking herself with a champagne bottle and tonight I’m sucking on another woman’s breasts. Is this really my life?

“Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight,” Career Girl says, abruptly raising herself off me and reaching for her blouse.

I say nothing, somewhat relieved that we’re only going this far tonight. She checks my face for signs of disappointment, but I’m not feeling anything like that so she’s puzzled by my poker-face. Secretly I’m impressed by her self-control.

“I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Oh, by the way, I have a company away weekend this weekend, so I’ll only be able to see you next week again,” she says.

Now that I’m disappointed to hear and I think my face shows it. I want to see her again and soon, but I say nothing because there’s no use in complaining, besides that comes across as needy which is something that puts women off. I thank her for my birthday present that was the dinner in the pub. We hug and it feels good; she fits me perfectly. A final kiss good night leads to her giving me a wonderful smile.

I drive home feeling pleased and befuddled. I really like her but her brain condition is a factor in almost everything we do. Being with her feels so good, it’s a shame that she isn’t perfectly healthy. I need more time to think about this.

Tomorrow lunchtime I’m meeting someone entirely new and then in the evening it’s Musician Gal.

I don’t know which is the stronger emotion: guilt or excitement.

How am I going to choose?!

Ballyhoo – Man On The Moon

Career Girl drops her bomb

The next morning Career Girl sends me a text message asking if we can meet that night. We only met yesterday and I haven’t even had a chance to think about where to meet for our second date nor send her another text message of any kind. She is very keen, which I’m somewhat suspicious of, but it feels novel to be pursued by a woman, so I don’t dwell on it. I want to meet her again because I’m learning that first dates can be deceptive, it’s the subsequent dates that matter. Career Girl suggests meeting at an Indian restaurant in her town straight after work.

At 7pm I’m standing outside her preferred Indian restaurant, having just arrived, looking back at my red sports car to check that it’s parked safely when a taxi pulls up next to me. Career Girl gets out and she’s still in her office attire; she looks the archetypical high-powered female boss that people would be scared of at work. I’m not fazed because I know what hides behind the public mask. I like the navy blue suit that she’s wearing; it’s my favourite colour. Is it another sign of some sorts?

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long?” she asks while straightening her skirt.

I kiss her hello on a cheek, rather than going for her soft lips, then I say, “No, I’ve just got here. You look lovely.”

Career Girl almost blushes as I hold the restaurant door open for her. I was being sincere in my compliment; her beautiful blonde hair, milky white skin and that colour of suit is striking. Often the first time you meet a person what they are wearing then is etched in your memory of them, but for me with Career Girl it’s what she’s wearing tonight that is the lasting memory.

We sit down to the best Indian meal I’ve ever had, of which I’ve had quite a few. Conversation between us is positive and easy, we expand on some topics of the previous day and share a few laughs. I enjoy her company very much as there’s an easiness between us, a lack of insecure barriers. Most importantly she’s someone I can trust. Nevertheless she seems more serious than yesterday, distracted even and I put it down to her having had a day in the office. Over dessert she hits me with it.

“There’s something I need to tell you about,” she says in a way that makes me freeze.

“I’m listening,” is all I can say.

“I have a brain aneurysm. I can drop dead any minute. The doctors say that I might live to an old age or today could be my last,” she says bluntly.

I go icy cold inside. I feel sorry for her but can’t help feel disappointed for me. I feel ashamed of my selfishness but try not to let it show.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” is the best I can do.

Career Girl looks at me, her beautiful eyes are searching for more from me, but for a guy with usually a lot of words I’m at a loss in this instant. I’m crap at saying the right things when it comes to the shit side of life. I tend to say something inappropriate because I’m still coming to terms with what I’ve been told and under pressure have been known to say something stupid. I’ve learned to rather keep quiet and offend slightly in that way, rather than blurt something out and hurt someone’s feelings.

I latch onto something safe.

“How did this all come about?” I ask, breaking the awkward silence.

“I was getting bad headaches regularly last year so I went to the doctor’s and before I knew it I was in hospital. They found the aneurysm and they can’t operate. I just have to manage it and hope for the best. I can never have alcohol or coffee again,” she says with an emotionless face.

“How do you feel nowadays?” I ask.

“I take all sorts of meds, so I feel fine. It’s kind of given me a focus to my life that was lacking before,” she says.

“Is that why you’ve gone internet dating?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

“Well, kinda. My boyfriend of five years left me shortly after I was diagnosed. He couldn’t handle the situation,” she says softly, making an odd movement with her mouth at the end of her sentence.

My little brain hadn’t yet got around to thinking about the implications that this medical issue has on a relationship. It must be a strain to be with your significant other knowing that each time you part might be your last. However, isn’t that true for all of us though? Don’t we all just assume that the other person will always be there? When we go off to work in the mornings we do so in a rush, driven by higher priorities, relegating the person it’s all for to a mere afterthought. Shouldn’t we take a moment, look each other in the eye, appreciate each other, kiss gently and say something that matters? No we don’t, we mindlessly assume our roles as slaves to the system. Perhaps having someone with a medical condition shocks us out of that sleep-walking life. I need to think about this.

Career Girl’s apparent keenness about me is now revealed to be something altogether different than an attraction. That in itself might still be part of what she is feeling but I realise that her primary focus now is that of getting her cards on the table. Her looking at me with searching eyes across the immaculate cotton tablecloth adorned with sparkling silverware surrounded by exotic aromas is her looking for a negative reaction, her wanting an answer of some kind; of what exactly I’m not sure.

I need time to think about this, so I decide to say nothing. I resume our conversation on a more positive topic and try to make like nothing has happened. I know that I like how I feel when I’m with her, I know that we have the same morals and aspire to the same things from the future, but we now have a hurdle that I have to overcome. I don’t want to be rash and dismiss her out of hand; I’m not that cruel. I don’t want to say that I see no problem because it is a factor, but I need to think it over.

Dessert ends and I settle the bill.

“Did you come by car?” Career Girl asks.

“Yes, I did. Would you like a lift?” I answer, happy to spend more time with her.

“Yes, please,” she responds with a sincere smile; her eyes smile too.

She seems surprised by my red sports car as I pull off with a roar down the long road that she says she lives on. Her home is in a very smart apartment complex and I pull into a visitors parking bay in the leafy grounds. We sit in my car and kiss softly, gently for a few minutes. I restrain myself and don’t let my hands wander. I’m not expecting to be invited in so it doesn’t surprise me with how the evening ends.

“I’ve got an early start tomorrow, so I shan’t be inviting you in this time,” she says with an apologetic look which makes me think she’s telling the truth and it isn’t just an excuse to brush me off.

“It’s not a problem,” I say.

“By the way, I’m going away to Italy this Saturday for a week. I’d like to keep in touch while I’m away,” she says, catching me by surprise.

“I’d like that,” I say. An enforced absence is not a bad thing as it will give me chance to think things over.

We kiss once more and then she gets out of my car, disappearing into her building. As I watch her walk away, I’m feeling conflicted within myself and also wondering what she’s feeling. There’s an undeniable magic between us, but the brain aneurysm is something I wasn’t expecting. I appreciate her being so honest with me. As I drive home I wonder about her agenda, but realise that it’s a simple one.

Like anyone else, all she wants is somebody…same as me.

Depeche Mode – Somebody