I was browsing my Happy Humping Ground dating website in the middle of 2014 having just ended it with Busty Blonde when I spotted a face that equalled perfection in my mind. It was desire of all kinds at first sight. Her profile was short but enticing, I just knew that I’d be seeing her one day…I just knew. However, always the pragmatist I told myself that the likelihood of her writing back to me was small because she’s new on the site and probably swamped with emails from guys. I’ll give it a little time and then make more of an impact once she’s dealt with the clowns that descend on a new profile like piranhas to a swimming tapir.
I then become embroiled with The Brazilian, The Saffa, The Busty Czech and The Cockaholic and go on other dates. Time flies by and I still think of her every time I think of that dating site. Over Xmas 2014 the site gives me a free weekend of messaging and I decide to make contact with her. I was disappointed to see that her profile had disappeared. I make contact with a few other prospects but nothing comes of it.
It doesn’t matter because I’m still bewildered by my experience with The MILF of Xmas and all my raunchy but soul-sapping dating experiences before that. I drunkenly step up to verge of suicide and in splendid isolation fight my own demons for a while.
I forget about her and the site until one night at the end of January 2015 I spot her on Tinder, but we didn’t match. I’m surprised to see her on there, but I guess Tinder is mainstream now.
It’s now late February 2015 and I’m disenchanted with online dating, especially the free sites. Looking at my spreadsheet of my dating history, I can clearly see that 80% of my dates off free sites were bad ones and 80% off paid-for sites were good dates. I hide my free dating site profiles and unhide my profiles on Happy Humping Ground and the national newspaper’s dating site.
On the Happy Humping Ground I’m pleased to see that the profile that captured my attention is back online. I notice too that the website has introduced an innovation whereby users can ‘like’ each other’s photos. I ‘like’ her main photo, the one I find mesmerising, add her profile to my ‘favourites’ and leave it at that. There’s no guarantee she’ll notice my attention nor even act on it. I go exploring other profiles on the website, not expecting to hear anything from her.
A couple of hours later my blood turns cold and my face drops when I see that she’s sent me a message, but I can’t read it because I’m not a subscriber. I instantly decide to subscribe, but first I do a search to find a discount code because this site is getting pricey. I can’t let this opportunity pass me by. I’ll always wonder what could have been.
Her message simply reads, “Thank you for liking my photo.”
I find it underwhelming, but I haven’t subscribed for nothing. I want to at least meet her, I’m that taken with her. I do a Google Images search and find out her name, her job and her Facebook account. She’s almost five years younger than me. A photo on Facebook hints that she has enormous breasts, g-cup minimum. All her photos of herself are of her with a tight-lipped smile. Does she have bad teeth, I wonder? Something that bothers me a little is that her eyes are almost lifeless and sad if I really study them. I think they suggest a history of hurt, so I know to proceed slowly with her. Is she another Misery?
I find out what kind of art she specializes in and it’s not too far removed from my own passing interest in that genre. She even lectures on the subject in London. So, she’s a teacher of kinds; that means she’ll be a bit intense if my other experiences with teachers are anything to go by. I decide to message her and ask what art she is into and tell her of my passing interest in something similar.
I think of her as The Artist.
My ruse works, she’s intrigued and a flurry of messages ping-pong across the internet all Sunday afternoon. Every time one of her messages comes in, my heart skips a beat. It feels almost like I’m starting dating again and it feels good. I suggest meeting up and she agrees, so we fix a day and swap phone numbers. I send her a text message and she quickly responds. We’re set to meet on Wednesday, which feels like an eternity away. Conversing with her feels good. I can’t wait to meet her.
On Monday morning I get the idea in my head to talk to her on the phone. I’m aware that I might be getting carried away here so I want a reality check. I send her a text message suggesting that we talk in the evening. I’ve never been a fan of a so-called ‘screening call’. In my dating experience nothing good has ever come from it, yet I feel the need to do so with The Artist.
An hour later she responds with a firm “I’m not a fan of phone-calls with strangers.” Her response surprises me and reminds me of Baltic Babe in its directness and frankness. Not necessarily a bad thing in my book as it shows some strength of character. I back-peddle, make a joke about wanting to see if she had a deeper voice than me and press on with fixing a place to meet on Wednesday. Have I blown it?
No, she’s still interested and asks me to suggest where to meet. I take the lead and suggest my tried and tested spot outside Tower Hill Tube station. I’ve taken so many other dates to St Katharine Docks, why not her too? It’ll help my performance if it’s on familiar ground. I respond with, “I’m going to take you to my favourite place in the world…”
Her response starts with “That sounds exciting…”
Is she as sweet as she seems or is she bored and just using dating as a social outlet, pampering her ego by having men buy her meals and drinks, like many women on the dating scene seem to do? Time will tell.
Am I seeing what’s there, or am I projecting what I want? In recent dates I’ve paid more attention to the build-up to the first date. I’ve tried to make it feel more like a romance that is is unfolding, trying to make a fairytale come true, just in case whoever I’m interacting with is The One.
I keep telling myself that she’s highly unlikely to be The One, that she’s too artsy-fartsy for me. That she’s too high-brow for me and I’m just a bit of rough in her world. However, the heart wants what the heart wants. The last time I was this excited about meeting someone was Krazy Girl, almost two years ago to this day.
It feels like I’ve come full circle, going to the dating website where it all began 32 months ago. I’m concerned that I’m becoming desperate to find love. I know I’m in the danger zone where it’s easy to make a mistake, a mistake to get involved with somebody all wrong for me or a mistake while pursuing someone so right for me. I know that tomorrow I’ll need to draw on all my skills and experience to deliver the correct image of a polished man. I must at all costs avoid coming across as desperate.
For some reason this feels like a date with destiny. It’s possibly desperation on my part kicking in, but I like to think that I know a good thing when I see it.
Could she be The One?
To be continued…
It’s been more than two months since I’ve had sex and I’m as horny as hell. I know I pledged to only sleep with The One when I finally find her, but my resolve is being sorely tested by the ready supply of eager pussy to be found on the internet. I accidentally stumble across a way to game Plenty of Fish to get more traffic and approach emails from women. Consequently I get an email late on a Thursday night from a pretty brunette. I look at her profile and see that she’s 31 years-old and six feet tall. Those are two items on my Fuckit List, i.e. scandalously younger and how tall must a woman be to become impractical to fuck. I say thank you to Life for this opportunity and answer her email.
Witty, flirty emails ping-pong between us for an hour and it turns out that she has a thing for tall guys with my accent. She later makes a comment about “if you can keep me intrigued for that long” which tells me that she’s looking for fun and not a long relationship. I notice on her profile that her longest relationship has only lasted a year. She’s perfect one-night stand material and just in time too because I’m starting to forget what the warm wetness of a woman’s pussy wrapped around my cock feels like.
I end the interaction by challenging her to buy me a coffee in exchange for all the questions that she wants answers to. She claims to have plans for the Friday night and is going off to Spain for work on the weekend. We swap phone numbers and I leave it there, doubting I’ll ever hear from her again.
This interaction with her combines to make me think of the stunning brunette I encountered at the dating site’s drinks evening. Maybe my addiction to blondes has been the reason that I’m still single despite my best efforts. Maybe blondes and me just aren’t a good fit? Perhaps I should broaden my horizons a bit and see if the grass is better on the brunette side of the fence? At the same time I’m wondering if my belief that dates off free sites tend to be disappointing has any validity to it.
The next night, Friday, at seven o’clock she sends me a message on WhatsApp and I ask about her plans for the night and before I know it we agree to meet in a pub in my town in less than an hour’s time. I run around like a mad thing getting my place tidy in case we end up back here. As I’m getting dressed a good female friend contacts me via WhatsApp wanting relationship advice from me. In my current state I’m the last person to be giving anybody any kind of advice but I do my best. It’s amazing how there are bouts of silence, icy nothingness and then all these women come at once. I say this because there is another lady who made contact with me on Friday that I like the look and sound of, as well somebody else who I matched with late on Thursday night. Maybe there is something to astrology after all? Is my moon in Uranus?
Could tonight’s date be The One?
She gets to the pub before me and we find each other. Wow, she’s tall, the tallest girl I’ve ever met on a date. She’s wearing heels and is almost as tall as me. Fucking her might feel like copulating with a giraffe; long legs and limbs everywhere.
Naturally I think of her as Tall Gal.
She’s a pretty girl with blue-green eyes, round cheeks and a pleasant smile. We make a little small talk as we queue at the bar and after a couple of minutes pointless banter she says to me, “No, you still have your accent,” which pleases me because I know it’s something she finds attractive about me. Game on!
The pub is busy and noisy because of a major rugby match being shown on the giant television screens and we find the last available seats against a pillar. Not ideal as this is too noisy for a decent conversation and calm enough for me to evoke emotions of lust in her. I’ve got my work cut out for me.
“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, curious about her sexual side.
“I love spicy food! The spicier the better,” she replies.
She likes the sound of her own voice and I just encourage her to keep talking. She’s probably nervous and it will put her at ease. I’m conscious of how little I feel; I’m like a cold-blooded Great White shark patrolling my turf out at sea. I smile politely and ask open-ended questions that sets her off. Over the course of the evening she hardly asks any questions of me.
“I worked on a resort that was popular with Russian tourists,” she says, recounting her work experience abroad.
“What did you think of them?” I ask.
“When they’re young, they’re stunning, but they’re all only after a man with money,” she rejoins.
It’s nice to hear someone else parrot the conclusion I have come to about Russian women.
“Don’t you think it’s understandable though that marrying up is their best chance of bettering themselves?” I ask, playing devil’s advocate in a test of her moral outlook.
“Yes, I do and I think that if I were in their shoes I would probably do the same thing,” she replies.
Her answer leaves me cold. She really couldn’t have said anything else to have put me off her. I still steadfastly believe that people should only marry for love, because that is what will make it work. Any other reason for marriage won’t last very long and if it does it won’t be a happy one. Why do people struggle to understand this?
On the plus side her answer just reinforces my initial idea that she either isn’t interested in a long-term relationship or just isn’t relationship material. This girl is just trouble, just dangerous for a man looking for love. I feel somewhat more justified in just wanting a one-night shag off her.
I change the subject slightly and she starts telling me about her longest relationship.
“He wasn’t from this country, he was much older than me and he had loads of money. We had a lot of good times together,” she says.
“Was the age gap a problem in any way at times?” I ask, wondering exactly what her pull towards older men is about.
“Yes, when we were out and about I was conscious of people staring at us. People probably thought that I was one of those Russian trophy girlfriends,” she says with a childish giggle.
“What was the attraction?” I ask, tying to get closer to the truth.
“We had a chemistry that I’ve never felt with anyone else before or since,” she answers, then continues,”I wonder if that amazing chemistry is what has kept me from meeting someone else? I can’t help but compare every guy I meet to my older guy,” she says with a frown.
My thoughts wonder over to the part of my brain reserved for Baltic Babe and the answer is ‘yes’. I’ve been guilty of that too and I realize that this Tall Gal is in no way causing me to feel another kind of attraction to her. It’s not because I find her unattractive – she is pretty – but I’m realizing that there’s also too much of an age-gap between us to give hope for a relationship. She speaks in a way about things that are new to her, but that I have already grown tired of.
“So what happened with your older guy?” I ask in an effort to complete the picture.
“He went back to his country,” she says with a sad face and looks away from me. Is she still hung up on him?
“Is that when you came back to the UK?”
“No, I stayed on but came back a year after that,” she replies with still a downcast look on her face and evading eye contact with me. I see what is obvious to me and press on it.
“Did you come back here because of another guy?” I ask as softly as I know how.
“Yes,” she says, still evading eye contact.
I change the topic by asking her about her favourite television shows and she starts rattling off a slew of depressing psychological dramas, murder mysteries and supernatural-themed shows. She starts telling me how she likes the gritty realism of the gory shows and the real-life application of horror moments. All that she speaks off is filled with negativity and the dark side of life. I could see that she could be a real drag to be around sometimes. Where have I felt this before?
Suddenly it hits me that Tall Gal is another Lusty Lass and Krazy Girl. A soft-hearted, sweet, well-intentioned young woman who is unlucky in love because she just doesn’t take a timeout for herself to get her emotions in order before embarking on a new relationship. She’s constantly on the rebound, carrying ever-increasing emotional baggage around with her. I start to feel sorry for her. Do I really want to be another guy who just uses her? Do I want to go back to being that self-appointed vengeful shit who avails himself of vulnerable women’s orifices? No.
Tall Gal unravels her scarf to reveal a bit of cleavage. It’s actually cold in here, so why did she do that? The pub erupts in celebration as a try is scored which causes her to look around. I take the opportunity to check her body out. She’s not as slim as in her photos with several rolls of puppy fat bulging under her white blouse. For a big girl and one carrying a few extra pounds her breasts are surprisingly small and no more than a B-cup. Am I that desperate to have sex that she’ll do? No.
I decide to employ my Golden Silence trick, in which I keep quiet for as long as it takes for my date to initiate a topic of conversation. Whatever they go with is usually what is on their minds lately. Tall Gal turns to me and I just smile, biding my time as I take a sip from my drink. As they all have, she eventually cracks and speaks.
“How many dates have you been on?” she asks. An interesting choice of topic. Is she genuinely interested in me that’s why she’s asking or does it bother her.
“I’ve been on more than most, I’m starting to realize. Why how many have you been on?” I retort before she realizes what I’ve done.
“I’ve been on five before tonight and that’s over three months,” she says proudly. Amateur, I think to myself.
“What have they been like?” I ask before she can say anything else. I’ve learned that no woman wants to hear that I’ve had more than fifty dates, so I avoid giving a direct answer.
“Well the second one was an absolute nightmare because he got totally drunk, but the others were okay. I was so nervous for my first one,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“That’s normal. Is this your first time you’ve been online dating?” I ask, suspecting I know the answer.
“Yes, I’ve always thought it an odd thing to do, but everyone is doing it nowadays so I thought I’d give it a go,” she replies.
Wow, you must be the last woman in the country not to have tried internet dating. And you’ve started off with Plenty of Fish?! Talk about a baptism of fire.
I start telling her of my memorable dates such as the Angry Yank and the Wild Animal Tickler. I tell her about the typical lies that women tell on their profiles (age, old photos, height, smoking, job) and she seems a little surprised at my words. I take her reaction to indicate surprise or curiosity. I’m wrong.
“Well, there is one thing I’ve lied about on my profile,” she says with a mischievous look in her eye. Here we go, what now?
“I’ve said that I’m a non-smoker, but I do, only a few a day, usually at the end of the day after work. I suppose I’m a social smoker,” she says matter-of-factly.
That’s it! I want to go home now!
I wasn’t feeling any chemistry with her, wasn’t exactly enjoying myself, didn’t really fancy her, didn’t want to have sex with her and now she turns out to be a smoker. Gross. Why am I wasting my time here?
She seems emotionally needy to me and that will eventually spill over into clingyness that leads to men rejecting her. She is going to keep getting hurt, but it doesn’t have to be at the hands of me. I don’t need more notches on my bedpost or stains on my conscience.
I decide that the best thing to do is to end the evening gracefully, not do her any harm emotionally and just let it be as positive an experience for her without her becoming invested in me. I want her to have the strength to keep dating because she might get lucky…and she’ll tie up some of my competition by keeping them busy or perhaps taking one of them off the market. All I need is an excuse.
She stifles a yawn and I call her out on it, for which she apologizes. Then she asks me what the time is and my exit is complete.
“It’s half ten. Shall we call it a night? You’re starting to yawn,” I suggest.
“Yes, I think we’d better,” she says.
Perfect. She now thinks it’s her idea to bring this date to an end. She feels she’s in control, just what I wanted, a nice way to end the encounter. I do my usual gentlemanly thing of helping her put her coat on and I escort her to her car. There’s an awkward silence between us and I get the impression that she’d rather I didn’t accompany her. I don’t think she wants to see me again.
We stand next to her car and I kiss her on a cheek and say, “It was nice to meet you,” and nothing more. I look at her and devilishly watch her squirm for words.
“Yes, it was nice to meet you too. I’ll be seeing you…you…” and she got caught up in her thoughts, thrashing about for something polite to say, definitely avoiding anything that sounded like commitment. I just keep quiet and smile.
“Some other time,” she says, her sentence trailing off on the vapours of her breath that drifted away into the cold February night air.
I say nothing, turn around and walk off.
That felt like a total waste of time, but if I didn’t go I’d always wonder.
Anyway, I have two more dates lined up.
Akon Ft Kardinal Official – Dangerous
This Grey Knight has a weakness in his suit of armour. It’s difficult to spot and few assailants have ever got close enough to exploit it, but those that have managed to have done great damage to me. You see, just beneath the surface of this imposing frame, not far from what seems like a normal, well-adjusted person is a crinkle in my psyche, an imperfection in my emotional make-up.
Like anyone else, I guess, all my life I’ve thought that I’m normal and that most people are just like me, except for a few oddballs and nasty people. All along I’ve lived with what I thought was just one of the negatives of human existence.
It was when I was watching a YouTube video with The Cockaholic that I learned of ‘Cluster B personalities’. My enquiring mind demanded that I know more. There are four types of these: Narcissist, Histrionic, Borderline and Anti-Social. I saw that in my dating experiences I had encountered several Narcissists and a couple of Histrionics. A friend in the know has suggested that Krazy Girl was of the Borderline Personality Disorder variety. All good to know.
What my reading on the internet then led to is ‘Cluster C personalities’ of which there are the ‘Dependent’, the ‘Obsessive Compulsive’ and the ‘Avoidant’. I am the latter.
My blood ran cold as I read a description of myself that I could never extol or describe any better.
I’ll quote Wikipedia:
Avoidant personality disorder (AvPD), also known as anxious personality disorder, is a Cluster C personality disorder recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders handbook as afflicting persons who display a pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy and inferiority, extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation, and avoidance of social interaction despite a strong desire to be close to others. Individuals with the disorder tend to describe themselves as uneasy, anxious, lonely, unwanted and isolated from others.
People with avoidant personality disorder often consider themselves to be socially inept or personally unappealing and avoid social interaction for fear of being ridiculed, humiliated, rejected, or disliked. As the name suggests, the main coping mechanism of those with avoidant personality disorder is avoidance of feared stimuli. Avoidant personality disorder is usually first noticed in early adulthood, with both childhood emotional neglect and peer group rejection being associated with an increased risk for its development.
People with avoidant personality disorder are preoccupied with their own shortcomings and form relationships with others only if they believe they will not be rejected. Childhood emotional neglect—in particular, the rejection of a child by one or both parents—has been associated with an increased risk for the development of avoidant personality disorder, as well as rejection by peers.
It goes on to list a variety of issues that afflict most people at some time, but with AvPD most of these feelings are permanent.
The ones that I’ve never felt are:
– Avoids physical contact because it has been associated with an unpleasant or painful stimulus
– Severe low self-esteem
– Emotional distancing related to intimacy
– Feeling inferior to others
– In some extreme cases, agoraphobia
What I feel on a daily basis is the following:
– Self-imposed social isolation
– Hypersensitivity to rejection/criticism
– Extreme shyness or anxiety in social situations, though the person feels a strong desire for close relationships
– Feelings of inadequacy
– Mistrust of others
– Highly self-conscious
– Self-critical about their problems relating to others
– Problems in occupational functioning
– Lonely self-perception, although others may find the relationship with them meaningful
– Uses fantasy as a form of escapism to interrupt painful thoughts
The World Health Organization’s ICD-10 lists avoidant personality disorder as anxious (avoidant) personality disorder. It is characterized by at least four of the following:
1. persistent and pervasive feelings of tension and apprehension;
2. belief that one is socially inept, personally unappealing, or inferior to others;
3. excessive preoccupation with being criticized or rejected in social situations;
4. unwillingness to become involved with people unless certain of being liked;
5. restrictions in lifestyle because of need to have physical security;
6. avoidance of social or occupational activities that involve significant interpersonal contact because of fear of criticism, disapproval, or rejection.
Every single one of the above applies to me. I’ll share how this all manifests itself in my existence.
I dread social settings. Being part of a group activity makes me go cold inside and my stomach tighten. I am at my best on a one-on-one basis. Even a third person being present makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Anything more than three people and I’m instantly in defensive mode, even if I’ve known the people present for many years.
When I’m walking around my town’s high street all the time I feel that most people are looking at me. I try not to make eye contact, so when I do I always easily see several people looking at me. This just reinforces my beliefs and feelings that I’m not like other people. I don’t see other people staring at each other, but there are always people staring at me. As a teenager I put it down to my gangly awkwardness, as an adult I ascribe it to my height, build and dark hair. I know that many women like tall and dark men, but the attention makes me feel uncomfortable.
I don’t like being the centre of attention. At school, when it was time to present anything in front of a class, I’d make sure I wasn’t there. I’m never the life-and-soul of a party (not that I’ve been to many) but am more likely to found in the kitchen or doing something useful for the group. I prefer to be in the background, orchestrating events and suggesting ideas.
I’ve developed coping mechanisms to deal with my feelings towards other people. I always walk fast because I feel that makes me less visible so people can’t stare. I never maintain eye contact with anyone, am sometimes thumbing away at my phone, thus looking downward, but my favourite escape that calms me is to be listening to music via an earpiece. That makes it all feel okay because it’s like I’m moving through my own private movie scene being accompanied by a soundtrack of my choosing. Sometimes at work I pretend to be listening to music, but it’s just a ruse to get people to leave me alone, freeing me from idle, puerile office banter.
My working life has been the biggest challenge, pain and disappointment of my life. I’ve always found myself in an office environment, a most unnatural construct for most people, but for me it’s a particular hell because I feel so visible and thus vulnerable. My coping mechanism has been to put my head down and work like a Trojan. This has had the unintended consequence of me being perceived as a good worker by my bosses. I’ve been rewarded with preferential treatment from them which has perpetuated the negativity of the setting because people now look at me with jealousy or disapproval. Yes, I’ve been relatively successful in my jobs, but I’ve always been the outsider, the lone wolf. I am now so accustomed to it that I prefer things that way, not because I like it, but because I know how to deal with it.
Better the devil you know is not my preferred way of doing things, but whenever I can I orchestrate things so that I work alone, preferably physically so. I commandeer a free space somewhere, put up a physical barrier of some kind and then I can’t see anyone’s judgemental eyes. I find it much easier to do my own thing than ask permission or seek forgiveness. I am not afraid to be unpopular in a workplace, because that just makes it easier to move on when the opportunity presents itself. Permanent employment has felt like a prison sentence to me, working on a freelance basis has proved more emotionally acceptable because I know exactly when it will be over.
This lack of fearing unpopularity has been a mixed blessing. Because I feel it almost inevitable in certain settings with people I do not know, it has lead to me being ruthless at times. I’ll even confess that it has made me a horrible person, a heartless bastard especially when in an all-male environment. I have had no compunction in resorting to bloody violence to get my way. Men really are like dogs in that we adhere to a pack mentality…and there can only be one top dog: me. I don’t fear violence, in fact, I like it because I know I will always win. There’s a certain look men give off when they realize that they can’t defeat me because I’m always willing to go one depraved step further than them. I’ve never started a fight, I’ve only ever finished them. Sadly, the few times my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend saw my vicious streak when I was provoked led to them losing some respect for me and having it replaced by a little fear. On a positive note, I feel that my days of brutality are well behind me; I’m now too old for that shit.
As I have got older these feelings of social inadequacy have grown and become more prominent in my daily existence. As I did away with my young man’s White Knight Syndrome, this avoidant mindset and accompanying behaviour pattern has grown. I can see that it’s getting worse as I experience more negative things at the hands of people.
Why am I like this? All my life I have felt like the outsider in any group setting. It all started when I was little.
My parents were badly married. My father was a raging alcoholic and often out of work. My mother was always at work during the day. They fought every dinner-time and all weekend. I was an only child, so when the fighting started I used to run away and hide in my own little world. My mother was overly protective towards me; overbearing and controlling in fact. She had me when she was almost 41 and I was her way of dealing with her shit life. I was the one thing she cherished…and could control.
When both my parents had jobs when I was under six years old, a maid would come take care of me and the apartment. She was under strict instructions to never let me outdoors. For years I would sit at the window watching the other kids play. A couple of times I sneaked out to play with them, but the maid caught me and took me back inside, fearful of losing her job. I think that’s how I developed my observant, analytical, voyeuristic streak.
Then one day my mother said to me that one of the kids had invited me to their birthday party. I was so excited. On the day of the party, I woke up early, relishing the chance to finally get to play with the other kids. My mother had bought a navy-blue trousers with harlequin waistcoat, white shirt and sky-blue bow-tie. (Yep, my mother dressed me funny.) By lunchtime I was tired and asked my mother if it was okay for me to nap for a little while and that she must wake me for the party.
She didn’t wake me and I slept the entire afternoon. I missed the party and I was upset. I convinced myself that now, for sure, the other kids would never want to play with me ever again. I resumed watching them from a distance, in my prison, overseen by the maid.
The city where we lived was a compromise choice for my parents because they had married across the cultural divide. In Apartheid-era South Africa, although both were white, my father was an Afrikaner and my mother of English descent, this was a socially inappropriate union. Their families shunned them and they moved to a city where nobody knew them, thus neither had friends or family in this neutral city. I have no recollection of us ever having visitors in the first 10 years of my life. Sadly I also have no recollection of ever being hugged or shown any kind of affection by either of my parents; they were too busy with their private war.
I can count on my one hand (and have fingers left over) the number of times I interacted with other children before I had to go to school at the age of six. On the very first day of school, my mother said to me, “I want you to be the cleverest kid in the class. I want you to get the highest marks for every subject.” I said, “Yes, mom” and I did exactly that for the next eight years.
All the other kids in my class were different to me. They also all knew each other. They went to pre-school crèche together, which my mother didn’t want me to. From day one I felt like the outsider, but it was in effect, just a continuation of what was the norm for me. I couldn’t figure out how to fit in, but I figured out how to excel and I became the class “brain”. Not the typical geek, because I was bigger than the other kids, so nobody picked on me. I just felt that collectively I was being shunned. Inadvertently I had made things worse for myself by becoming the “brain”, but I only figured that out in later years.
Because of my intellect, physique and forceful nature (courtesy of being a badly-socialised only child) I was the captain of every team in my school career. I was unknowingly a so-called “alpha male”, but largely because all the other kids were intimidated by me. It was easier to lead and browbeat kids into line, than to learn how to compromise and fit in.
My mother then decided that I should go to a different high-school than what my few primary school chums went to. So I arrived at a new school, at the age of thirteen, knowing nobody. Again they all knew each other, having been to the same primary school for the previous eight years. Again I was the outsider trying to break in. Teenagers can be nasty and very cliquey. My first year of high school was awful; nobody wanted to be friends with me. I remember a couple of break times taking myself off to the toilets and sitting in a cubicle, sometimes crying. Eventually a couple of boys warmed to me.
Then tragedy struck. My father dropped dead from a heart attack a week before my fourteenth birthday. That was 1st September 1985; it was a Sunday. On the Monday morning my mother went to the bank to tell them that my father had died. The bank manager instantly froze all the bank accounts and my mother had no cash. There were no friends or family to borrow money off of. There was no food in the house, as bad luck would have it. By the Wednesday night my dinner was a cereal with hot water. That’s how the next 10 years of hardship with my mother began.
We were literally left penniless. I stayed off school for a few weeks and when I returned all the kids ignored me. Nobody wanted to speak to me, they were all so uncomfortable around me, not knowing what to say. I became a social outcast and, as usual, it wasn’t of my making. The last few months of my first year of high school passed in splendid isolation.
My mother decided to move to another city, where her family was, who had promised to help out. So at the age of fourteen I went off to another high-school. And guess what? Yep, as usual, I was the outsider looking in. However, money was a massive problem for me and my mother. Her nephew (my cousin) owned a scrap metal yard and he gave my mother a full-time job as his book-keeper. I worked for him on weekends (occasional Sundays too) and all my school holidays. I skipped being a teenager and got thrown into the adult world. This made it harder to relate to kids my own age, teachers even; they were all so immature.
I had very few friends in high-school. My best friend was the class “brain”, but he was puny, so us two outcasts hung out together. I had very little to do with girls because I didn’t have time and I didn’t have money. I couldn’t take a girl back to my place, it was a dump and my mother was always there. I felt like no girl would be interested in me because I was so poor.
My stand-out moment in high school was the prom. I didn’t have the money to buy an outfit and one day in class several of the kids, all of whose parents were wealthy, belittled me publicly for claiming to not have the money for everything that was involved. This public grilling went on for ages. They just couldn’t understand that my mother and I didn’t have money. I didn’t go to the prom; the only kid not to go.
I would say that my teenage years were characterized by a feeling of never fitting in anywhere. I sometimes think I haven’t really outgrown that. Whenever I tried to join a group I was rejected, so I learned to reject groups. As a teenager I aspired to normality, decency and respectability. Respect is something important to me. I didn’t get much of it growing up, so I value it. It’s why I can’t love a woman that I don’t respect.
Because we didn’t have money, I couldn’t go to university. The law of the land said that I therefore had to do national service. I am a mixture of Afrikaner and English, so I was fluent in both languages and mindsets. When the other conscripts found out that I was not “pure”, I was shunned. I only had one friend during national service. I was a target for everyone else after that because nobody would side with me. I learned to really fight, physically and otherwise, then.
After that was over I had to get a job and in 1992, the world was in recession. My best friend’s father got me a job in the local municipality. At the time, Apartheid was collapsing and as a white man I was, once again, a target. Local government implemented affirmative action policies and I was told that no matter how hard I studied or what I did, I would not be promoted. My then girlfriend (now ex-wife) was facing the same limited options in her working life, although she was a qualified accountant. We decided to leave South Africa, the only environment we’ve ever known.
We arrived in England at the age of 25, never having been abroad and knowing nobody. Life was tough in the beginning. We both endured a lot of discrimination because we were immigrants. Once again, I was an outsider. We went through a lot together and it pains me that today we are not on speaking terms. I have reached out to her a couple of times asking if we could be friends, but she rejected the idea.
Of all the aspects of this Avoidant Personality Disorder I’ve been blind to, that what has sabotaged me the most, I would say emphatically is the mistrust of others. I can see that I have found comfort of being with woman such as my ex-wife, Sweet Thing, Busty Blonde and Busty Czech because I felt that I could trust them. (All of them are Cluster C – Dependent). As soon as another woman or date gave me any reason to not trust them then my Trust Demon took over and events followed an almost predictable, speedy downward spiral as I emotionally withdrew. At least I’m aware of this now.
The second greatest effect has been that of judgementalism. On the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator I’m an INTJ – Introversion, Intuition, Thinking, Judgement – one of the rarest personality types. It’s the last letter that has become exaggerated in my being. Because I fear being judged, I thus am highly judgemental of other people as a pre-emptive defence mechanism. I’ll reject them before they reject me.
When it comes to romantic relationships I need to feel I’m in control of the relationship, that makes me feel safe. Any hint of vulnerability and I fear being taken advantage of. This started at age six when the girl next to me would hold hands with me, then ask me to help her with her maths. I eventually realised that she was using me, so I stopped helping her. My only girlfriend I had in high-school cheated on me when I had to go away to do National Service. My ex-wife didn’t love me for the last five years of our relationship. My ex-girlfriend lied to me from day one and all the way through our relationship.
People have always been a source of anguish in my life, never a source of pleasure. However, aside from this and Avoidant Personality Disorder, my greatest positive emotion is that of wanting to give love. I think that my disorder has influenced this because not having received much love, there is an innate need within me to express it.
A case can be made that I’m now scared of women, but I don’t think that’s true. I just haven’t met the right one…The One. I realize now that I need to be with a submissive woman. I’ve been oblivious to this. This might have played a role in some of the experiences that I’ve had dating. Non-submissive women will have detected my wanting to be the senior partner in the relationship and that made me wrong for them. Some of the stronger-willed women and I clashed and would have continued to do so if a relationship were to have been mutually pursued. I think this is especially true of my ex-girlfriend and I who clashed daily. The Saffa (Histrionic) and Musician Gal (Narcissist) would have been a replay of that.
In the workplace I express, vent even, but in my private life I bottle my feelings up because that’s what a man’s supposed to do, don’t you know? Sup it up. Don’t show any weakness in front of the womenfolk because it rattles them. Be a man.
When my last job came to an end in August last year, I was leading a team of people who didn’t like me and ganged-up against me. It got ugly and became my worst nightmare. I felt humiliated and I walked out. I got a settlement payment from the company. I haven’t worked since then.
The thought of going back into an office environment nauseates me. I was never happy in my working life, always prostituting myself for the money. I have absolutely no interest in IT, an industry populated by ego-maniacal geeks fussing over petty things, always missing the big picture. (Ever wondered why software is like it is? Now you know.)
Since August last year my ‘working days’ have been me sitting at home by myself, happiest when writing my heart out, only going out to get food (listening to music) and the gym at lunchtimes (again with headphones on). There have been times when weeks have gone by without my talking to anyone. I can not remember another time in my life when I have been so happy. I have felt so calm and tranquil. I’ve loved it.
Don’t worry, I’m not some anti-social, rude, obnoxious, control-freak retard who wants to be a hermit. On the surface I must seem perfectly normal. I’m polite, considerate, humorous, easy-going and a whole host of other good things. I can walk into a job interview, make a positive impression, get interviewers laughing and talk myself into a job. I feel my fears and I ignore them, because my desire to succeed is greater.
It’s just that I am at my best when alone with only one person. If it’s a group setting then it is preferable to be with people whom I have known for a long time. In typical introvert fashion I feel exhausted after a lengthy social engagement, even if it is with people I’ve known for years. An extrovert feels energized by socialising, but I don’t, I need to recover and I seek out solitude and silence.
All I want is silence. That can’t hurt me, that I am comfortable with. I am at my absolute best when alone, with my thoughts. When given time, space and the tranquillity to express myself, to be creative because, like manic-depressants before lithium, it all feels bearable then.
I don’t think I’m disturbed, I just need silence and solitude more than most. My scars need time to heal.
Oh, how I crave silence, for it is then that I feel I am on the comforting edge of heaven.
Disturbed – “The Sound Of Silence”
It’s an October Monday morning and I text message The Cockaholic, suggesting that she come over for a spicy risotto and Californication in the evening. She jumps at it. I think she’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie and loves the rush of excitement, something I think I can provide in spades. I’m looking forward to seeing her.
I find myself wondering if I’m addicted to the spike of adrenaline of first dates, of the getting-to-know-you phase. I’m inclined to say ‘no’ because I spent six months with Busty Blonde and it was such an easy relationship with her. I kind of miss that now after not even two months of The Saffa who is increasingly becoming hard work. I’m starting to think of her as a Drama Queen; she just has to have drama in her life.
The Cockaholic arrives early, which I take as a good sign: she’s keen. We have the spicy risotto I made, then sit side-by-side on my sofa to watch another two episodes of Californication which, I suspect, has the effect of making her frisky. Little more than two hours after arriving she is sucking on my cock and loving it. I have never seen such a happy, enthusiastic cock-sucker before.
I ask her, “have you been looking forward to doing this?”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she says, momentarily taking my cock out of her mouth, but then adds, “I’ve been thinking about something else all day too.”
“Oh, what other people call fantasies you call plans?”
The Cockaholic bursts into laughter, keeping my cock in her mouth as she does so. It’s a strangely pleasant sensation having a woman laughing onto and all around my cock.
“So do you want to tell me what it is you want, or do you just want to show me?” I coax.
She stops fellatio and gets up to straddle me cowgirl style. It feels good to me; she’s not overweight and thus crushing my cock, so my erection can last forever. Within minutes she has made herself cum by riding my cock. I enjoy watching her face convulse in pleasure.
I give it a few minutes, then I start kissing her all over, ending up between her legs, softly licking her clit. After a couple of minutes of this she’s totally relaxed, so I slide an index finger into her pussy, first pulling down, then turning it upward to stroke her g-spot. After a few more minutes I slide my middle finger in too and both fingers are rubbing her g-spot as she moans in pleasure. She keeps her hands above her head on my sofa cushions and it seems as if she is in ecstasy as I lick her clit and finger her g-spot. My tongue tires and I sit upright to rub her clit with my other hand’s thumb. Her pussy starts squelching and occasionally squirting juices into my hand. Not since Krazy Girl a year ago have I felt a woman do that. Eventually she cums, arching her back while hiding her face into a cushion as she screams.
I find it amazing to have such an experience with a woman. The sights, sounds and smells overpower me. The naked honesty of the moment entrances me.
She lies panting, I let go of her bits and climb on top of her to cuddle and warm her. I can feel her body shaking under me. Eventually she speaks.
“I think I just had an all-over body orgasm,” she says, swallowing hard.
After a few minutes of blissful silence conversation turns at my behest to the unpleasantly practical issue of contraception. Something has been niggling at the back of my brain.
The Cockaholic now tells me that she’s on the injection contraceptive, the one where she has no periods and needs a recharge every three months. I also remember her telling me on Friday night that she hasn’t had sex in two years, but had herself tested at a STD clinic four weeks earlier. Why would someone who hasn’t had sex in 2 years be on the injection and have herself tested? Hmmm…I smell bullshit. My ever-alert Trust Demon opens an eye and raises a suspicious eyebrow. He snorts in contempt at her story.
Is my initial supposition correct in that she was on Tinder intending to go on a sexual rampage, part of exorcising her own demons, making her feel like a powerful, desirable woman? I see this as part of my attraction to her, this trying to decipher her motives, learning more about womankind through her.
Without me saying a word The Cockaholic starts kissing me all over. She’s obviously an unselfish lover, a Giver even and this pleases me.
Her kisses feel like a butterfly landing on my skin as she works her way down my body. I’ve been looking forward to experiencing her sucking my cock, hoping it’s as good as I remember.
The Cockaholic’s tongue slides up and down the shaft of my penis, then she glides it down onto my balls, using the smooth underside of her tongue to elicit pleasure in them. Jeezus, she really knows what she’s doing!
She keeps her tongue moving and down to my perineum she goes, twirling and swirling her tongue over it. No woman has done that before. Where did she learn these moves? Cosmo, porn movies or a really instructive ex-lover? Or is she a natural? Just how many ice-creams has she practised on?
I look down at her and see that she’s in a trance-like state. Anything can happen now.
Her tongue is flailing about like that of a possessed demonic goat.
Suddenly her tongue drops lower and she starts drawing circles around my anus. Only my Exgf has given me a rim-job before and that was long ago, so it feels good. The circles become smaller…
Hang on, she’s not going to do what I think she’s going to do?…
She’s licking my arse!
Holy shit! That’s so unhygienic!
Yet it feels so good…
Oh my god!
She’s just stuck the tip of her tongue into my arse!
Emotionally I’m horrified, but physically not so much. In fact, I like it, so I relax.
The Cockaholic pushes her tongue deeper into my arse and she starts making snorting sounds of satisfaction, akin to a pig.
Wow! Should I rename her The Ass-licker?
She continues pushing and pulling her tongue in and out of my arse for about a minute. I think she’s enjoys doing it more than I enjoy receiving it. I lie in stunned fascination, my brain is racing.
Is this some kind of emotional release coming to the surface in her? A high-pressured job demands an extreme release of energy for her to unwind?
“Do you like doing that?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid and obvious question, but it’s the answer that matters.
“Uh-huh. I love it,” she answers, momentarily leave my arse alone before resuming her pig-finding-a-truffle-in-my-arse routine.
My, my, my, what a kinky little thing you are. I wonder what delicious naughtiness we can get up to together? I wish I had filmed this; I could watch it repeatedly.
Without any hint of a change to come The Cockaholic pulls away from my anus and almost instantly latches on my cock which is losing its erection because of the shock of what she has been doing. Most of the blood in there has rushed to my brain and botty.
Ugh, her mouth must be coated in faecal bacteria and now she’s spreading it on my precious manhood!
This cannot be! I don’t want to spend my nights in the shower scrubbing my phallus raw like I did after the anal sex episodes with Krazy Girl and Tech Titan. This Grey Knight must arise and put matters right by mounting this damsel with the dirty mouth!
I get up off the sofa, leaving her on all fours on the trusty footstool. She doesn’t move, I think she knows what I’m about to do. She knows to stay in position for doggy-style. Such a well-trained ass-licking cock-sucker.
My semi-flaccid cock easily slides into her slippery pussy. Some women in their early forties start experiencing lubrication problems, but not this one. After several mighty thrusts of my lance blood floods its chambers and turgidity returns.
“Oh, yes, that’s it, fuck me!” she mutters.
I love it when women tell me things like that, but it’s starting to amuse and puzzle me that they generally say the same things, like she did right now. Ho-hum, mustn’t tarry or quibble, there’s fucking to be done.
Earlier I had turned the lights down low as we got comfy on my sofa. Soft lighting usually leads to hard fucking. I knew this even back when there was that close call with Baltic Babe, that time when she turned the lights down low. A dormant sense of anger is evoked by the memories of her and my hips speed up. I’ll be cumming soon.
“Where do you want my cum?” I ask. It’s only polite to ask.
“In my pussy,” she wheezes back.
I reckon it’s safe to do so, I believe her contraception claims, but a little impetus to get me over the line is needed.
My thumb finds its way to my mouth and I suck on it for a few seconds. How will she react to being on The Hook this time? Will she rear up and lurch away like Busty Czech did? Or will she enjoy it like every other woman has?
Slowly and smoothly my thumb slides up her bum. She doesn’t make a sound nor does she move as my hips keep ramming my fat cock into her. Yes, she likes this. I’m now thinking that she has an anal fetish thing going on given what she did to my arse with her tongue.
Oh yes, the bum bacteria that she slobbered onto my cock is now coating her vagina. This high-flying, yuppie career woman with the expensive sports car likes it dirty!
I lean my head over to one side, hoping to catch a glimpse of her tits bouncing around as I fuck her, but they’re barely moving, just the slight shake of a mound of jelly. Now I’m sure her boobies are fake. Right now that doesn’t matter because my balls have just tightened.
With a back-arching spasm I blast a day’s worth of sperm into her, but the build-up has been so good that it feels like several day’s worth. I wonder if a woman can tell from the sensation of the cum in her pussy just how many days worth the load is? Answers in an email please…
My hips keep rocking and The Cockaholic is making ‘mmm’ sounds that indicate approval. Most women seem to like the feeling of sperm in them, but some don’t. I wonder if it’s an emotional thing more than anything else?
Never mind that, this was a good orgasm.
Sex with The Saffa has degenerated into angry sex, which is not my favourite kind, but doing it with The Cockaholic feels sweet, it feels right.
She spends the night and I’m in heaven. We talk for ages again and again I enjoy talking to her. She finds me funny and we laugh a lot. We both feel good. I’m looking forward to seeing her again.
In my Triangle of Temptation (personality, face or breasts) she has personality. I don’t find her face off-putting, it’s just that I’m not enthralled. I can’t just stare at her face and derive pleasure from that, not like I could with The Model and Krazy Girl. I’m now convinced her breasts are fake, but that isn’t a problem to me, which surprises me. How I feel when I’m with her counts for more. Of course her ability to suck a golf ball through a hosepipe matters too.
The Cockaholic having a kinky streak I find interesting. How did it come about? Will she share some of her sexual history with me? I’m really curious, but it’s a rare woman who’ll share that kind of information. I’d love to know what she’s feeling when she’s having sex or how it feels to her being on The Hook or licking my arse. What are her other fantasies? What is she looking for?
I guess the Eurythmics were right: some of them want to get used and some want to be abused. Yes, everybody is looking for something. We’re all pursuing a sweet dream or two.
What are hers?
Eurythmics – Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This )
I’m going to fuck her on our first date then I’ll never see her again! That’s what I’m thinking, that’s what this experience with The Saffa has made me feel entitled to do. Women just use men as playthings, outlets for their issues, solutions for their problems, items on their agenda. They abuse men, not caring for the consequences of their actions, not stopping for an instant to think of the damage they might be doing. That can work both ways.
My date for tonight, a match off Tinder, initiated our text conversation with “Your profile really caught my attention! :)”. It’s always a good sign when a woman initiates communication because it’s a giveaway that she is keen, almost desperate to meet. Of course she might be saying that to all the boys.
Her profile has no words and four pictures, one of them used twice. In one of her pictures there is a hint of decent breastage. Her hair is a light brown and not the typical blonde that I go for; I thought it time for some variety. She’s adequately pretty and in one of her photos she’s the tallest of a group of women. I’ve never fucked a tall chick; it’s been on my Fuckit List for a while.
I responded courteously and asked where she was. To my great relief she was in the next town over; nice and convenient if anything were to come of us. I suggested that we meet up and she quickly replied accepting this and offering to come over to my town. I suggested a good pub and cheekily offered to let her park at my apartment complex; the latter touch being a practical convenience for me as it would be easier to lure her back to my shag-pad.
She made a comment about being nervous, which I allayed. My experience tells me that she’s recently out of a long-term relationship, still a little cut up about it, has decided to go dating driven by her friends nagging her to “get out there”. No doubt someone said to her, “the best way to get over someone is to get onto someone else”. My gut tells me that she’s this type. I’m expecting her to be skittish in the beginning, therefore I must play it cool and let her warm to me.
First we’ll go to the pub, I’ll ply her with alcohol then I’ll get her back to my place on the pretext of watching Californication. After the second episode I’ll make my move and kiss her…then see what happens.
I have no real idea what to expect her to be like as her profile is blank. She could be everything that I don’t want. However, I feel that if she is attractive enough to me, I’ll try to fuck her tonight. She’s taken up my offer of parking out in front of my apartment block which also makes things so much easier seeing her off in the morning. For all I know she’s just out to get laid. Given her eager interactions so far I’m expecting this might be the case.
She reminds me of Wild Child of last year: lots of energy, chasing her tail in her own little bubble, but not relationship material. When it gets down to being physical is when she is likely to withdraw. Another woman she reminds me of so far is Krazy Girl – very keen to meet me. If she’s more like the latter then we’ll fuck on the first date, which would be new territory for me.
All that from just a few text messages? I’m probably wrong, but we’ll see.
She arrives on time just as it’s getting dark and I meet her in my car park, approaching her from the side. Her luxury German sports car looks out of place here. She doesn’t spot me approaching as I eye her up and down. Not as attractive as I would like, but good enough to fuck. I startle her with my “hello” and she backs away from me, but a few laughs later and we are smiling at each other. She is tall with the top of her head being in line with my chin, but she is wearing high heels.
From the speed and tone of her speech it’s clear that she is nervous, so I decide to calm her down by doing the talking initially. As we walk I get a good, positive vibe off her and we maintain eye contact for very healthy amounts of time. In the past, when dates have been uninterested in me they have usually avoided eye contact.
We walk into the pub where I had lunch with my Exgf yesterday. (More about that another time.) I lead her to a comfy leather sofa in a quiet corner away from the noisy crowd who are jostling for attention, like peacocks fluffing out their feathers hoping to attract a mate. I’ve got mine for the night, now it’s just a matter of slowly seducing her.
I lean back on my side of the sofa, our knees are almost touching. My adopting the passive-disinterested attitude from the outset leads to her sitting erect in her seat, paying rapt attention to my every word. She smiles continuously and I start to think of her as ‘The Smiler’. She laughs heartily at my weakest of jokes and I’m not sure whether this is out of nervousness or genuine appreciation. I don’t think it really matters because we have, after all, matched on Tinder where physical attraction is everything.
“So what exactly about my profile caught your attention?” I ask, doing a bit of research and also reminding her what she likes about me, ramping up the sexual tension.
“Your height. I like tall men,” she answers, her hands laced over each other, resting in her lap on new blue jeans.
Yes, she looks quite submissive. I can just imagine her naked in my lounge, squatting with her hands like that over her bare knees, her nipples erect, her eyes pleading as she opens her mouth and I feed her my cock.
“What else do you like about tall men?” I ask, flirting dangerously.
“Oh, you know,” she replies with a naughty smile and twinkle in her eye.
“No, I don’t . How about you tell me,” I coax, knowing full-well the effect of my words.
“I can’t do that here,” she answers, feigning indignation, her eyes darting towards the crowd.
“Where do you want to tell me?” I tease.
In her head I can just hear her brain saying “somewhere private”. I want her thinking about being private with me. First seed planted.
She’s silent and blinking at me while smiling. Good, she isn’t offended. I think her nipples must be hardening.
“Would you like a drink?” I offer.
“Yes, a cider is my favourite” she says.
“Mine too,” I say and I go get us our drinks.
The Smiler must be thirsty because she finishes half of her pint in two quick gulps. I’ve just had a sip, but it’s deliberate. As part of my plan for tonight I’ll get her slightly drunk which will lower her barriers and increase the likelihood of her spreading her legs for me.
We talk some more, I direct the topics making sure that they’re positive ones so as to set her at ease. By the time she’s finished her pint she’s also sitting back in her seat more relaxed, so much so that she has let her knees come forward and they’re resting against the side of my thigh. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or inadvertent but that all-important physical barrier has been breached. Getting a woman to be touch me first is a massive step towards the bedroom or lounge floor or back seat of a car.
Like so many of my dates she is a high-powered business professional. What I’ve learned is that such women use sex as a release from the stresses of their working life. Making decisions all day, every day leads to them wanting a man to take charge, to tell them what to do and they will gratefully, willingly comply. What’s a woman like her who can afford the most expensive of dating sites, a proper match-making service even, doing on Tinder? It just has to be for the sex. This date gets better by the minute.
Smiler is now becoming quite chatty and tells me that this is her first foray into dating in over two years. In my hands she is like a lamb to the slaughter. Inside my head I laugh to myself because this is almost too easy while at the same time I squirm out of guilt because of my intent. The bonus is likely to be that she is ravenous for cock. To quote one of my favourite comedians, “Her pussy is so disused it might be haunted.”
As time slips away and her laughter becomes more dirty and it dawns on me that I am now the smooth operator that I spied on a date more than a year ago with The Matron.
Back then I would never countenance doing what I am planning to tonight. Have I grown or degraded through online dating? Right now I think it’s the latter, but I don’t care. Love seems like a fool’s errand and the best that is on offer for me is the slippery, warm comfort of a new lover’s body under me.
Smiler finishes another cider while I’m still nursing mine which is now room temperature, almost as warm as the pub. The air is clammy with restrained excitement, testosterone and oestrogen as around us lonely, horny people find their target for the night and subtly makes their desire known. I watch as people with wedding rings make their illicit bargains with strangers and then leave. There are going to be several cars left overnight in the car park. The devil in me wants to come back in the morning and let the air out their tyres, but I reckon I’ll be pre-occupied then.
It’s time to close my own deal.
“What colour are your eyes?” I ask, remembering this ruse from my first date with Career Girl.
“They’re blue,” she says, as if I hadn’t noticed.
“I can’t see. Come closer,” I respond.
Smiler sits upright and leans slightly forward. I can see clearly, like I have been able to all night.
“I still can’t see, come closer,” I say, not moving in my seat.
She comes closer and our noses are almost touching, she’s struggling to keep her balance without falling onto me.
“Closer…” I whisper.
She smiles just before our lips touch. We kiss lightly, then tenderly, then more firmly. Yes, it’s good kiss, so she’s going to be a good lay. Second seed planted and it’s time to escalate.
I pull my head back and, as I expect, she has her eyes closed. They flicker to life, telling me that she wants more. Oh, I’ll give you more, more than you’re perhaps expecting. She smiles, leans slightly back and looks satisfied with herself. I wonder who’s playing who here? No, I’m in charge. This is my one-night stand.
“It’s getting late. How about we call it a night?” I say, spotting a look of confusion on her face as her latest smile disappears.
“Oh, okay,” is all she says as she gropes the sofa for her handbag, keeping her eyes on me.
My seemingly abruptly ending the encounter I know catches her by surprise. It’s deliberate because I want to knock her out any sense of safety that she is now feeling with me. I want her to feel suddenly off-balance and unsure as to what is going on, then I’ll lead her along the path I want her to follow. Third seed in place.
“Do you like chicken?” I ask as we leave the pub and get hit by cool, fresh air.
“Yes, why?” she counters.
“Better take a wing then,” I say, offering her my arm.
Smiler first guffaws, then bends over slightly as she laughs, laughing like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard before coupling up with me.
So easy, it’s all so easy.
Now for the acid-test moment, that instant when it’s make-or-break for my plan. It’s time to harvest the seeds.
As we approach the car park outside my apartment complex, I stop, we uncouple arms, she stops and turns to me.
“You know that show, Californication, I was telling you about earlier? Fancy watching the first two episodes with me?” I ask and swallow hard, biting my lower lip.
Smiler thinks about it, she’s no fool, she knows what can happen. She looks at her car.
“Your car will be okay,” I say and then take a step away from her towards my home, my sofa, my footstool that is waiting for her.
She hesitates, smiles impishly and then steps towards me.
To be continued…
There is something important that I have learned in my dating adventures. If you want an instant insight as to a woman’s relationship history and how a relationship with her will be going forward, you only need to ask her, “How would you describe your relationship with your father?” Whatever she answers will tell you everything you need to know.
The nature of my working life has revolved around my ability to quickly spot trends and patterns. I can’t help but do this when listening to people telling me about themselves. It’s a professional hazard, but one I enjoy. It feeds my analytical side, the part of me that helps make sense of the world around me. Other people might not like it, but it serves me well. Don’t worry, I carefully hide it when on dates.
After sitting across the table from almost fifty women in two years, this is what I have seen. Nature’s Grand Conspiracy has dictated that daughters are more influenced by their fathers and boys by their mothers. This cross-bonding sets that little person up for life when it comes to dealing with their love-life.
It has amazed me how common and accurate my observation has been. I feel that I have helped some women I’ve met when, only after deciding that I won’t be seeing them again, I use their words in response to my question and ask if it applies to their relationship history, that they then have their own epiphany. It’s as if a light-bulb has literally gone off above their heads.
We all have a relationship style, an unthinking way of how we expect things to be at the outset and over the course of a relationship. We get this from our parents. Sometimes we strive for the opposite of what our parents inadvertently teach us; I am of that mold but more about me later.
The beginning of any relationship is the exciting fun part, we all know that, but it’s the bit afterwards that we all struggle with. Some of us never get to the afterwards because of ideas we hold in our heads, feelings that we expect and cling to, so the change to a stable, predictable, almost boring relationship is too much to take on and we withdraw. I’ve seen that several times with the women I’ve dated. They just don’t know how to let things be and they cling to the romance phase. Some baulk at the first sign of change because with that comes the unknown, something us humans are pre-programmed to fear.
I’ve also seen in my own dating experience that the less interested in a girl I was, the more interested in me she was. If my internal attitude was one of, “Hmm, yes, I suppose you’re okay.” then a woman would do all the running and I would be in the driving seat in the relationship.
If I was very taken with a woman, then I couldn’t help but let it show. She then had all the power in the relationship, I did all the running. It became hard work and usually didn’t last very long. Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl taught me this.
So if I can contain my interest when I meet somebody I want, play it cool, then it’s more likely to work out in my favour, i.e. lead to a relationship.
I now find myself wondering if the feeling that this approach gives off to a woman reminds her of her father’s attitude to her. Always there, never dominating, letting her be and being there for her, physically and emotionally. So, are women looking for a man who makes them feel like their father’s did?
I’m inclined to say “yes”. However, it’s a qualified one because there are few other factors that influence proceedings, primarily ‘power’ in a relationship. That is something I’ll be sharing my thoughts on at another time. For the time being I’ll say my behaviour provides a feeling that gets their attention, while later seizing the power in the interaction keeps their attention.
About two-thirds of the women I have met through dating have admitted to having bad or terrible relationships with their fathers. Some don’t even know who their fathers are. Of course that’s not their fault but it has left them somewhat compromised in the relationship stakes. Baltic Babe had only recently started communicating with her father. Musician Gal told me never to even mention her father the first and only time I asked about him. My Exgf’s parents divorced when she was one and she didn’t have a male role-model in her life until she was seven.
For a while I thought my “aloof but interested” approach was causing a problem but then I realized that no approach would work with some of these women. They are just too messed up permanently or temporarily confused by a past traumatic relationship experience. Lusty Lass, Cat Lady and Krazy Girl were of the latter.
Something else I have learned is that if a woman has “daddy issues” then aside from a turbulent history with men, the sex is good if not crazy. If her relationship with her father is normal and healthy then, apart from relatively few relationships, the sex is average to bland.
These women with daddy issues seem destined to ride a Carousel of Cock, an endless stream of strangers that they use sex to attract but then become fearful of or lose interest in. The attention they garner makes them feel good about themselves for a short while, but then they need another fix from another guy. With so much sexual experience they pick up skills and fetishes that make playtime phenomenal fun, but they just can’t sustain a loving relationship. They drift from lover to lover, perpetuating the same sabotaged relationship style over and over. Krazy Girl and my Exgf are classic examples of this. They don’t know how many times they’ve been had nor do they know who’ll be next. I wonder how it ends for them. A song from Rodriguez comes to mind.
So how does any of this apply to me and my situation? A lot of what I’ve discovered applies to men too. I’ll use myself as an example.
First, I know that my own relationship style is a consequence of my upbringing. My relationship with my mother was terrible and has only in recent years progressed to bad. In the endless war between my parents my mother used me as a pawn against my father. I can count on my hands and have fingers left over the number of times my mother allowed me to be alone with my father. There was no real reason for this other her conceit and spite. I resented her for this.
When I was with my father I saw a side to him that very few people did. He was gentle, thoughtful and attentive to me. When he was with other people he was proud, imposing and loud. I didn’t like who he was then and have only come to terms with that side of him in recent years. He grew up during the Great Depression and it scarred his psyche because his was a poor upbringing. He once told me of eating pumpkin every night and his trousers his mother had made from torn Hessian bags that the pumpkins came in. Children at his school made fun of him for it. All his life he craved social respectability, status and acceptance, the things he never got in his formative years.
My mother is a poorly educated, unintelligent and stubborn person. In her twenties and thirties she was a perfect ten in appearance, but Nature’s Grand Conspiracy decrees that what it gives in abundance in one area it takes from another area. So many of the nines and tens that I’ve dated and bedded were great to look at but unpleasant to be around. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of your parents, but I’m just stating the facts. I’ll illustrate by way of an example.
I’m a little boy, about eight years old and we’re out for a Sunday drive on a baking highway near our city. Suddenly smoke starts spewing out of the front of the car and my father pulls us over to the side of the road. It’s lunchtime and we haven’t seen a car for some time and none are to be seen in the distance where the unforgiving African sun is melting everything into a silvery shimmer. I sit in the back seat of our Mercedes as my father gets out and opens the bonnet. Steam covers him and my mother gets out to investigate too. My father owns a garage and a car dealership while my mother can’t park her car.
“Do you think it’s the battery?” she asks him as the steam from the broken radiator pipe abates.
“Why don’t you use your head?” he retorts.
“What?! I must use my head against the battery?! Don’t be so bloody stupid,” she snaps back. An argument commences.
That’s an humorous moment from a private war that saw nightly fights, upturned dinner tables, thrown objects, kicks, tears, bouts of drunkenness on his part and the occasional not coming home for several nights. I’d go hide in my bedroom, finding sanctuary with toy soldiers or comics. I remember many Summer nights lying on the grass in the backyard, using my dog as a pillow and staring up at the stars waiting an uneasy truce to break out. Neither of them ever came to look for me.
And so it was between the two of them, day in and day out, year after year until the stress of it all caused my father to have a fatal heart-attack a few years after that incident by the roadside.
My mother never once said or did anything that made matters better, only worse and that applies to everyone she interacts with. She couldn’t care less what anyone else feels and never for an instant stops to consider the consequences of her words. She has a serious attitude problem but will never change. I got through my teenage years not because of my mother’s efforts but despite them.
It doesn’t surprise me that I want the opposite of what they had. I want a loving relationship characterized by harmony, respect and co-operation. Those last three elements, I can see, are becoming increasingly central in my quest for love. I know now that my marriage was based on my need for this. I felt emotionally safe with my ex-wife. That is my relationship style.
My childhood has also played a role in my decision not to have children because I feel unequipped having never had good role models. Maintaining a loving relationship is hard enough, what are the odds of success by complicating it with a child or two?
Sadly The Saffa is starting to remind me of my mother. She is as stubborn and unwilling or unable to say or do anything to make things better. Hints of it came my way during the squabbles over lunch and pancakes. I can see it clearly in her handling of the dispute with her employers. I fear that she’ll soon be out of work and homeless and looking to me to help out. I don’t need or deserve that responsibility. I have money problems of my own, I have no room for charity. Besides it is also a dreadful way of coming to live with someone you’re seeing, especially someone new.
The Saffa’s parents divorced when she was little and her father moved to another country. She only saw him a few times a year when she was shipped off to him. Her mother didn’t remarry until later in her life. The Saffa has what can be best described as a turbulent relationship history. I doubt that there will be harmony with her while co-operation will be difficult to achieve at times. Each petty argument will be like an addition to death by a thousand paper cuts, eventually respect will die.
I’m also starting to suspect that she is bit of a drama queen. If there isn’t some kind of drama happening somewhere in her life, she’ll create it.
I have heard it said that a weak woman will drag a man under and a hard woman will drag a man around. I’ll add to that truism by saying that a stubborn woman or drama queen will drive a man crazy, perhaps even to an early grave.
I don’t feel emotionally safe with The Saffa. That’s what has been bothering me.
Rodriguez – I wonder