In my mind I’m still battling with the disastrous sexcapade with Teacher Gal of a few hours earlier as I’m standing outside Camden Town Tube station waiting for Delicate Flower. I tell myself to snap out of it, I can think about it on the train home and now need to focus on Delicate Flower. Where do I want take things with her? What are the possible outcomes with her?
As much as I fancy her and she appeals to my protective instincts, her having committed my sexual foible makes it impossible for me to fully respect her. There is no way that I can love her; it’s just not going to happen. I know this about me; we all have our non-negotiables.
When I read in my Exgf’s diaries of her having committed my foible, I should have known then. I decided to persevere, to see if I could get over it. I struggled and eventually sought help in the form of a psychologist. She told me that fifteen years of cognitive behaviour therapy might work, but it isn’t guaranteed. Her simple suggestion was to rather find and be with someone who hasn’t done what I find so unacceptable. She gave me a crutch that I shall have to lean on for the rest of my life.
Before I have a chance to make sense of my thoughts and emotions, Delicate Flower is standing in front of me. I’m so deeply lost in my own little world that I don’t see her walking up to me. She’s wearing black leather boots, dark jeans and a black leather jacket with loads of silver paraphernalia. Where have I seen this Goth biker-chick look before?
I bend down and give her a kiss on each cheek which makes her smile, almost to the point of blushing. Today her heels are shorter and she barely comes up to my shoulder in height. Doesn’t she find this odd, or does she like it?
It’s a beautiful Spring day and the sun is warming us all; it feels good on my back. We make our way through the crowds of tourists that have come to load up on tacky souvenirs that they’ll hide away when back home. Delicate Flower’s bouncy demeanour and ready smile dilute my troubled memories of the previous twenty four hours.
I lead us to Stables Market where the best of the world’s ethnic handicrafts have made their way to London. Disused stables once housing draught horses that pulled barges along canals have been tastefully converted into shops selling what seems like everything that can be made from fabric or leather. Delicate Flower is in her element and the retail therapy-seeker in her comes out. I saunter along, watching her in action, learning what I can about what appeals to her, how she makes decisions, seeing how she interacts with the shopkeepers. She’s picky, thorough and courteous; just like me.
What she doesn’t know is that I have made a booking with a restaurant, with a Groupon voucher in my pocket. When it was time for lunch, I said, “Come with me. I have a surprise for you,” which made her eyes light up. I led her to a swanky South African restaurant that had spent a million Pounds on the décor of Zulu-inspired statues, friezes, seating and lighting. Almost all the food is authentic South African cuisine of various wildlife. I had checked her profile during the week to see if she was vegetarian and thankfully she isn’t.
It was while we enjoying our main courses of ostrich and zebra steaks that our easy banter became interesting and somewhat serious.
“So, I’m curious about something. What was it about my profile that made you write to me?” I ask, expecting her to mention a clever line or reveal a liking for one of my carefully-chosen and tested photos.
“I haven’t read your profile,” she answers.
“Sorry, what?!” I exclaim.
“You dated my best friend last month and she suggested that I get in touch with you,” she says.
“Who is your best friend?” I ask, with my brain racing.
Delicate Flower mentions a name and I realize that it’s the Lost One she’s referring to.
I’m getting referrals now?! Is this a good or bad thing? Nevertheless, this surprise takes me aback and my face must show it because Delicate Flower laughs at my reaction and looks pleased with herself.
Oh, so you like to play games, huh? Okay, let’s play. An idea comes to me.
We finish our lunch and I hand over the Groupon voucher to the waiter in front of Delicate Flower, checking for a reaction, trying to see if she’s bothered by this – she’s not. So, she’s not about the money.
Walking around the rest of the market could have taken up the rest of the day, but a downpour made us take shelter in a coffee shop. I use this as an opportunity to put my idea into action.
“So, in an ideal world, what would your perfect man look like?” I ask after we’re well into our coffees and pastries.
“Well, he’s tall, dark and handsome. Isn’t that what all girls want? Isn’t it obvious?” she answers with a naughty twinkle in her eye.
“What does he do for a job?” I ask, ignoring her slight compliment.
“He doesn’t sit in an office. He works with his hands. Something like being a baker. There’s something sexy about a man who uses his hands all day long,” she says.
“What kind of hobbies does he have?” I ask, confident in my belief that she’s thinking that my questions are about our compatibility.
“He’s into his sports and is quite active. I think he cycles. Those tight shorts do it for me,” she says with a little laugh.
I ask a few more inane questions like this and once I feel that I have what I need, I change the topic of conversation and she forgets about it. We talk about all sorts of other things and at one point we’re talking about Lost One. Delicate Flower goes too far in discussing her friend, slipping into malicious gossip (I might have helped steer matters in that direction) and tells me that Lost One has also committed my sexual foible. My stomach turns, but I give myself an invisible pat on the back for having not sensed any potential with her.
It’s getting dark and I realize that I’ve left it too late to engineer my going home with her on this date. I guess it’s the price I pay for not being better prepared, but the previous night with Teacher Gal has really thrown me. I would love to go home with Delicate Flower to have sex with her; my instincts tell me it will be good. However, flirting was minimal today and there was no sexual banter. We haven’t even kissed today.
Before I can come up with a way forward Delicate Flower says, “It’s been fun again, but I need to catch a bus home now.”
I walk her to a nearby bus terminus and wait with her until her bus arrives. As it pulls up, I say to her, “would you like to come visit me next weekend and I’ll cook for you?” expecting her to decline, citing being busy or something like that because this date was pretty uneventful to me.
“I’d love that,” she says with a smile before standing on tippy toes and giving me a kiss on a cheek, then climbing into the bus.
On my train home I decide that I want to find out what she’s like in bed. When she comes to my place next weekend I’m going to try to seduce her. Before that happens, I’m going to have my other fun with her.
I set up a fake OKCupid profile and via Google images I find a suitable picture of her ideal man. I write the profile up to include all the information that she gave me while we spent hours sitting in the coffee shop. I pretend to be a cycling-mad baker. I know what her answers are to OKCupid’s questions from my real profile, so it isn’t difficult for my fake persona to become one of her highest matches. Then I send her a message introducing myself. It takes only a couple of hours before she writes back.
When I next see her I’ll tell her about this; let’s see if she laughs. As we sit swapping messages, I get cocky. I phone her while messaging her on the website. She answers and we have one conversation on the phone, while we have another conversation via email, but she doesn’t know that she’s actually writing to me.
“So what are you doing right now?” I ask a little ways into the conversation, hearing her keyboard in action.
“Oh, I’m just watching television,” she replies as I read her latest message to me.
My fake persona messages her suggesting that “we” get together for a date this coming Sunday. She types back that she has “plans for Sunday”, which pleases me.
We talk on the phone about the practicalities of her getting to my place, all the while swapping emails that I am now steering in a distinctly sexual direction, seeing how she would handle this. She bites and offers to send the fake me photos of sketches that her sister did of her posing nude. I provide an email address and she sends a couple of tasteful images that turn me on. It didn’t take her long to send those; she must keep them handy.
I now decide to end the phonecall, but continue the now naughty chat via the website. I push matters too far when I ask her for real photos of her nude as at that point she stops responding.
Her indulging a total stranger, a fake one that happened to be me, to that extent reinforces my belief that she is a Good-Time Girl. My Good Girl would never do something like that.
She’s dishonest, deceitful and sexually loose. Any qualms I had about just using her for sex are now gone. I feel it’s okay for me to do as I wish with her.
Alan Parsons Project – Games people play