Tag Archives: London

Delicate Flower shocks me

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.

( http://www.meanddating.com/2014/08/the-ex-girlfriend/ )

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.

Shaka Zulu
Shaka Zulu

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.

( http://www.meanddating.com/2014/09/date-15-the-lost-one/ )

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

The sweetest Saturday with Krazy Girl

I was awoken the next morning by the sound of her cat choking and spluttering on a fur-ball. Krazy Girl was huddled up against me and I could see snow at the bottom of the window frame. She stirred and our eyes met to smile at each other. I kissed her good morning on the lips and she made approving noises.

“It looks like it’s been snowing while we slept,” I said.

Krazy Girl sat bolt upright in the bed so quickly that it startled me and the cat, the latter running off to the kitchen, to go pee in its smelly litter no doubt.

“We should go have breakfast at the market nearby, then maybe buy a few things for dinner tonight!” she exclaimed excitedly, her eyes wide, like a little girl on Christmas eve expecting a big present. Oh, so I’m staying for dinner, am I? Good.

It wasn’t too long before we were gingerly making our way along iced-over pavements towards the nearby market, with me holding her dainty little hand in the air and providing her with support if she needed it, us laughing as we walked. We stopped in at a family-run diner that served us a perfect English breakfast with strong coffee. Krazy Girl started telling me about the history of the area and all about her favourite shops, pubs and restaurants; how the options there changed with the seasons and how where we were was her favourite place in the whole wide world to have breakfast.

As she excitedly chattered away, her eyes alight with enthusiasm, I could feel myself falling in love with her. Her sweet, delightful nature was on full show and I found it irresistible. The words she effortlessly chose seduced me. I could feel a warm, fuzzy feeling growing in the centre of me, slowly taking hold of my heart and gently squeezing – and I liked it. I was, however, mindful of her revelations of the previous night and, just before sleep finally claimed me, I had resolved to take it slow with her, to prove to her that she could trust me and that I wouldn’t hurt her.

My heart got the better of my brain and after about a minute I couldn’t hear her words, I was drowning in the moment, mesmerised by the loveliness that was her. My eyes would move from her moist pink lips, to her chin, which I could feel my fingertips brush, to the side of her bare neck that I wanted to kiss, inhaling her scent as I did so. I could almost feel her earlobes between my teeth, hear the sound as she caught her breath.

“So what do you think of that idea?” she asked.

“Umm…sorry, what?”

“Ugh! You men. You never listen!”

She was right, sometimes we men don’t listen. It’s not that we are bored with what a woman is saying and start thinking about football or movies, or beer or porn…sometimes we’re drifting off appreciating you. We’re taking in every little idiosyncratic detail of you, committing it to memory, so that when we’re away from you we can smile inside as we remember you, especially when we’re falling in love with you.

“I was saying that the movie-house across the road is showing Argo tonight. Shall we go?”

“Of course. Sounds good. Let’s do that,” I said, snapping out of my stupor.

Outside in the freezing cold at the market I bought us horrendously over-priced French cheeses and sausages; Krazy Girl promised to make a great meal with them. Icy sleet started coming down and we headed back to her place for warmth; bad smells be damned. I was grateful to have this opportunity to reconnect with her and her having her period wasn’t a bad thing either because we could refrain from sex and just take the time to get to know each other better. I didn’t want sex, albeit fantastic, to be the foundation of our relationship.

We ended up spending most of the day in bed, not indulging in kinky-fuckery, but watching Californication on her laptop, a show which Krazy Girl absolutely loved. It’s my all-time favourite show and her taking to it like she did, I took as a massively positive sign. Television is the biggest relationship aid in existence and if we were to get to that point in our lives where we had run out of things to say to each other, at least we could enjoy the same shows together.

Darkness overwhelmed the snow flurries and we got hungry, so Krazy Girl decided to get to work in the kitchen, intent on impressing me with her culinary skills. Given the state of the environment that my meal was being prepared in, I knew I’d be eating with long teeth.

“There’s a lamp behind the sofa that needs a fitting for a bulb. My husband could never figure out how to do it. Would you like to give it a go while I make us dinner?” she challenged.

I had no choice but to accept her first test of my manly domestic skills. Luckily I’m quite good with my hands (not just in the bedroom) and it didn’t take me long to figure it out and do what was needed. Her face lit up with an innocent delight as I switched it on for her. It was going to make a big difference to her lounge and her lifestyle because now she had a proper reading lamp. Her gratitude was sincere.

Krazy Girl’s cooking skills did not disappoint, but instead impressed me. With very little ingredients she had created a tangy cheese sauce that covered the grilled sausages and mixed vegetables that she had julienned and made interesting shapes out of. I admired her resourcefulness and creativity, being able to produce a restaurant-quality meal with very little other than what was in her mind was impressive. She wasn’t just a pretty face and a fantastic lay.

So there we were, playing housey-housey, and you know what…it felt good. It felt normal and natural. I had old-fashioned values instilled in me, so that afternoon was in keeping with what I call The Natural Order. (I’ll tell you more about that another time.) It was what I wanted not just because it was what I was comfortable with, but also because it was what I understood…and it seemed to work for both of us.

I knew that I wanted a long-term relationship with Krazy Girl. So much so that the thought had crossed my mind as I did the wiring for the lamp that perhaps one day I would buy a new home with her and she could have the veto based on whether or not she loved the kitchen. The bath would have to be big enough for both of us. Neighbours had to be far away so that on Sunday nights we could make love in any room with the curtains open, with just the moon for light.

My day-dreaming was disturbed by the arrival of Krazy Girl’s flatmate and her scruffy companion, both of whom just glared at me as I smiled at them. There was no introduction and the interlopers hardly broke step and said only a few things to Krazy Girl as they made for the second bedroom. They must have been hoping to have the place to themselves…ah, hence our going to the movies. How did women arrange their chicanery before the advent of mobile phones?

During the movie, “Argo”, which centred on the Iran hostage crisis that occurred from 1979 to 1981, Krazy Girl kept asking me questions about what was going on. I find it annoying when other people talk during a movie so I totally understood when other people kept shushing her. She irritated me a bit. I remember the movie’s storyline as it was played out for real on television and radio when I was a kid. My father used to make me sit with him every night and listen to the world news. Krazy Girl hadn’t even been born when the hostage crisis was over. That was the first time I felt the age-gap between us.

It was almost midnight when we got back to her smelly home, but the flatmate and her stud were still awake and in bed. Her stifled giggles and other sounds told us so; that headboard needing tightening. Krazy Girl and I decided to turn in for the night.

I was very pleased with how the day had gone. To me it felt like we had bonded as a couple, learnt more about each other, laughed and played nicely all day; there was no drama. It felt good and I was starting to sense the makings of a relationship.

I was laying on my back with Krazy Girl against me, her delicate hand on my chest after we had said goodnight. We were both in our underwear again, using the cold as an excuse, but the truth is that I wasn’t comfortable airing my bollicles in such a grimy environment. The bed-bugs would probably spit-roast them and dance in a circle around them, singing the Bed-bug Bollicle Barbecue song.

Krazy Girl slowly pushed the covers off me, slid herself down to my waist, pulled my jocks halfway down my thighs and started gently, lovingly sucking my cock. If this was her idea of how every night should end, then I could get used to it.

There was no way in the world that I could have predicted what was waiting for me the next morning…

Post-coital insanity?! – Final part

“I’m scared,” is all Krazy Girl said.

“Scared of what?” I asked, as softly as I knew how.

“I’m scared of making another mistake. Scared of getting hurt again. Scared of you,” she said, plaintively.

“We’re all scared of getting hurt and making a mistake, but why are you scared of me?” I had to know.

“Because you seem so perfect and the last time I felt that way it ended in disaster.”

“Whoever that guy is you’re referring to, well, I’m not him.”

“I know, but I’m still scared.”

“Tell me about him. I assume it’s your ex-husband?”

“Yes, it was my husband. He’s tall, dark and handsome, just like you. It was a whirlwind, fairytale romance. He totally swept me off my feet and I thought that he was ‘The One’.”

I said nothing, having latched onto the fact that she was talking about him in the present tense. I realized then that she wasn’t over her ex-husband. Krazy Girl continued with her story.

“After a year of going out he proposed and a few months later we were married. Did you notice the church next to the pub where we first met? That’s where we got married. The pub was where we had our wedding reception.”

I was starting to cringe inside because unwittingly I had been walking in someone else’s footsteps, someone who had hurt her, someone bad. It must have been so bizarre for her to see me in that setting doused in memories and emotions for her. I said nothing, choosing to let her do the talking, having decided to only speak when I felt the need for some clarification.

“Our first year together was wonderful. We lived here in this flat, saving our money and deciding where we wanted to buy a house. We had set our hearts on the town where you live. But after that first year is when things started to go wrong. He is a senior executive in a world-famous company, earns lots of money, but he gets loads of freebies and away days from clients. He would go away for a day or two in the beginning, but by our second year he would disappear for a week at a time and I would never hear from him. If I phoned all I got was his voicemail and his secretary was brilliant at covering for him.”

“Oh dear” is all I could say, taking in the severity of what that must have felt like for her, but appreciating our moment of honesty. The significance of her having once longed to live in my town was not lost on me. Had she contacted me because I reminded her of her ex-husband and because of where I lived? Deep down did it seem to her like I was an opportunity to resurrect a shattered dream? There was more.

“Toward the end he had disappeared for a week and I finally found him in a hotel room in London, passed out in a bed with his best friend and two women. They were all naked. There was used condoms, cocaine and empty champagne bottles everywhere.”

“What did you do?”

“I just took photographs and walked out. I didn’t wake him. I went to my parents who convinced me to get a divorce. My father found a lawyer. A few weeks later I attempted suicide, but I failed at that too,” she said in an emotionless tone, her mind obviously convulsing in those memories.

Suddenly the bed felt very small to me. I thought about what was the best thing to say and came up with, “I’m sorry to hear that all that happened to you. If I ever see him, I’ll beat him up for you.” Lame, huh?

I was in a mild state of shock. The little I knew of her, of her gentle, innocent nature, I surmised that it must have been a massively disappointing trauma for her. Her trying to commit suicide didn’t sit well with me.

After taking a deep breath I said to her, “I can promise you here and now that I’ll never deliberately hurt you physically or emotionally.”

She liked the sound of that, making an approving sound while burying her face into my chest and a hand pulling tight against my ribcage. I looked to my left and made eye contact with the cat perched in the drawer, staring at us. What was she making of all this, I wondered.

Suddenly Krazy Girl pulled the duvet off us and started tugging at my underwear, expertly pulling them off. I didn’t say a word, a little surprised by this given the nature of the conversation we’d just had. I certainly wasn’t feeling frisky.

She quickly parted my legs, kneeled between them, leaned forward, putting a hand on the bed next to my hip and started kissing around my groin area. All I could think of in that moment was that I hadn’t showered since the previous night, but I was learning that she wasn’t afraid of dirty things. Did they hold some kind of compelling magnetism that she was drawn to?

Krazy Girl closed her eyes and started slowly, gently licking my flaccid cock and balls. The tenderness of her licks was such that it seemed loving. The tip of her little tongue would give a slow lick along the shaft of my growing cock, repeatedly, as if doing so was forcing it to grow. It was done in such a manner that it made me think of her cat licking an ice-cream on a hot Summer’s day. (In case you’re wondering, I keep myself clean-shaven down there. I feel more and know that it looks, smells and tastes better for a woman. Men: take note.)

It didn’t take long before my cock was rock hard, but my inner dialogue was still focussed on the revelations about her marriage. I wasn’t expecting any kind of sexual action that night. In fact I was prepared for an argument, drama, histrionics and my leaving sometime before midnight, probably never to see her again.

It was only when she took the head of my cock in her mouth, held it in place and then ran the tip of her tongue around the head while keeping her eyes closed that I focussed completely on what she was doing to me, for me.

Krazy Girl started moving her head up and down on my cock, slowly and deliberately, taking in more of the shaft with every movement, then moved her head from side to side to vary the sensation before increasing the speed at which she did this. All the time she kept her eyes closed and had a hint of a smile on her face; she looked incredibly sexy.

After a few minutes of this my butt-cheeks stiffened and my balls ached a little as the sperm sped out of my cock into her mouth. The previous weekend didn’t include oral orgasm for me, so was she now going to spit, hold or swallow my load of man juice?

The last drop went into her mouth, she pulled her head back, keeping her mouth closed as my cock slipped out of it. Krazy Girl opened her eyes and they were smiling at me. She made a show of swallowing what was in her mouth, raising her chin so that I could see her tiny Adam’s apple move as she swallowed. Then she dropped her head and opened her mouth to show me that it was all gone.

“Sorry, but that’s all you’re getting tonight. My period started today,” she said, speaking for the first time in what seemed liked hours.

“That’s not what I came her for,” I said, honestly.

Krazy Girl switched off the lamp on her side of the bed, snuggled up next to me for warmth or intimacy – I wasn’t sure which – and started to fall asleep. Through a gap in the threadbare curtains I could see flakes of snow drifting down on the world. Once again the weather was keeping in step with my romantic fortunes.

It was now well after midnight and I lay there for I don’t know how long, thinking about everything she had told me.

I had certainly got more than I had expected…

Post-coital insanity?!

Krazy Girl had told me of her plan for that Monday. She had to drive back to the countryside town where she had left her cat to get pregnant, then drive to her home in central London to drop off the cat and luggage before u-turning to her parent’s home near London to return her father’s car. Over the course of the weekend she had been sending false text messages to her parents about her whereabouts and plans. I wasn’t too impressed by the level of deceit that she was engaging in to keep her parents ignorant of her shenanigans, but seeing as I was the beneficiary, I really couldn’t say anything.

I knew that she was busy, so I only sent her one text message for that Monday, which ended in asking her to call me that night. I got no response. The next day I sent her another text message during the day, but again no response. That night I phoned her, but only got her voicemail. I left a message, but again got no response.

I was getting concerned that she might have had an accident, then remembered that Whatsapp shows when a person last logged on, so I checked that and it told me that she had been on it an hour previously. I felt relieved to know that she was okay, but then became perplexed and a little angry that she hadn’t answered me. I couldn’t understand why she was ignoring me. I was confused as all hell.

The Wednesday was a repeat of the previous day and I really didn’t like it. What was going on?! That night I noticed that one of my forks was missing from my cutlery set. (For months afterwards I was finding that several music cd’s were missing from their covers, as well as a few dvd discs.)

By the Thursday I was totally befuddled by her behaviour. We had had such a good time and got along really well, hardly a hint of any kind of mismatch or showstoppers between us. Had I said or done something wrong? Was it the thumb up the arse that she really didn’t like? I spoke to a couple of older women in my office about this situation (not mentioning our sexual antics, of course) because I was desperate to have some kind of inkling about what was going on. I wanted an insight into the female psyche that I was obviously lacking.

“Oh, it’s quite simple,” they both said, “she’s crazy.”

Maybe they were right and Krazy Girl was exactly that: crazy. However, I refused to accept that that was the case and still wanted to see her because I felt that we had a future together. I could see us living together and quite happily too. I could see us always holding hands as we walked through lush, green meadows bathed by the setting sun. On cold Winter nights I’d keep her warm and laugh at her cold feet against my shins. She loved to cook and I love to eat, obviously a match made in gastronomic heaven. I felt like she fitted me like my favourite glove, not just physically but emotionally too. Yes, there was ten year age-gap between us, but so what; it wasn’t an issue unless one of us made it so.

Whatsapp told me that Krazy Girl was active on it across the course of the day. I didn’t contact her at all on the Thursday, preferring to try and play it cool, despite being in turmoil inside. By the Friday night I couldn’t take it any more, so I phoned her and to my surprise she actually bothered to answer this time.

“Hi. How are you?” I began.

“I’m fine thanks. How about you?”

“Quite honestly, I’m a little confused by why I haven’t heard from you this week.” I went straight to the heart of the matter; why waste time?

“Oh, I’ve just been busy, that’s all,” Krazy Girl said nonchalantly.

Busy?! Busy on Whatsapp, that’s for sure, I bellowed inside me but left it there. I knew from her neutral words and tone that she was being defensive, but her answering my call told me that it wasn’t over. I decided to proceed with caution, like a hunter stalking a very alert and fast-moving prey.

Round and round we went, making endless small talk, like two heavyweight boxers in a ring during a title fight, being careful not to take a heavy blow and being alert to any opportunity to land the knockout blow. My winning blow would be getting to be with her, be by her side so that I could look her in the eye when we spoke. I was convinced that achieving that would make it all better for both of us, whatever “it” was.

Eventually something inside her gave way and Krazy Girl said, “I so badly want you lying next me right now.”

My opportunity had arrived and I went for it with, “That’s easily arranged. All I need is a postcode and I’ll be there in an hour.”

Krazy Girl thought about it for a second and then uttered the sounds that was her postcode. Nobody packs a bag quicker than a man expecting a surprise dirty weekend. I thought I had lost her and that feeling hurt seeing as I was coming off the tremendous high of the Monday morning.

It was March and the last Winter storm was raging in fury overhead, unleashing icy sheets of angry rain across the roads as I broke the speed limit all the way to Krazy Girl’s place. My satnav said it would take 90 minutes plus the very bad weather, so normally it would have taken two hours – I did it in one hour.

I parked outside what looked like a very forbidding, monstrous apartment block in central London. I texted Krazy Girl that I had arrived and she came to get me. Her arms were folded against the cold and violent rain, so I just gave her polite kiss on the cheek to say hello. What I really wanted to do was wrap my arms around her, pick her up and squeeze her, but that just had to wait until after I had solved the mystery of her behaviour.

It was now 10pm on a stormy Friday night as Krazy Girl led me to her home. I was disgusted at the state of the communal area once we were inside the block. The most obvious thing was the heavy stench of marijuana that filled the air, seemingly emanating from every second door in the corridors as we climbed two flights of stairs. The walls were filthy with all sorts of marks on them, including one that I was convinced was of someone having smeared shit on it. The sticky floors had not been washed in a long time.

Krazy Girl’s apartment wasn’t much better. The first thing that hit me was the smell of the cat’s litter that was stronger than the smell of the dope outside. Her furnishings were basic and old, everything seemed tatty and well past its prime. I was shocked.

“My flatmate’s not in tonight, so we have the place to ourselves,” she said.

Flatmate?! It just gets better. You, me and the cat, huh? Never mind, that’s not what’s important right now, I thought to myself. I just had to get to the bottom of what the hell has been going on in her head.

“Can we just cuddle in my bed? It’s warmer there,” Krazy Girl asked. Of course I agreed, wanting to feel her touch as much as get away from the smell of the cat litter in the kitchen where one of the doors was nearly falling off of its hinge.

Her bedroom was occupied by a double-bed close to the door and the rest of the room was a mound of cardboard boxes, some of them open, displaying their contents which were mostly books. Cables dangled across the boxes to a laptop that rested on a box. Next to the bed, along the wall, was an old pine chest of drawers with the top drawer halfway out. In it was her prize cat, perched on underwear, glaring at the intruder that was me. A dusty lamp by the bedside provided meagre light. I was not impressed by her living arrangements; ‘shocked’ is the best word that comes to mind.

It was surreal to me as we got undressed, both of us keeping our underwear on, like we were a long-married old couple and then got into bed. I wrapped myself around her cold body and she made approving sounds as she nestled her head under my chin. In that moment the world felt like it had re-assembled itself for me and had returned to its state that I knew on the Monday morning which now felt like an eternity ago.

After making small talk that inevitably involved her asking my opinion of her home which tested my tact, I decided it was time to get to the crux of the matter.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls this week? What’s going on?” I asked.

Krazy Girl sighed, anxiously sank some fingernails into my chest and she started thinking.

To be continued…

The Big Weekend in London

I remembered that Sweet Thing liked the “Strictly Come Dancing” television show (hell, I had to sit and watch it with her enough times) when an email came around at work for tickets to the live show at the old Millennium Dome in London. I didn’t think twice and bought the tickets which came to almost £150 for the VIP package for the upcoming Sunday. I bought tickets to a travel show that was being held at Earl’s Court on the coming Saturday. I also bought a Groupon for a dinner and cabaret show in Knightbridge for that Saturday night. I booked us into a 4-star hotel halfway between the two venues for Saturday.

I was going to show her what my idea of fun was. I also wanted her to know that I am very comfortable with taking the lead. I didn’t want to impress her, just show her what I was capable of; the standard to which I can operate; that I am nobody’s dog-sitter.

During one of our evening phonecalls I let her know that I wasn’t exactly ecstatic about our lovemaking. I told her that a variety of positions is not a bad thing and that I would greatly appreciate more creativity to our intimacy. I did this as diplomatically as possible and, to my relief, she took it in good grace.

You may be wondering how I felt about Sweet Thing. Well, it’s complicated. I liked being with her as she was always good-natured, had a cheeky sense of humour and had a sweetness about her that charmed me. I could trust her. Trust is a very important thing for me, all brought about my experience with my ex-girlfriend – that’s a blog entry for another time.

However, on the minus side of the equation, when Sweet Thing smiled my heart sank. How do you say to someone “Don’t you think you should get your teeth fixed?” She would periodically talk about her ex-boyfriend and in anguished, angry tones. It didn’t help that he would leave her home shortly before my arrival on a Friday night. One of her favourite topics of conversation was her parent’s unhappy marriage and it quickly became tedious. I have to mention the boring McDonalds sex.

Overall, the picture was mixed and so were my feelings. Giving “us” time was not yielding quick benefits. I was struggling to decide how much time to give this relationship to blossom into what I was expecting.

As usual I arrived at Sweet Thing’s house on the Friday night, which ended in…McDonalds sex. The next morning we took doggy to the kennel for his overnight stay. As a handler led him away, he turned and looked at me. I could just see him thinking as his eyebrows duelled, “Well this sucks. I get to spend the night in this cold, concrete prison with noisy neighbours and you get to do whatever, wherever with her. There’s no justice in the world.”

We got in my red sports car and sped off to London. After checking in at the hotel we walked to the Earl’s Court exhibition centre where we spent the afternoon inspecting exhibits, attending talks and walking around the colourful stands of the tourist boards and tour operators from around the world. Sweet Thing was very taken by the whole experience. Score one point.

She was particularly interested in a camper-van that we inspected. As we got out of it she said, “Do you think we could drive in one of those down Route 66?” I said nothing and just smiled. In my heart I knew that a lot had to happen between us before that dream of hers became a reality.

Back at the hotel room Sweet Thing surprised me. She started kissing me passionately and then said, “You want something different? How about this?”

She strode over to the bed, turned her back to me, started unbuckling her jeans, looked over her shoulder at me with a naughty look in her eyes and climbed onto the bed with her knees. She pushed her jeans and panties down and fell forward, her hands submissively positioned next to her head, her platinum blonde hair covering her face.

After taking a second to get past my sense of surprise, I stepped forward, positioned myself behind her bony little backside and unzipped my jeans. I pulled my cock out and started tugging at it with one hand. My other hand I raised to my mouth and sucked on my index finger.

My lubricated finger slid easily into her pussy. She was wet already; she must have been thinking about this for some time. I knew how much she hated doggy-style because it was uncomfortable for her, so her doing this was the ultimate act of giving herself to me physically. I won’t lie to you; this pleased me and turned me on.

(I think that an inherent part of the sex act is a transference of power, usually to the man. It takes a couple in a mature relationship for the man to cede total power to the woman. Most men and women are uncomfortable for this to happen though, but for different reasons. I’ve always thought that it requires a sexually adventurous woman to always want total sexual power over a man – or just a plain man-hater.)

I slid my cock into her wet pussy and it felt tight. I heard her give off a stifled grunt but ignored it in the belief that after a few thrusts she’d loosen up. I felt my cock growing as I took in the scene before me. We’d never done it partially dressed before and never in the daytime either. Nor had we done doggy-style since our first night together. Was this a portent of better things to come? Was McDonalds sex history?

The novelty of this act got the better of me and it didn’t take me long to cum. With my full force I came inside her, my hands gripping her hips, amidst sounds of discomfort coming from her, but that couldn’t be helped.

We collapsed in a heap on the bed next to each other. Lying facing each other, with me panting, she wiped her hair away from her face to reveal a toothy grin. My cock shrivelled a little bit faster then.

“Give me a minute, then I’ll see to you,” I said.

“I’m fine, thanks. That was for you,” she said as she got up and went to the bathroom. “Besides, we’ve got to get ready for our next appointment. We’re running late as it is.”

She was right, time was against us, but dammit, the afterglow was too short. We didn’t cuddle. I wanted to give her pleasure too. Before I could say a word I heard the shower starting up.

The dinner and cabaret show in Knightsbridge was excellent. The cabaret was actually a series of burlesque performers and soft-core strippers. I wasn’t expecting that, but Sweet Thing didn’t believe me. Nevertheless she seemed to enjoy the night out. Back at the hotel we were both too tired for more whoopee.

On the Sunday morning I got to make a dream come true. We got in my red sports car and drove across Tower Bridge. Since I was sixteen years old I had dreamed of driving across that famous bridge with an attractive blonde by my side. Halfway across the bridge, cognizant of the moment, I looked at her, to savour making a dream come true…and she smiled. A big, misaligned-teeth smile. Damn, so close!

Red sports car Tower Bridge


Parking at the old Millennium Dome cost £20 for four hours; this was an expensive weekend. The private box had a great view over the arena; I’m pretty sure that her previous boyfriend had never done anything like this for her. The Strictly Come Dancing show itself was mildly entertaining for me, but I could see that Sweet Thing was absolutely mesmerised by seeing the television personas in real life. I found my eyes always moving towards Denise Van Outen; if only I had someone as attractive as her by my side.

(Denise Van Outen; my kinda girl www.sofeminine.co.uk/celebrities/album877866/strictly-come-dancing-2012-the-celebrity-line-up-21920566.html )

It was over a two hour drive to get back to her place that Sunday night…which ended in…McDonalds sex!


Running wild with Sweet Thing in London

On the Saturday morning, while she was making pancakes for breakfast, I told Sweet Thing of my surprise; I had booked us into a fancy hotel in London near Tower Bridge for that night. Her initial reaction was one of delight, but it was instantly followed up by a look of shock.

“Oh no! I need to do something about doggy. He can’t come with us and he can’t stay here alone,” she said.

In that instant the dog became a human child in my mind. He needed almost the same amount of consideration and routine; walkies, foodies, shitties. All that was missing was the acidic verbal that some children are capable of. We both looked at him as he sat on his haunches, ears alert, panting at the smell of breakfast, seemingly knowing that we were talking about him because his eyes darted between ours.

“I haven’t booked him into the kennel. What am I going to do? We can’t just leave him here,” she said with a hint of panic in her voice.

“I’m sorry, but I only understand now how much notice you need because of doggy. Can’t a friend or neighbour come by to check on him and feed him while we’re away for the night?” I half asked, half suggested while trying to sound apologetic. Was this dog going to become a problem in our relationship?

“Good idea. I’ll see if the neighbour across the way can oblige,” Sweet Thing said as she quickly got dressed for the snowy conditions and disappeared out the front door.

I looked at the dog and he glared at me, as if to say, “How dare you take her away from me! She’s mine, all mine!”

Sweet Thing came back just as the man versus canine staring contest was becoming stale.

“Yes, the neighbour will come see to him. Shall we get our stuff and go?” she said excitedly.

With our dirty weekend kit collected, we agreed to go to London in her SUV because there was at least a foot of snow and my little car wouldn’t even get out the driveway. I turned to grab my boots from the top of the dog’s cage when I noticed something; the laces were shorter.

Sweet Thing had asked me to put my wet boots on top of his cage and I made a point of making sure that the laces didn’t dangle into his cage. Somehow he had contrived to get at the laces and had eaten half of them. Her and I laughed about it, but when I looked at him as he sat nonchalantly watching us, I swear that his eyes smiled at me.

Seeing the English countryside covered in a foot of what looked like icing sugar was magical. What was equally remarkable to me was the fact that I was being driven around by a woman in a large 4×4; that had never happened to me before. It felt novel and strange. I’m old-fashioned when it comes to gender roles; I blame it on my mother. She raised me to be a 1950s gentleman and I don’t know any other way. In the almost fifteen years with my ex-wife, I can count on one hand the number of times that she drove me anywhere. I’m not a misogynist, on the contrary, I just think that the man should almost always drive simply because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do.

In all the years that I had lived in London I had never seen so much snow on its streets. I really wish I could have checked the weather forecast for the weekend, but I booked the hotel on the Monday night. My imaginary plans for the weekend included catching the new cableway over the Thames, dinner near Trafalgar Square, walking along the Southbank, having breakfast at St Katharine’s Docks and maybe catching a West End show. None of that could happen in these snowy conditions. Little did I know that Fate had other ideas too.

After we had checked in to the swanky hotel, which impressed Sweet Thing, we had no choice but to go for a walk. There was no point in lying around in the hotel room. We made our way down to St Katharine’s Docks and I introduced Sweet Thing to the Dickens Inn, making no mention of having taken other dates there too. We shared a pizza and a bottle of wine which would have been so much better to enjoy on a warm Summer’s day.

It was sleeting on and off, but we braved the elements and went for a walk along the Southbank. When we needed to we took shelter in crowded coffee shops and sipped over-priced, low-quality coffee with the bemused tourists. Their tourist brochures didn’t show pictures of London under snow.

Sweet Thing and I had no problems in making conversation. We got along very well and had a similar outlook on most things. If I were to write out a list of similarities and differences between us, the former would dwarf the latter. On paper we were an excellent match and I enjoyed her company. Just one problem; I didn’t fancy her. Every time she smiled my heart sank; her bad teeth killed any attraction. I know it’s easily dismissed as me being shallow, but it matters to me that I like the look of the person that I’m with.

This discrepancy was bothering me. During the week I spoke to a colleague about it. He was a ladies man and had far more experience than me in such matters. I showed him a picture of her and his response was, “Hmm, she’s a five, you’re an eight. It’ll never work.” I asked him to elaborate and he said, “She’ll always feel threatened by better looking women. You’ll eventually wonder why you settled for someone you didn’t fancy.” I wasn’t sure what to make of his insights, but my asking someone about this showed just how much I was bothered by this issue.

Because Sweet Thing was on the skinny side she felt the cold more than me. I’m very warm blooded and am something of a human radiator. I kept checking with her that she was okay as we walked along the Southbank when eventually she confessed to having had enough. We went back to the hotel where its indoor heated swimming pool thawed her out. She made for quite an attractive sight in her skimpy little bikini, but when she smiled…

Back in our hotel room we lazed on the bed, a little footsore but content. Match of the Day came on and it was a pleasant surprise when Sweet Thing told me that she was also a Liverpool fan. What’s the chances of that? Our similarities just kept on coming.

It was an unspoken given fact that we were going to make love that night. There is something about sex in a hotel room that adds a frisson of naughtiness to proceedings. Would the unfamiliar environment cause her to cut loose a little and try new positions at least?


Sweet Thing liked only a few things and in a particular sequence too. Every time I tried to switch things up or try something new, I met with resistance. She liked me sucking her clit and rubbing her g-spot until she came. Then after an interval she would only suck my cock until it was hard and then she would ride me cowgirl, rubbing her clit along my shaft until she came again. Only then was she comfortable with me putting my cock in her pussy. She only wanted me to fuck her missionary style, but liked it when I came inside her.

I was starting to think of this as McDonalds sex. You know what you’re going to get and it’s the same every time; never better or worse than the previous time.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been keen on signing up for a lifetime of mediocre sex.


Date #10 – Quiet Katie killed me softly

I stood outside Tower Hill Tube station at noon on a Sunday going over in my mind the plan for the day when I sensed someone looking at me. I turned to see approaching me a tall, atrractive woman with auburn hair who was smiling at me; it was my date, the fourth in four days. She had bright, sparkly blue eyes and round, rosy cheeks. I kissed her hello on one of those cheeks. Let’s call her Katie.

As we neared the edge of the steep flight of stairs that lead down to the Tower of London, I said to Katie, “Do you like chicken?” and before she got a chance to answer or say anything, I continued with “Take a wing,” and offered her my bent arm which she accepted with a laugh.

Once at the bottom of the flight of stairs I moved my arm and she uncoupled hers. Yes, it might start with a cheesy line, but damn, does coupling arms break the ice! A lady can’t help but become more comfortable with me. I think the act also taps in to a deep-seated need in a woman’s psyche to know that her man is physically strong and can protect her. It also displays a dash of gentlemanliness and consideration. I might be wrong and deluded, but as delusions go, I like this one.

We walked around what would have been the moat to the Tower of London towards St Katharine’s Docks, past the restaurants and pubs that line the marina and towards the Dickens Inn. Once there we shared conversation over a pizza and some wine. Katie was a rare creature: a Londoner born and bred. I couldn’t help but ask how she perceived all the changes that had happened in the city. She didn’t seem to have an opinion.

I found myself broaching topic after topic and almost every time Katie’s response was a variation on “I don’t know”, “I’ve never thought about that” or “Let me think about it”.

That in a nutshell was the problem. She didn’t seem to have any ideas or opinions on anything. There was a vast intellectual gap between us so large that you could drive a London bus through it. For a while the state of the lighting overhead assumed a curious fascination and importance to me.

Snapping back into it, I was ever the gentleman and gave this date time to flourish. Perhaps she was slow to warm to people. Katie certainly seemed quite willing and able to smile a lot, but struggled to say a lot. I wanted to be with someone that I could share lively, funny banter with.

In my mind I decided to call her Quiet Katie.

I’m not a bad conversationalist and can talk to anybody about any topic. I’m quite well-travelled, having been to more than thirty countries on long vacations. I’ve even lived in three countries and hold two passports which I use regularly. I have a natural curiosity about our planet, its peoples, histories, cultures and cuisines. I like to think that I know how to keep a conversation going. I can find humour in pretty much any situation and I’m not backward in coming forward. In many ways Quiet Katie was the opposite of me.

Several months earlier I had bought a Groupon deal for a river cruise and high tea on the Thames. It was a surprise that I had been saving for Baltic Babe and had to be used by a certain date, so Quiet Katie was the unintended beneficiary. We walked down to the nearby Tower Pier and queued, waiting for the river cruiser. I don’t think she once started an avenue of conversation or asked a single question. Did she keep quiet because she didn’t want to interrupt me? To be fair, she did enthusiastically join in on any topic of conversation but it would peter out as she ran out of material to contribute.

Mercifully the river cruise came with a deafening audio commentary that pointed out all the sights as we travelled up the Thames to the Houses of Parliament and then down to the Millennium Dome and back. The booming cockney voice provided an excuse to not make conversation and be distracted by what we saw on the riverbank. The tea, coffee and sandwiches arrived and we ate in silence, politely smiling at each other when making eye contact.

Quiet Katie was a sweet, decent person who, much like me, was just looking for someone to love her. However, we were not a match. I was starting to think that if I gave her another brain-cell that the two would fight and that the battle would echo in her head.


Back on dry land I decided to cut my losses and end the date. She seemed ambivalent to this, but it had been several hours and it was getting dark. I walked her to the Tube station and bade her farewell. There was zero sign of emotion in her, nary a hint of relief neither.

The next night there was an email from Quiet Katie waiting in my inbox. All it said was, “Hi. How was your day?”

Oh lordy.

I hate the saying “no thanks and goodbye” part of dating. It’s just not in me to hurt someone else’s feelings. Well, a woman’s that is. I have no problem hurting men’s feelings; I actually like it. As an alpha-male, I always get away with it. I can bulldoze my way over men no problem, but I have utmost respect for women and treat them with kid gloves. Finding the right words to let a woman down is so difficult for me.

Revisiting the STD clinic would be more fun than another date with Quiet Katie. I decided to answer her email with a polite “no thank you”, but opted to also be honest with her because it was what she deserved. Doing so over the phone seemed like unnecessarily hard work, so I wrote to her saying that I found making conversation with her very difficult at times and therefore we didn’t have the kind of chemistry that I expect.

I have never heard from her again.

LESSON LEARNED: No matter how attractive, a lack of chemistry kills that initial attraction.