Tag Archives: love


A two year-old girl hobbles earnestly across a stony courtyard. The scratching at her feet she ignores, such is her intent. Her faithful plush penguin she drags along the ground, his face besmirched. Arriving at an open doorway she sees a man huddled over a keyboard, his fingers pressing angrily on the plastic before him. He doesn’t notice her.

“Daddy! Mummy is owie!” she exclaims.

The man snaps out of his state and rejoins the world. He stands up as the toddler deftly steps aside from the door and she leads him. A few strides later and the frowning man is in his troubled home. The love of his life is slumped at the bottom of the stairs; she’s clutching her ankle.

That is how The Artist and I resumed communication.

A few months on from that incident and a bonfire of our collective histories is ablaze in our back yard. We’ve decided to gamble our futures on a move to her native alpine homeland. It is not without its risks and drawbacks, but we believe it to be the best of our options. I consider it an eminently better environment to raise our daughter. During this time of Brexit neither of us has had any luck on the job front. I can’t see either of us foreigners being first choice for anybody in the job market in the current climate of fear and hate. When people see our surnames or hear our accents mental doors close to us; that’s how it seems. In the twenty-two years I’ve lived on this island every day people have asked me where I am from. Several times a year I’ve been told to “F*ck off back to where I come from”. This happened again a few weeks ago and was the final straw for me. Since the Brexit vote xenophobia has become socially acceptable. I don’t want to raise my daughter in such a bigoted environment.

In two weeks’ time we cram what we can into our little car and set off on a short, one-way road-trip across Europe. Our unsold, needed possessions are going into long-term storage until we have a new home. In the meantime we’re toughing it out in a thirty square metre apartment that The Artist inherited. It has no central heating, but we hope to move on before Winter. It’s in a country town where the mayor gets drunk at the harvest festival and nobody cares. The greatest danger is from fruit falling from the trees that line the few streets as Winter approaches.

Our focus will be on getting jobs and legalizing my status in our new country. If we find a bargain property we’ll buy it, but we’re not counting on that. Her heart isn’t into this move, but her head is. Our collective motivation is not as good as it needs to be to see us through the inevitable tough times that come with emigration.

This is just a continuation of what has been an unending period of constant change in my life. Things just don’t show signs of slowing down, never mind settling down. I feel totally worn out by it all. Getting through each day feels like an achievement.

It’s usually when I have my child on my lap and I’m feeding her that my thoughts wander over to what is right for her. The crap that has filled my head all my life has culminated in a fruitless dead-end. I’m concerned about what I’m going to fill her head with. I just don’t know what is right any more. I’m tasked with building this beautiful little person up while at the same time I’m in a state of deconstruction. I feel like such a hypocrite for telling her things that I don’t believe in any more. For example, I don’t believe that always doing the right thing, the good thing, will be rewarded. Karma is a deceitful bitch. I don’t believe that sharing is caring. I don’t believe that bad people will eventually be punished. Where is the evidence that supports those notions?

Through now being a father and seeing the goodness inherent in my delightful child, I see how far I have fallen. This incessantly happy, laughing little girl shows me daily just how much of a miserable old bastard I have become.

How did this sorry state of affairs come into being?

I flip through my memory bank yearning to make sense of all that has happened to me. My days of dating and dumping loom large in my psyche. It has been pivotal in me arriving at where I am. It is also a microcosm of what has ailed me all my life. I look back on it all now with very mixed feelings.

I started out dating because I wanted to feel loved. I wanted to be in love. I wanted that giddy feeling when I thought of The One. I liked my heart skipping a beat when a new message arrived. The whole mechanism of online dating slowly sucked me into a world of easy sex and careless, disrespectful treatment of and by others. The pursuit of perfection was enabled by merely clicking away or swiping on a device. We’ve all become disposable commodities. How banal.

Yet I went along with it all. I was complicit and I’m ashamed of this. My morals eroded and my perception of women worsened. I don’t think I’m a better person for it all, just a different one. “You can stay as you are or you could go online dating” might work as edgy slogan for a dating site, especially a naughty one.

Through my online escapades I came to learn of my Avoidant Personality Disorder. Working on it is proving a lengthy process. I consider its discovery as one of the greatest benefits of my dating days. It takes time to change lifelong malformed ideas. We all act out our beliefs, often disappointed that the world didn’t play along. “What’s wrong with the world?” we lament. We are our world. Instead we should be asking, “What’s wrong with us?”.

Delving deeper within myself I now know that this unsatisfying chain of events kicked off long ago when I wore a younger man’s clothes. I told myself that the woman before me was the best I could hope for, so we married. I compromised. When we inevitably divorced I was stunned to my core. In a rookie mistake I sought to fill the agonizing void in my existence and went online dating while divorce papers were still pending. Yes, I was on the rebound. I didn’t take time out to get my shit together. I met my now ex-girlfriend and she was the polar opposite of my ex-wife. It was an exciting time…initially. It wasn’t long before every day felt like a roller coaster with her; immense high and low at least once a day. After a humdrum marriage this didn’t seem so bad.

When I gained a clearer perspective and saw just how badly I had been played, I eventually moved on, albeit with an abortive initial attempt. What I did was a repeat of before. I had barely finished collecting the last of my stuff when my first online dating profile went live. I was homeless and unemployed. I needed some feel-good factor to boost my self-confidence. Again, I was on the rebound.

The slew of women I met began well enough, but I now know that this was because they were off paid-for sites. As the pool of suitable candidates on these websites dried up I moved onto the free dating sites. That is when things took a turn for the worse. My negative time on the dating scene I attribute to restricting myself to what then was the novelty of Tinder. My nadir was The MILF of Xmas, another Tinderella. Only once I switched back to using paid-for sites – which tend to enjoy a fillip in January – did I find The Artist.

But wait, there’s more. Yes, there’s a whole other layer below all of this and I consider it the crux of my existence, my malaise. It’s my working life. It’s always been a disaster. I left high school and entered a vortex of good ideas and necessary choices. Never in my working life have I taken a job I wanted; it’s was always what I needed. My love-life has always been the gauze that soothed this festering sore. My marriage had at it core a mutual desire to travel, but that was supplanted by her desire to be a mother. This was one compromise too many for me. I worked for many years as a freelancer, enjoying the higher pay and freedom to travel; that compromise seemed worthwhile.

All that has consumed time and resources that should have been better spent on following a career more to my liking. Alas, few people earn a sustainable living as a writer, so I’ve always put off going for it. Instead I whiled my time away on the next best thing. For three years it was dating all the women I did. I kept telling myself that only once I had found “The One” would things be on the right track.

Along the way I had some wild sexual encounters and chose to pass others up. The Russian Model and Lusty Lass could have been the easiest sex I ever had, but I chose to walk away and am glad for those decisions. The only date I’m disappointed to not have got intimate with was The Model. Perhaps that’s a good thing because my journey might have stopped there. Krazy Girl was the best sex I’ve ever had and still find myself remembering some of the things we did.

My knowledge about womankind is much better but still incomplete. It is good enough to appreciate The Artist for who she is. I don’t think I could do better than her. Sadly I have also learned that the person you desire does not necessarily make for the kind of relationship you need or want. My education about relationships continues apace.

I follow several female bloggers whose writing and experiences I enjoy reading. Something they have in common is that they are afflicted by one special man whose words and actions (or inactions) reduces them to quivering lumps of jelly. I understand their feelings because Baltic Babe had a similar effect on me. I was always comparing the women I met to the feelings I felt when I was with her. Doing this wasn’t fair to everyone involved.

The women bloggers have their own motivations and in a few cases I suspect that their “daddy issues” evokes a similar feeling. They know this feeling, have learned to cope with it and they might like it in a twisted kind of way. Perhaps if they realized that the man they are fixated on would only deliver a horrible relationship once living together, then they might expunge him from their systems and move on to a better proposition?

I may have been a few women’s “special man” whom they couldn’t get out of their head. Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde come to mind. It still pains me to think of the two of them. It’s a stain on my conscience.

The greatest lesson I have learned in life (courtesy of my dating days) is that there are many types of love, but the strongest, unchanging one is that of a parent for their child. All other types of love are subject to change. Perhaps Baltic Babe was right by saying “love is for fools”?

I found “The One” but today my life is a nightmare from which I can’t wake up. Most nights falling asleep I secretly hope not to wake up. It’s the thought of my not being there for my daughter that keeps me continuing this not-so-good fight.

So excited

The next day, Thursday, I wake up and within seconds I feel breathless. I want her, I want The Artist. I want to be with her, look into her eyes, hear her laugh, see her smile. I want to hold her hand in mine as we walk. I want to stop, cup her face with one hand and kiss her gently. Just thinking about those things makes me tremble inside; I’ve forgotten what that feels like. In truth, I’m a little scared because it feels like I’ve lost control. This is the effect she’s had on me. A rational, logical person would say that it’s only been one date and that I shouldn’t get carried away. My instincts tell me that she’s worth getting carried away for. I wonder how she feels?

I send her a text message at 7.05am bidding her a good morning. I offer a few words of support for something she’s not looking forward to doing at work. I make fun of the fact that we’re not strangers any more so it’s okay for us to talk on the phone, suggesting that we chat later in the evening. 22 minutes later she answers with a very long message, so she must have started texting me back straight away. She thanks me for my words of encouragement and says that ‘something’ will be distracting her today. Then she says that she would ‘love to chat’ and asks if she should let me know when she’s home.

Her last sentence makes me smile; women love a man to pursue them. I don’t want to do what other men do, so I respond by suggesting that she call me when she’s comfortable once back at home. I let her know that I have an idea for our next get-together. I deliberately don’t use the word ‘date’ because it is laced with pressure in so many women’s minds. I tap into a woman’s innate desire to tie up loose ends, satisfy their curiosity, that is why I’m deliberately vague and enticing about having ‘a plan’. It works.

Nine minutes later her response arrives, again much longer than mine and it ends with “Looking forward to talking to you and hearing your plan! X

My heart swells to bursting point. She really likes me.

I struggle to function properly the rest of the day. All I can think about is her. My thoughts and feelings of when I was with her on our date had a very limited sexual dynamic to it. Yes, I felt physically attracted to her, but my focus was solely on her as a person. Now, the next day, my thoughts regularly turn to wondering what making love to her would be like. I think it would be gentle and tender. The way she kisses tells me she is about love and not lust. She didn’t once use her tongue, even though I teased a little once at the end of the evening by sending forward a probing tongue on her lips.

So far the greatest physical negative is her being on the chubby side, but I can live with that. Having seen that she can out-eat me, perhaps I can be a helpful influence in that regard, but only if she wants to lose weight.

More than anything, I want to find out what her romantic fairytale idea is and then make it come true for her.

Later that night we chat and The Artist tells me that she is visiting friends in Cambridge for a party on Saturday and staying over. My plan involving the cablecar across the Thames, a visit to the Millennium Dome followed by a meal at a South African steak restaurant will have to wait for another day. Every ounce of my being tells me that that day is going to happen.

“I don’t suppose you fancy coming to Cambridge on Sunday?” she asks.

Teams of muscular wild horses being stung by wasps couldn’t keep me away! That’s what I say to myself.

“I’ll think about it,” is what I say to The Artist.

I call her at 8pm on Friday night on the pretence of wanting to chat with her, but deep down I know I want to find out if she’s on a date. My Trust Demon is tut-tutting at my enthusiasm and he demands that I take a moment to play safe. She answers my call but is on a bus home, so I ask her to phone me when she gets home and is okay to talk. “It’ll be about half an hour til I’m home,” she says. “That’s fine,” I say. I don’t know whether it was because she was on a bus or is having second thoughts about me, but she didn’t sound too pleased to hear from me. I assume it’s the bus.

Exactly half an hour later she calls me. I appreciate someone who does what they say they will do. She’s just arrived home and immediately phones me. I take that to show serious intent on her part. We make small talk and she sounds a bit upset or grumpy to me. I coax a little bit and she opens up. “I don’t want to bore you with this, but I’ve been having a bad time at work this week,” she starts, then launches into detail about her problems at work. I just listen and it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I guess that she has nobody to talk to this about, so I just let her vent. I’ve learned to not be the solution to whatever a woman is moaning about when it comes to her work.

Saturday 28th February 2015
I send her a text message at 8pm telling her that I hope she enjoys her party and takes embarrassing photos. I don’t expect to hear from her, the party should be well under way. Less than half an hour later she sends me a very lengthy text message that she must have started composing as soon as she read my message. She provides me with a postcode for me to find her friend’s house and suggest one-ish as a meeting time. That’s far earlier than I expected and I’m surprised and pleased.

Something I’ve learned to do is to pay attention to the length of woman’s a written response versus what I send her. If I send a lengthy message, whether it be an email or text message, and the response is short, it is an indicator that she’s not feeling particularly positively inclined towards me. If she matches the number of lines I write, then we’re in sync. If she answers with a much longer message it means she is feeling excited about me. The Artist’s very lengthy responses make me feel good. I get the impression that she’s very keen on me and struggling to hide it.

I’m battling to not come across as too keen too.

Pointer Sisters – I’m so excited


As I sit contemplating suicide it occurs to me that my greatest successes in life were preceded by intense struggle and total uncertainty. Each time when I had got to a point where anyone else would have given up, I made more of an effort and I broke through to the other side known as success. Perhaps I was now at such a point in my life, that now was the time to try one more time, to keep going when there seems no point.

I remember two people’s stories who have inspired me over the years: Abraham Lincoln and U.S. Grant. It’s not their presidencies that impressed me, but more the story of their lives before they were famous. Lincoln had lost every election he stood for before becoming president. Grant was an alcoholic failure who drifted around until he saw his time and opportunity.

Was it a case of their having true grit or just no alternative? I think it’s the latter. Courtesy of my depressed state I can clearly see that they too must have arrived at a point whereby it seems that all is lost, so there is nothing to lose by keeping on trying. If that’s the case, I can do it too!

Thus I resolve to take a deep breath, put the boxes of ibuprofen away and think things through, trying to find clarity that somewhere along the way got lost amidst an unblinking computer screen and copious amounts of sex. I switch off all my dating profiles and stay away from dating sites for days on end until I have things straightened out in my head and, more importantly, in my heart.

Over the course of a week’s focussed, intense contemplation I make a series of realizations.

Firstly, everything I have done in my adult life has been for love. All aspects of my life are layers to a pyramid that has love as its pinnacle. That might not be the best approach to life and I think it’s driven in part by my Avoidant Personality Disorder. However, I am too old to change. There just isn’t time for cognitive behaviour therapy that lasts years. Much better to just proceed as normal and hope for the best, hope for The One.

My second insight is that I’ve been looking for love in the wrong places. The type of women I have met through dating sites is not the typical woman. The typical woman I have encountered is emotionally messed up and not capable of a relationship. Very few of them have love in their hearts. These are lesser women; it’s why they’re on these sites and are there for so long. No man will put up with their craziness, bitchiness and/or selfishness.

I am now thoroughly disenchanted with online dating. It seems to be the domain of deranged, emotionally unhealthy women. It has so negatively affected my view of women that I find myself wondering if any good women exist, instead of all these self-seeking charlatans.

I review and analyze my history of dates on my dating spreadsheet that I primarily created to help me with my writing. It becomes obvious that my best dates came off the national newspaper’s dating site with my Happy Humping Ground site second-best. I realize that Plenty of Fish in particular is where the most undesirable women end up. That and other free sites is where the bulk of my bad dating experiences have come from. It has distorted my view of women.

Thirdly, reflecting on my own behaviour towards women, I feel ashamed. I am used to being better than I have been. However, some lessons have been learned. Only a man who doesn’t respect women and will therefore treat them badly, will be with a woman that he doesn’t respect. A man who respects woman will only be with a woman he respects. I can not attach value to a woman who does not value herself, a woman who cheapens herself by doing anything with any guy. I am worth a lot, I have a lot to offer and only to someone deserving, because otherwise they will only squander what I have to give them.

Fourthly, I have greater insights about women that should better prepare me for the future. I’ve learned that when a woman says that she is “fussy”, it means that she’s not seriously looking for a relationship and more than anything else is on a big ego-trip. All those men running after her and getting them to do things to please her. Wow, that must be wonderful for the ego!

From young women are told that they are the weaker sex and that they’re not as strong as men. That sets off a life-long desire for power over men in many a young mind. It’s inherent in human nature that anything gained easily is not valued. So, any man who easily gives a woman her sense of power, he is quickly discarded. Play hard to get with a woman and she wants you. I’m starting think that for a relationship to work, the woman must want the man more than he wants her.

Some women seem to think that to get a husband all they need to do is open their legs. What they don’t know is that, the sort of man who falls for that, will divorce her if she opens her mouth. To find a prince, a woman needs to kiss a few frogs, but not fuck the whole pond!

In this current younger generation of liberal democracies, girls have been told that they are the same as men and men have been told to be nice to women. So men come across as grovelling weaklings and women despise them for it. There is thus a bigger disconnect between the genders than ever before. Men are confused about their exact identity in society and women are told that they can have it all.

I watched ‘The Counselor’ the other day and Javier Bardem’s character says something profound:

Men are attracted to flawed women too of course, but their illusion is that they can fix them. Women don’t want to fix anything. They just want to be entertained. The truth about women is you can do anything to them except bore them.” ― Cormac McCarthy, The Counselor: A Screenplay

Lastly, from my own shameful experiences, as soon as a man thinks he’s being played, he takes it as permission to become a player. “Take me seriously and treat me respectfully, or I will look for someone who does and I shall treat you like a piece of meat in prison until then” is the resulting attitude. A gender difference related to this I’ve noted is that women have affairs to get back at their men, while men have affairs to get away from their women.

I’m left with a few questions bugging me. First, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever love someone else again. Second, just how many women’s lives do I want to fuck up? I suppose these questions will only be answered with time.

How am I to be from now on?

I’ve resigned myself to singledom for the foreseeable future. I’ve realized that I’m just not going to fall in love with anyone while I feel so shit about myself. I’ve based this on the understanding that I’m far more primitive than I had previously realized; I am a caveman. I only feel good about myself when my financial position is strong. The more money I have the better I feel about myself. It’s easy to dismiss this outlook as narcissistic, but the reality is far more complex. I can only feel that I am at my best, a real man, if my bank account is a source of pleasure. On the back of that I feel I shall have the confidence to be the best me I can. It’s hard to fall in love with someone else if you’re not in love with yourself first. It’s also hard to do the things in a relationship that require money when you’re worried about making the rent.

I’m so stressed about my financial situation that I have very little interest in sex right now. No desire, no urge, not a nothing. I’ve never been like this before. It’s a strange sensation. Is this what eunuchs or lesser men feel? Despite that, all this random sex with virtual strangers has got to end because it’s doing me no good. It’s been messing with my brain. I’m not going to have sex with another woman until my feelings for her are clear. Yes, the next woman I’m going to sleep with is going to be The One.

That’s it. I’m not running from myself any more. If I lose myself then it’s all been for nothing.

I need to fix my working life, get over my Avoidant Personality Disorder, look for love in the right places, not get sexual so quickly and somehow believe in a better future.

I’ve got nothing to lose, because I’ve pretty much lost everything already.

Naughty Boy – Runnin’ (Lose It All)

Of Mothers and Fathers

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

Bye Busty & hello Saffa!

“I was just starting to fall for you,” Busty Czech laments in reply to me telling her that we won’t be seeing each other any more. It’s been a long Monday and I’ve spent it checking my thoughts about her and The Saffa one more time before deciding that I get a much better feeling from being with The Saffa.

I make the phone-call I’ve been dreading after 8pm. I find the usual string of words I’ve used with other women to let down Busty Czech as gently as I know how. I say what I have to as slowly and compassionately as I know how.

“I’m in shock. I didn’t see this coming,” she says as I scrunch myself up emotionally on the other side of the phone.

“Are you still coming on the trip with me on the weekend?” she asks.

“No, I won’t be. I’m sorry,” I say with a heavy heart.

“So I suppose you won’t be taking me to the airport either?” she continues, the true implications of my words still not having sunk in properly.

“No, I won’t be doing that either,” I reply, biting my lower lip.


“I think I know you well enough to know that you won’t change your mind,” she says.

I keep quiet. Why add to the damage?

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you can come on the trip but on a friend’s basis?” she asks.

If she knew there was another woman on the scene she’d go ballistic. I think it best that she doesn’t know because why add anger to the mix? There’s also no way I can go away on this trip because then I’d lose The Saffa for sure and she’s the one that I want.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I counter. If we did go away it would probably lead to loud screaming sex, our hearts in turmoil and an even more complicated situation for us both.

After a few moment’s contemplation “Oh, okay,” she says, seemingly resigned to our new fate.

The call takes a more practical route by way of me suggesting alternative logistics for her to get to and from the airports involved and dealing with her luggage that would be too much for her to handle by herself.

Her tone subsides to that of pained acceptance as I end the call. I know she’s going off to cry her eyes out on her bed now.

I have to stop doing this to women.

This was not the best way to have ended the day that was my birthday.

My next morning starts with my phone having an epileptic fit from all the messages The Saffa has sent me on WhatsApp, text and email overnight. I call her from my bed and tell her that I said adiós to Busty Czech. Her silent response hints at a sense of relief on her side, but maybe I’m reading too much into it.

I’ve been thinking about how The Saffa’s been perceiving matters between us thus far. She must really want me if she’s been so patient about my getting rid of the unwelcome extra person on the scene. I don’t think I’d have been as understanding as her. Maybe she has things to teach me?

We end up indulging in sexting with us sending photos from our phones that get both of us off. I confess that I initiated this. The Saffa is sitting in a bay window at her employer’s home. The old lady she’s looking after is still asleep. The Saffa is wearing only that blue silk robe that she suggestively takes off, one photo at a time.

The Saffa’s as naughty as me, possibly naughtier. She seems willing to follow my lead. By comparison she’s a lot more fun than Busty Czech, the latter is riddled with issues and negativity.

But is this love?

Whitesnake – Is This Love

Sea of Love

I’m meeting The Saffa at Piccadilly Circus, annoyed with myself that I hadn’t ended it with Busty Czech. Last night was a fun disaster, but I know the way forward now. I was anticipating seeing the delight on The Saffa’s face as I delivered the little speech I had prepared yesterday about how I had ended things with Busty Czech. Now that speech is redundant. I don’t know what I’m going to tell her now.

She’s standing under the big, bright lights amidst a throng of gawking tourists. Before The Saffa spots me I notice that her body language is tense; a clenched jaw, stiff spine and folded arms tell me all. Her eyes look a little red and sore. Has she been crying?

The hello kiss is perfunctory and the atmosphere between us is frosty as we start walking to get away from the crowds of tourists. Within a minute we are standing outside the Trocadero, facing off.

“Have you ended it with her?” she demands to know.

“No, not yet,” I answer.

“That’s it! I’m out of here!” she says and starts striding away from me.

Like a little schoolboy in a playground I run after her.

“Wait! Hear me out, please,” I implore as I hook her nearest arm.

The Saffa stops, folds her arms and frowns at me. I’m only going to get one shot at getting this right. Words please don’t fail me now.

“You’re the one that I want. I went to her last night to dump her and I just couldn’t time it right. I’m going to do it tomorrow,” I say.

“What?! You saw her last night?! I don’t believe you!” she retorts.

“Like I said, it was to say goodbye in a decent manner. She doesn’t deserve a crude phone-call or text message. The most important thing is that it’s you that I want,” I reply.

“I don’t know what to do?” she says.

“You don’t have to do anything. This is my mess and I’m dealing with it. Tomorrow she’s history. I promise,” I say as emphatically as I know how. I mean my every word. It pains me but I have to dump Busty Czech by phone.

“Hmm,” she mutters.

“Look, why don’t we just try and have a nice day together? I’ll show you some sights I think you’re going to love,” I suggest, hoping that her questions have been thwarted and that I can distract her so that she calms down. I don’t like seeing her distressed like this, but it’s my fault and I need to make amends somehow.

I take a step towards Leicester Square, turn towards The Saffa and smile, hoping that she follows my lead. Will she?

She hesitates, leans forwards as if to take a step, is thinking furiously, obviously in an emotional state, then finally takes a step to stand next to me. Inside me I let off the biggest sigh of relief I’ve ever felt. That was close, but I’m not yet in the clear.

We walk onto Leicester Square, welcomed by the cacophony of entertainment parlours, bustling restaurants, noisy pubs and grumblings of fleeced tourists. After a minute The Saffa unfolds her arms and I wait a few seconds until I gently take one of her hands in mine. She doesn’t pull away. Gently does it with her today.

We do a lap of the square and then I lead her to a bus-stop. We hop aboard the number fifteen bus which follows a route that takes in most of London’s famous sights as we make our way towards Brick Lane. I play tour conductor as she starts to relax. By the time we get off the bus near Brick Lane she’s her talkative self again.

She is amazed by the sights, sounds and smells of all that is on show at this street market on this perfect Sunday morning. We walk around the colourful, exotic markets and fragrant stalls, but I don’t remember seeing much; all I have eyes for is The Saffa. She is so mesmerised by what she is seeing (she’s a magpie for silver jewellery) that she doesn’t notice my staring at her. I just want to wrap my arms around her and hug her until she cries from happiness.

After sampling food snacks from around the world I lead us to another nearby area of London. For a laugh I take her to the sex-shop on Hoxton Square, but it is undergoing a revamp so only a few things in the basement are on show; very disappointing. We sit at a bar on the square, talking, just talking, laughing often. It’s how it should be. We could have sat there until dawn. I don’t think we’ll ever lack for conversation. We do it for each other mentally. It’s a good start.

However, a part of me is still holding back, reluctant to totally let go with her. After being burned by the other false starts, a little bit of me is scared of being disappointed again. There’s no rush, is there? I’m determined to let this play out in it’s own time, in it’s own way.

At the moment we’re like two otters playing together, entwined as one, twisting and turning through a warm sea…perhaps the Sea of Love?

We go back to where she is staying and working, looking after a kindly old lady. The Saffa and I go out on the patio to share a coffee and cake, but become embroiled in a silly, pointless disagreement over a mutual high school friend. I’m ambivalent about this female friend whom The Saffa adores and she gets upset over my not feeling the same way. This altercation spoils the day a little for me.

I’m learning that the way to clear the air with The Saffa is to distract her. I ask her to come with me to my car. She’s happy to do so and we catch a bus to where my car is parked in Hammersmith and I then drive her back home. Our kiss goodnight is a passionate one and we agree to get together next Sunday.

I drive back past Hammersmith and remember all the times I came to be with Busty Blonde. I swore to myself that after I had to hurt her by saying goodbye that I wouldn’t do that again to another woman. I feel I’ve let myself down, but at the same time how do you go about dating without letting people down if you decide they’re not right for you?

I don’t remember much of the drive home to my place; my head is filled with thoughts about The Saffa…and how I was going to have to hurt Busty Czech to be with her. Someone who was sweet and kind, in a delicate frame of mind, who did not deserve pain, but who isn’t meant for me.

This dating game can be brutal, it’s the nature of the beast.

Honeydrippers – Sea of Love

I f*cked until her nipples bled

I manage to put aside the mental image of my cum splattered across The Saffa’s pretty face a couple of hours ago and start to think straight again. I realize that I have her and Busty Czech as friends on Facebook and that on Sunday The Saffa had been taking copious pictures that she is likely to post with me tagged in some. That could get awkward, so I unfriend Busty Czech. Will she notice? I don’t want her getting wind of there being someone else on the scene; awkward might become unnecessarily ugly. Instead I want to let her down as gently as possible in a time and a way of my choosing.

Having women I’m seeing as part of my social media is not a good idea. I resolve to only let The One have that access from now on and only when I’m sure that she’s The One. At the moment that day seems so far away.

For now I’ve got two women on my mind and it’s bothering me. I’m inclined to say goodbye to Busty Czech but I’m also not a hundred percent certain about The Saffa. My thoughts keep returning to something in particular that is nagging at me.

Being trapped in The Saffa’s bedroom and having risky sex was great fun, but it was juvenile. More than that, it was disturbing because it showed me that The Saffa has a reckless streak. So she’s perhaps a Good-time Girl and not a Good Girl? The former you just have fun with and the latter you settle down with. I’m looking for the latter; I have to keep that in mind.

Or am I being premature in my assessment of her? If so, then I’m probably equally guilty of being hasty in all matters with Busty Czech too, especially by agreeing to go on holiday with her during our second date. Sadly I don’t get the feeling that she’s The One. I really need to tie up that loose end because it’s preventing me from enjoying and treating The Saffa in the way that she deserves.

The Saffa comes up to see me in my town on the Wednesday as she has the afternoon off. I have no expectation or agenda for how today will turn out for us. I meet her at the train station and we go for lunch in the town, then she raids the charity shops. She only buys a few books and DVDs, being mindful of her limited living conditions. In the late afternoon at my place we watch a movie she bought.

As the movie ends I turn to her and say, “So what do you want to do next?”

The look in her eye is all the answer necessary.

We start having sex on my sofa, but after her first squealing orgasm we move proceedings to the bedroom. At one point she is riding me cowgirl-style and I am adoring her, thinking to myself for the first time that I could fall in love with her. She notices my expression and asks me what I was thinking.

“I’m thinking that I could fall in love with you,” I answer.

I can see her heart swell as she basks in the glory of my words. Her instantaneous smile masks her feelings. Not long afterwards she cums again, squealing her pretty little head off.

I still find it fascinating that a woman’s brain has to be turned on first before her body is. Is it the reverse for men, in that we have to enjoy sex with a woman before we fall in love with her? I’m inclined to say ‘no’ based on my experience with Baltic Babe. I was totally smitten with her before we got physical and still was enamoured after learning that she was a terrible lay.

The Saffa slumps down next to me, exhausted and panting. I get up and move her into position for doggy-style. My cock slides easily into her well-lubricated pussy and my head touches her cervix as she lets off a strangled sound of pain. Hers is the smallest vagina I have ever penetrated, but I think she has a pleasure/pain thing going on and enjoys my filling her up.

My hips go into overdrive and I fuck her as fast as I can for as long as I can. I stop for a few seconds to catch my breath and then go at it for even longer and even harder. All the frustration of the previous weeks was finding a physical outlet; this was angry sex. By my reckoning I was fucking like a man possessed for at least ten minutes. I’ve never fucked a woman so ferociously before.

“Jeez man, can we just take a break?” she asks, gasping for breath as she pulls free of my cock..

The Saffa rolls over onto her back and I see two red, parallel vertical lines, perfect streaks of blood about two inches long smeared onto my white duvet cover. I look at her breasts and see that the tips of her nipples are missing and blood is seeping from them.

I fucked her doggy-style for so long and so hard that her nipples have chafed on my duvet cover and started bleeding!

Yep, I have now fucked a woman so hard that I made her nipples bleed.

She notices the blood too and says, “Holy fuck!”

Without another word I go fetch a wet cloth and some plasters. We do what we can to remedy the bleeding nipples, laugh about it and take a break to get our breath back.

The Saffa seems to stay horny for long stretches at a time. Once she’s turned on, she stays turned on.

“I want to feel your cum in my pussy this time,” she says, catching me by surprise.

I smile and she resumes the doggy-style position, but this time making sure that her breasts are well clear of touching anything. What’s a guy to do but to fuck?

My erection hasn’t subsided much and it only takes a few thrusts in her surprisingly still-moist vagina for normal service to be resumed. By now I’m starting to get tired and don’t want her bleeding on everything, so I resolve to make myself cum as quickly as I know how.

I suck on a thumb and slowly slide it up her bum. The Saffa doesn’t make a sound or movement to even indicate recognition of what I’ve just done.

To help me over the line some naughty talk is required.

“Is this what you want?” I ask.

“Uh-huh,” she replies.

“Is this what you like?”

“Uh-huh,” she mutters.

“Is this what you need?”

“Jah,” she mumbles.

“Is this what you’re good for?”

“Uh, jah,” she says softly as the tip of my cock touches her cervix.

Seconds later she cums again with one of her characteristic high-pitched squeals that wouldn’t be noticed on a pig farm. Her sounds are cute and so much better than the screams of Busty Czech. Not since Krazy Girl have I encountered a cum-machine like her.

Not long afterwards the session ends with me cumming in her pussy au natural. She was asking for it and I was only too happy to oblige. She finished her period last week so I thought it safe to ejaculate in her. Her pussy and my cock are a good fit.

After some cuddling in the afterglow we’re both getting hungry, so I conjure up a quick meal. It’s getting late and she needs to return to her job. I walk her to the station to catch the 10pm train.

I don’t want her to go. Feeling this way about her tells me something; it spoke of her being who I want to be with. The way forward is now clear: I want The Saffa.

As I watch her train disappear into the darkness my post-coital negativity kicks in with the usual poignant questions. If she didn’t know about the existence of Busty Czech would any of this be happening? How different would her behaviour be? Am I seeing the real her? Is she using sex as a weapon to woo me?

For the first time since lunchtime I switch my phone on and I see that Busty Czech has called my four times and sent the following text message:

I’ve got something special planned for your birthday. 🙂 xx

Ah, yes, my birthday. It’s next Monday and I’ve agreed to see Busty Czech this Saturday before then, followed by meeting The Saffa on Sunday.

I just have to say goodbye to Busty Czech on Saturday. I have to break another heart.

How is this going to turn out? I’m dreading it.

ACDC- You shook me all night long