Tag Archives: lust

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

Date #54 – The Cultural Allsorts

I got thumbing through Tinder and one of the pretty faces that I liked was a match. I checked out her other photos now that Tinder only let’s you see their primary pic. The other photos did not inspire me at all, she’s a brunette who experiments with lighter hair colours, but she has a lengthy profile which in itself is novel for a woman on Tinder. Her words tell of someone multi-cultural, speaking numerous languages, is well travelled and interesting-sounding.

I decide to message her the next day and she responds. Over the course of the week we swap single messages at night, hers usually later than mine. We get a bit of banter going and she seems cheeky and fun. She was born in the Soviet Union and that has a curious fascination for me, always has ever since Baltic Babe. I become concerned that she’s fishing for a man with an EU passport but she tells me that has her own British passport. How did she come by that? Is she another Randy Russian who indulged in a marriage of convenience? She could be interesting to meet for a date. I suggest this and she agrees. Apparently fluent in six languages, I think of her as The Cultural Allsorts.

Could she be The One?

We meet in the concourse of a busy Tube station in the centre of London on a Sunday at noon. She asked for this location because she was having to go off somewhere else and could only spare me an hour. I’ve got to the point in my dating life when an hour is all I need to know whether I want to see someone again. A lunchtime coffee date works for me.

She is a quarter of an hour late which is never a good start considering she was impressing on me beforehand how short of time she was. At first sight I don’t like the look of her. Her photographs flatter her facially, although in a radical departure from convention, she is slimmer than in her pics. I had got there early and scouted around in the neighbourhood, finding several chain coffee shops that were relatively empty. Perfect for a quick and quiet conversation I thought.

Oh no, she had her own ideas about where she wanted to go and we ended up in the most upmarket coffee shop I’ve been to in my life. I’m open to new things so I didn’t mind. Coffee and cake, how difficult could it be? With her, very.

She was brought up in a Soviet Union republic and her family emigrated to America the first chance they got. Consequently she has retained the fussiness of Eastern European women and acquired the gastronomic moon-on-stick mentality of an American. I felt sorry for our young waiter whom she had running backwards and forwards to find out everything that she needed to know before making a decision. She reminded me of Baltic Babe; a pain to eat out with. This was not a good start.

Eventually she browbeat the hapless waiter into having the chef prepare something that wasn’t on the menu. I want and need to be with someone who is easy-going, a pleasure to be around, someone who invigorates me, not drains me. This woman will never be the wind in my sails, more like the torpedo in my hull.

“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, idly curious about her level of sexual energy.

“I love spicy food,” she replies.

Okay, good to know. I wouldn’t think her a sexual dynamo but you can’t tell from looks, but I’ve learned you can from how spicy a woman likes her food.

We start talking about travel, places we’ve liked and still want to visit. She has an affinity for Brazil and it strikes me that she could even pass for Brazilian. She has mixed colour hair and in most of her profile photos she’s a brunette. One of the reasons I wanted to come on this date is to see just how much of a difference there is with dating brunettes. My date of Friday night with Tall Gal, also a brunette, did not reveal much in that regard.

Expounding our work experiences reveals that we’ve worked for the same banks in London, just at different times. I get the impression that she’s a bit of an intellectual and academic. She works in high finance and is deliberately modest about that because she probably doesn’t want to intimidate men, who I think would be intimidated by her job. Not me though as it takes a lot to impress or scare me nowadays.

Of course Life doesn’t miss the opportunity to fuck with me. At the table next to us is sitting just the type of pretty blonde that I find irresistible. Her and I make eye contact a few times when The Cultural Allsorts is looking away. That’s the sort of girl I should be talking to. I’m still struck by how shallow I am; I want to look at the woman in front of me and go “wow” in my head periodically. I want to feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world to be with her. I am now quite aware that if the lust factor isn’t there, everything else doesn’t matter. I just have to fancy the women I’m sharing my life with. Please don’t judge me, instead feel sorry for me, because this issue has probably led to my passing over perfectly good women.

Earlier, on my train journey into London, a young couple sat in my four-seat arrangement. Her and I had made eye-contact the moment they got on the train and he led her to sit where they did. He sat next to me while she sat diagonally opposite me. They were obviously a couple but I caught her sneaking little peeks at me. She was lovely and just what I want looks-wise. It was flattering but again it reminded how important this factor is to me.

So now in the coffee shop is an even more attractive blonde. Is Life teasing me, taunting me or is it guiding me, reminding me? I see these pretty little blondes whenever I go out, but very rarely do I find them on dating sites. Where do you go to my lovely? What must I do to meet a girl like you?

Conversation with The Cultural Allsorts rolls around culture and history so it’s almost inevitable that I find myself regaling her with a bit of history that I know. In this instance it’s about Cecil John Rhodes and from the serious amount of ear-lobe playing that it results in it becomes evident that she is loving what I’m saying. Hmm, is she another sapiophile?

I don’t actually care and even if she asked me to go home with her right now, I’d decline the offer. I’m totally disinterested in her, not just because I don’t fancy her, but also because I don’t feel any kind of chemistry. Her demanding behaviour when it came to ordering food also told me all about her relationship style that I need to know.

Despite the waiter’s best efforts and kitchen staff’s willingness to please, The Cultural Allsorts has only eaten a quarter of what she asked for. The rest is going to waste. If I fancied my date I would employ impeccable table manners, but seeing as I knew that I would never ever be seeing her again, I asked if I could finish her food which looked sumptuous. My coffee and tiramisu had merely served as an appetiser.

The pretty blonde at the table next to us gets up to leave and knocks her empty coffee cup over onto the table. We all look and the blonde guffaws before saying something to me that I don’t hear properly because I’m just too damn busy making the most of the opportunity to look at her fully. If she asked me to go home with her I’d call a taxi cab and incentivise the driver to be speedy.

Although she only allocated me an hour of her day, the date has lasted more than an hour and a half. I guess she must be enjoying herself? Hard to tell really but then she says, “I’m sorry, but I really need to get going now.”

I help The Cultural Allsorts with her coat and say my usual, “My mother brought me up funny,” just in case she was a totally liberated Westernised woman who found such things as overbearing or chauvinistic.

“Your mother brought you up right. It’s good,” she says. I’m pleased to hear that my old-fashioned manners are still appreciated in some quarters.

We walk to the nearby Tube station and I decide to be naughty by standing on the escalator in front of her so that we’re of the same height. She takes a step back. Ah, she’s not attracted to me I conclude. That’s fine, I was wondering. At a second set of escalators I do it again and again she takes a step back. Inwardly I laugh to myself but continue making small talk with her.

We’re both using the same train-line but going in different directions. I politely kiss her goodbye on both cheeks and say, “It was nice to meet you,” which she parrots back to me.

On the train home I delete Tinder from my phone. No more Tinderellas for me.

The date wasn’t a total waste of time. I don’t think brunettes are any different to blondes. I liked the way that Life reminded me of my curious magnetic attraction to blondes and I shall revert to this being my primary selection filter.

A good thing too, because my date tomorrow night is with a blonde.

Peter Sarstedt ~ Where Do You Go To My Lovely

Brazilian rumbled

As I sit here writing this, having got home just over an hour ago after our first night together, I feel a long-forgotten sensation that I like: light-headed, butterflies in my tummy and a warm glow all around me. Could The Brazilian really be The One?

What is it that I’m so drawn to? Aside from having a common wanderlust and, so far, a few other important things such as an enjoyment of sex, it’s how I feel when I’m with her. She has a passion for and outlook on life that is very similar to mine and I think that will serve as the basis for our relationship. She has a zest for life that I feel I once had and have lost, so I appreciate that in her. It’s not since Krazy Girl that I’ve met someone who, when we look at each other, we have a mutual desire to jump each other.

That animal magnetism that was so sorely lacking with Busty Blonde has appeared out of the internet and it counts for a lot. After just one weekend with The Brazilian I’m infatuated with her; in all six months with Busty Blonde not for a moment did I feel this way. I can see that I can forgive a lot of things in The Brazilian because I desire her, lust after her and, after last night, our first night together, I know that no matter what, we’ll both want to fuck each other even after a fight.

I marvel at the simplicity of this carnal urge that will forgive all manner of sins, but I do wonder about the sensibility of it. I’m not talking about being like a dog in heat, my always wanting to fuck, just waiting to be let off the leash. I’m talking about a quieter, more powerful sense that resides deep within me, that gives me equal measure of comfort and concern. Comfort because it makes me feel alive, a virile man, capable of and actively coupling with a woman whom he desires.

The concern and question of sensibility is of a self-aware man knowing that it could get him into trouble, leading to yet another heartache. With age does it become harder to deal with disappointment and even harder to still believe in true love and to keep trying to find it?

I think it’s the beauty of the structure, that the obvious risk and potential fallout is necessary to heighten the sensation, the euphoria, of what it is to be in love. Knowing that it could end very badly, is the thing that makes us subconsciously pay that extra little bit of attention, to make that effort, not just in the hope of avoiding disaster, but in making the most of what is on offer.

At the moment I would say that The Brazilian and I have similar hearts. We seem to both yearn for a drama-free relationship. I think that if you trust, value and respect each other then there’ll be very little drama.

She has an innocence, a vulnerability in her heart that I can sense, because it is there in mine too. She’s like a little girl who wants somebody to take her hand and lead her to her tea-party in the garden, then to sit and play with her.

I’m starting to think more of her as a little bird. She wants to feel safe and protected while at the same time being filled with a sense of freedom. I have to learn to gently hold her heart in my hands and savour those moments, because there is no telling when she’ll suddenly flit away, perhaps one day never to return. I know already, after just two dates and one night together, that that is how it will be between us and I have no choice but to accept it as such.

I’m infatuated with her, intoxicated by her. I can’t stop thinking about her, remembering all the things we’ve said and done and not just our first night together. I’m looking forward to taking her to all the same old places that I’ve taken all my other dates over the years, largely because I know it’ll be fun with her and it’ll be different with her.

I see elements of some of the other women that I’ve encountered in the past two years. There’s the fun factor of Tech Titan, the cheekiness of Baltic Babe, the sexuality of Krazy Girl and the goodness of Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde, all rolled into one person. Looking at the sentence I’ve just written, I realize that those are the factors that encapsulate what I am looking for in a woman and why I am so taken with The Brazilian. Most importantly, there’s chemistry between us.

It’s now Tuesday and as I write about Krazy Girl for my blog, I find myself wondering if this might turn out to be a repeat of that; starts off all fiery and frenetic and then she runs away. Or it could be like Baltic Babe, all sweet and light in the beginning, then the crazy comes out? Time will tell.

Wednesday night and I’ve spent the day writing about Krazy Girl. I’m starting to see a lot of similarities. The previous night The Brazilian had said to me that for the Wednesday and Thursday night she would be attending a government training session for her industry. She mentioned that it was in London, somewhere near her.

Just before going to bed, something at the back of my brain (my trust demon, perhaps?) told me to check her profile on Tinder. Her profile said that 4 hours previously, at 7pm, she was 70 miles away from me. Every other time I visited her profile it said that she was 28 miles from me. She wasn’t in London, far from it, literally.

I feel so deflated. It feels like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. My every instinct tells me that she was with another man, probably on a date, possibly more. It feels like cupid has fired a flaming arrow through the balloon that was my hopes for a relationship with The Brazilian.

Of course I’ll see what she says, but it’s not looking good. I have an old decision to make now: do I confront her and probably never see her again after having it out on the phone with her or do I live in hope that there’s an explanation, or do I string her along and see how long the sex lasts?

I hope I’m misunderstanding this, but I’m pretty upset at the moment.

The thought has just occurred to me that this is life repaying me for having hurt Busty Blonde so much.

It’s Thursday night and I’ve just got off the phone from The Brazilian. I had played it cool all day, only sending her one Whatsapp message at lunchtime asking how she was. She answered just before 6pm. I decide to call her at 8pm to speak in person instead, not because I hate fingering a device or because it’s nicer to hear the other person’s voice, but because I want to have a chance of catching her out if she has lied about her whereabouts. People change their tone of voice when lying.

We make idle chit-chat then I slip into the conversation her “course” of the previous night. She said it was boring. I ask where it was, but she ignores my question and starts talking about something else. I ask again where it was and there is a momentary silence before she mentions an adjoining suburb in a slow, hushed tone. My stomach falls around my feet and blood from my upper body races off after it.

It was only a split second, of course, but it felt like such a lonely, empty eternity, as the gravitas of the disappointing lie set in.

“Why, were you checking up on me?” she asks, breaking the momentary silence. Has she realized that I know she was lying? It’s a strange thing to ask, don’t you think? If she had nothing to hide she wouldn’t have asked that.

I ignore her question and move the conversation on, just like she tried to do. How does she like it now? She’s not stupid, she now knows I suspect something. Does she think I’ll like her lies? How can I love her lies? What’s next: games?

If you forgive one lie you instantly commission hundreds more. A relationship beset with lies is something I can and will not tolerate. Complete trust and honesty is essential to a healthy relationship. Only a fool or an inveterate liar believes otherwise.

My trust demon is going berserk in his cage. He’s straining at the bars, trying to force them apart. He’s swearing unspeakable words at The Brazilian. How dare she do this!

My gut reaction is to call her back and have it out on the phone with her, but I’m older and wiser now. This could all be a misunderstanding on my part, but my instincts tell me otherwise. Nevertheless I know to keep my options open. I consult a friend of mine who is an expert in these matters. She earns her living from helping people deal with matters of the heart. With the help of her ideas and words I came up with a course of action.

It’s a Friday night in early July and it’s hot. The Brazilian is due to visit me tomorrow and I think that whatever happens will either make or break us. While I was cleaning my home in anticipation of her visit, words and feelings inside me met and this poem was the outcome.

    The hot Friday night before you came

It’s a July Friday night
It’s hot and it’s still light.
I so badly want you by my side
Your every word I would abide.

We have serious issues to discuss
I could really do without a fuss.
If we argued, early you would leave
Another wasted chance I’d grieve.

If finding you are made of deceit
From you I shall retreat.
But if you are The One for me
Talking it through will set us free.

The way will be clear
To find love
Free of fear
Each other’s glove.

I’ll be everything I know I can be
You’ll just have to wait and see
I can’t wait to take your hand
I hope tomorrow goes as planned.

Yello – Of Course I’m Lying

Date #38 – Pretty Teacher

Her’s was one of the first profiles that caught my attention on the national newspaper’s dating site because she was so pretty in her photographs; a quintessential English Rose. I sent off an approach email and she responded within hours, which is always a good sign as my dating experiences have proven to me so far. She was a primary school teacher and lived in the same county as me, but we were on opposite ends of it. We couldn’t agree on a mutually convenient date to meet because she was going away on holiday. In that time I became embroiled with Musician Gal, The Irish Cougar and a couple of other minor dates, the most recent of which, Make-up Madam, was not ticking all my proverbial boxes. Optimistically I resurrected contact with Pretty Teacher and again she was quick to respond and this time we had time for each other.

Could she be The One?

It’s a dreary Saturday morning in October as I arrive at the Pretty Teacher’s apartment complex. Until now all women have been happy to meet somewhere public and I put that down to being a safe thing to do, but today’s date was insistent that we first meet at her place and then go somewhere. The ‘somewhere’ I found interesting because there isn’t much around her dormitory town to see and do.

I ring her entry-phone and within a minute she comes down. Wow, she is as pretty as her photos! For once a woman who not only looks like her profile pictures but might also be better looking in real life. She’s slender, comes up under my chin, has clear unblemished milky white skin and shoulder-length golden-blonde hair. Her eyes are a bright sky-blue. Just the look I like! I smile my approval and she reciprocates.

Before we’ve even said a word and there is a connection between us. It’s obviously a mutual physical attraction that we have and it confirms to me that this is what was missing with Make-up Madam. Lust is indeed part of chemistry. It sets a positive base on which to build further, if that’s possible.

“How about we jump in my car and go to the next town over for lunch?” she suggests.

“That sounds good to me,” I retort, taken aback by her confidence and brazenness. This date is off to an unusual start because no woman I’ve met would be happy to have a strange man get in her car with her like this.

We chatter away seamlessly as if we’ve known each other for a long time while Pretty Teacher speeds recklessly through country lanes that I hope she knows well. She’s well-dressed in smart jeans and white blouse covered in a long grey coat. Her car is new and funky; this is a classy woman. I might be onto something here.

We end up having lunch in a coffee shop in a historic market town that I’ve never been to. Pretty Teacher is 35 and I’m 42, but that age-gap is invisible and irrelevant because we get along so well. As time ticks on I’m filled with a sense of relief that stems from feeling an affinity with her. We’d pretty much covered basic requirements in our email exchanges and it’s pleasant to have that exaggerated and brought home in real life. As we talk and laugh it becomes evident that we like and dislike the same things and to a similar degree. This feels good, it feels right.

Then I catch myself remembering a couple of things from her profile that don’t sit well with me. She stated a preference for a wealthy man, which is not that unusual because no woman wants to be with a poor man, but it featured heavily as a ‘non-negotiable’. She also hasn’t made up her mind about whether she wants children or not. I decide not to broach these topics because it’s only the first date. My instincts tell me that we’ll be having more dates.

We go for a walk around a local park as a cold Autumn wind nips at our cheeks. I think we both want to keep the date going as we’re enjoying ourselves but it’s getting too cold outside. Before I can suggest something Pretty Teacher speaks.

“It’s getting chilly. How about we go find a cosy fireplace in a pub? I know just the place,” she says.

I just smile at her directness, which I find refreshing. Some people are just too scared to say what they’re feeling and thinking, but not Pretty Teacher. I’m really starting to like her and it’s only been a matter of hours.

Once back in her car she speeds like a crazed maniac through residential streets. Her car must be very new and she’s putting it through it’s paces, I tell myself. We arrive at a sleepy pub on a busy road. Inside there is the obligatory barfly and a roaring fireplace waiting for us.

We sit side by side on a large leather sofa and conversation flows like sweet nectar. I was only expecting a quick lunchtime coffee and cake, perhaps she was too, but neither of us seem to want today to end.

Then it started.

“I’m sorry, but I hope you don’t mind, but I just have to check my phone,” she says, getting her phone out and almost feverishly investing her attention into that.

It has been almost six hours together, she hasn’t had the chance to do the safety-call to a friend that most women on dates do, otherwise this might be a little rude. I give her the benefit of the doubt because there is probably other things going on in her life like a family emergency that I’m not aware of.

We resume talking after a few minutes, but the phone has been left on because it’s making noises in her handbag. About ten minutes later she breaks away from our conversation again to check her phone. She stares at it intently, obviously reading something serious, so I don’t interrupt. She quickly fingers her phone and puts it away.

I continue with our conversation while being aware that I’m very interested in her but am trying not to show it. I force myself to become Passive-Disinterested in her. After all I’ve had loads of practise doing it naturally. On cue her body language becomes more focussed on me which confirms to me that she is very interested in me too. This is going well.

Her phone chortles in her bag and without making an apology she gets it out to read whatever it is that someone has sent her. She eagerly types a short reply while smiling. I’m now interested in what’s going on. I also don’t want this date to go on all night; I want to woo her. Yes, I fancy her and would love to take her to bed, but I’m willing to wait for the right time. However, I need to make sure that the way forward is not a highway littered with strewn baggage from her past.

“Is there some kind of emergency? Do you need to be somewhere else?” I ask, more out of consideration than anything else.

“No, no, it’s all fine,” she says and our conversation resumes.

It’s now dark and hunger has arrived, so we order a meal each. Over dessert she grabs her phone again and stares at it intently. She makes a seething sound, sucking in air through her pearly-white teeth. This is getting annoying now.

“So what is it that is distracting you from your dessert?” I ask.

“Oh, you may as well know now,” she begins.

I don’t like the way she said that. Oh shit, what now? She’s married, in the midst of a messy divorce, has a stalker or is supposed to be meeting another guy for a date right now?! From all these dozens of dates that I’ve been on I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories about what other people get up to in their messy private lives.

“I’m addicted to playing online scrabble with my friends,” she says with a guilty look on her face.

What the fuck?! Seriously?! Online scrabble via a phone. Every ten minutes you just have to?

“Addicted? That’s a strong word,” is the best I can come up with.

“Yes, it’s silly, I know, but I just can’t help it,” she answers.

I don’t expect my other half to be perfect, I only expect that when we”re together that it feels perfect. With time I might prove more of a distraction for her and this scrabble is just a passing fad. I decide to not make a fuss over something so small. It’s just a date after all, albeit a very promising one.

We sit and talk and laugh some more next to that fire which slowly burns down, almost at the same speed as our fondness for each other grows. My stunt with Career Girl comes to mind and I decide to go for it.

“I can’t make out what colour your eyes are. Can you come closer?” I begin.

Pretty Teacher shuffles closer.

“I still can’t see. The lighting’s bad. Come closer,” I say.

She smiles and leans in close to me. I can clearly see the colour of her eyes, but we both know that that’s not what’s going on here. I only need to move my head forward a few inches and we can kiss, but I’m not going to.

“Closer,” I whisper.

Pretty Teacher comes full into my face, closes her eyes and kisses me. I kiss back and it feels perfect.

I like to think that’s how I hooked her, but the truth is I might be the one who was hooked. Which one of us was going to become addicted first?

Avicii – Addicted To You