It’s been more than two months since I’ve had sex and I’m as horny as hell. I know I pledged to only sleep with The One when I finally find her, but my resolve is being sorely tested by the ready supply of eager pussy to be found on the internet. I accidentally stumble across a way to game Plenty of Fish to get more traffic and approach emails from women. Consequently I get an email late on a Thursday night from a pretty brunette. I look at her profile and see that she’s 31 years-old and six feet tall. Those are two items on my Fuckit List, i.e. scandalously younger and how tall must a woman be to become impractical to fuck. I say thank you to Life for this opportunity and answer her email.
Witty, flirty emails ping-pong between us for an hour and it turns out that she has a thing for tall guys with my accent. She later makes a comment about “if you can keep me intrigued for that long” which tells me that she’s looking for fun and not a long relationship. I notice on her profile that her longest relationship has only lasted a year. She’s perfect one-night stand material and just in time too because I’m starting to forget what the warm wetness of a woman’s pussy wrapped around my cock feels like.
I end the interaction by challenging her to buy me a coffee in exchange for all the questions that she wants answers to. She claims to have plans for the Friday night and is going off to Spain for work on the weekend. We swap phone numbers and I leave it there, doubting I’ll ever hear from her again.
This interaction with her combines to make me think of the stunning brunette I encountered at the dating site’s drinks evening. Maybe my addiction to blondes has been the reason that I’m still single despite my best efforts. Maybe blondes and me just aren’t a good fit? Perhaps I should broaden my horizons a bit and see if the grass is better on the brunette side of the fence? At the same time I’m wondering if my belief that dates off free sites tend to be disappointing has any validity to it.
The next night, Friday, at seven o’clock she sends me a message on WhatsApp and I ask about her plans for the night and before I know it we agree to meet in a pub in my town in less than an hour’s time. I run around like a mad thing getting my place tidy in case we end up back here. As I’m getting dressed a good female friend contacts me via WhatsApp wanting relationship advice from me. In my current state I’m the last person to be giving anybody any kind of advice but I do my best. It’s amazing how there are bouts of silence, icy nothingness and then all these women come at once. I say this because there is another lady who made contact with me on Friday that I like the look and sound of, as well somebody else who I matched with late on Thursday night. Maybe there is something to astrology after all? Is my moon in Uranus?
Could tonight’s date be The One?
She gets to the pub before me and we find each other. Wow, she’s tall, the tallest girl I’ve ever met on a date. She’s wearing heels and is almost as tall as me. Fucking her might feel like copulating with a giraffe; long legs and limbs everywhere.
Naturally I think of her as Tall Gal.
She’s a pretty girl with blue-green eyes, round cheeks and a pleasant smile. We make a little small talk as we queue at the bar and after a couple of minutes pointless banter she says to me, “No, you still have your accent,” which pleases me because I know it’s something she finds attractive about me. Game on!
The pub is busy and noisy because of a major rugby match being shown on the giant television screens and we find the last available seats against a pillar. Not ideal as this is too noisy for a decent conversation and calm enough for me to evoke emotions of lust in her. I’ve got my work cut out for me.
“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, curious about her sexual side.
“I love spicy food! The spicier the better,” she replies.
She likes the sound of her own voice and I just encourage her to keep talking. She’s probably nervous and it will put her at ease. I’m conscious of how little I feel; I’m like a cold-blooded Great White shark patrolling my turf out at sea. I smile politely and ask open-ended questions that sets her off. Over the course of the evening she hardly asks any questions of me.
“I worked on a resort that was popular with Russian tourists,” she says, recounting her work experience abroad.
“What did you think of them?” I ask.
“When they’re young, they’re stunning, but they’re all only after a man with money,” she rejoins.
It’s nice to hear someone else parrot the conclusion I have come to about Russian women.
“Don’t you think it’s understandable though that marrying up is their best chance of bettering themselves?” I ask, playing devil’s advocate in a test of her moral outlook.
“Yes, I do and I think that if I were in their shoes I would probably do the same thing,” she replies.
Her answer leaves me cold. She really couldn’t have said anything else to have put me off her. I still steadfastly believe that people should only marry for love, because that is what will make it work. Any other reason for marriage won’t last very long and if it does it won’t be a happy one. Why do people struggle to understand this?
On the plus side her answer just reinforces my initial idea that she either isn’t interested in a long-term relationship or just isn’t relationship material. This girl is just trouble, just dangerous for a man looking for love. I feel somewhat more justified in just wanting a one-night shag off her.
I change the subject slightly and she starts telling me about her longest relationship.
“He wasn’t from this country, he was much older than me and he had loads of money. We had a lot of good times together,” she says.
“Was the age gap a problem in any way at times?” I ask, wondering exactly what her pull towards older men is about.
“Yes, when we were out and about I was conscious of people staring at us. People probably thought that I was one of those Russian trophy girlfriends,” she says with a childish giggle.
“What was the attraction?” I ask, tying to get closer to the truth.
“We had a chemistry that I’ve never felt with anyone else before or since,” she answers, then continues,”I wonder if that amazing chemistry is what has kept me from meeting someone else? I can’t help but compare every guy I meet to my older guy,” she says with a frown.
My thoughts wonder over to the part of my brain reserved for Baltic Babe and the answer is ‘yes’. I’ve been guilty of that too and I realize that this Tall Gal is in no way causing me to feel another kind of attraction to her. It’s not because I find her unattractive – she is pretty – but I’m realizing that there’s also too much of an age-gap between us to give hope for a relationship. She speaks in a way about things that are new to her, but that I have already grown tired of.
“So what happened with your older guy?” I ask in an effort to complete the picture.
“He went back to his country,” she says with a sad face and looks away from me. Is she still hung up on him?
“Is that when you came back to the UK?”
“No, I stayed on but came back a year after that,” she replies with still a downcast look on her face and evading eye contact with me. I see what is obvious to me and press on it.
“Did you come back here because of another guy?” I ask as softly as I know how.
“Yes,” she says, still evading eye contact.
I change the topic by asking her about her favourite television shows and she starts rattling off a slew of depressing psychological dramas, murder mysteries and supernatural-themed shows. She starts telling me how she likes the gritty realism of the gory shows and the real-life application of horror moments. All that she speaks off is filled with negativity and the dark side of life. I could see that she could be a real drag to be around sometimes. Where have I felt this before?
Suddenly it hits me that Tall Gal is another Lusty Lass and Krazy Girl. A soft-hearted, sweet, well-intentioned young woman who is unlucky in love because she just doesn’t take a timeout for herself to get her emotions in order before embarking on a new relationship. She’s constantly on the rebound, carrying ever-increasing emotional baggage around with her. I start to feel sorry for her. Do I really want to be another guy who just uses her? Do I want to go back to being that self-appointed vengeful shit who avails himself of vulnerable women’s orifices? No.
Tall Gal unravels her scarf to reveal a bit of cleavage. It’s actually cold in here, so why did she do that? The pub erupts in celebration as a try is scored which causes her to look around. I take the opportunity to check her body out. She’s not as slim as in her photos with several rolls of puppy fat bulging under her white blouse. For a big girl and one carrying a few extra pounds her breasts are surprisingly small and no more than a B-cup. Am I that desperate to have sex that she’ll do? No.
I decide to employ my Golden Silence trick, in which I keep quiet for as long as it takes for my date to initiate a topic of conversation. Whatever they go with is usually what is on their minds lately. Tall Gal turns to me and I just smile, biding my time as I take a sip from my drink. As they all have, she eventually cracks and speaks.
“How many dates have you been on?” she asks. An interesting choice of topic. Is she genuinely interested in me that’s why she’s asking or does it bother her.
“I’ve been on more than most, I’m starting to realize. Why how many have you been on?” I retort before she realizes what I’ve done.
“I’ve been on five before tonight and that’s over three months,” she says proudly. Amateur, I think to myself.
“What have they been like?” I ask before she can say anything else. I’ve learned that no woman wants to hear that I’ve had more than fifty dates, so I avoid giving a direct answer.
“Well the second one was an absolute nightmare because he got totally drunk, but the others were okay. I was so nervous for my first one,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“That’s normal. Is this your first time you’ve been online dating?” I ask, suspecting I know the answer.
“Yes, I’ve always thought it an odd thing to do, but everyone is doing it nowadays so I thought I’d give it a go,” she replies.
Wow, you must be the last woman in the country not to have tried internet dating. And you’ve started off with Plenty of Fish?! Talk about a baptism of fire.
I start telling her of my memorable dates such as the Angry Yank and the Wild Animal Tickler. I tell her about the typical lies that women tell on their profiles (age, old photos, height, smoking, job) and she seems a little surprised at my words. I take her reaction to indicate surprise or curiosity. I’m wrong.
“Well, there is one thing I’ve lied about on my profile,” she says with a mischievous look in her eye. Here we go, what now?
“I’ve said that I’m a non-smoker, but I do, only a few a day, usually at the end of the day after work. I suppose I’m a social smoker,” she says matter-of-factly.
That’s it! I want to go home now!
I wasn’t feeling any chemistry with her, wasn’t exactly enjoying myself, didn’t really fancy her, didn’t want to have sex with her and now she turns out to be a smoker. Gross. Why am I wasting my time here?
She seems emotionally needy to me and that will eventually spill over into clingyness that leads to men rejecting her. She is going to keep getting hurt, but it doesn’t have to be at the hands of me. I don’t need more notches on my bedpost or stains on my conscience.
I decide that the best thing to do is to end the evening gracefully, not do her any harm emotionally and just let it be as positive an experience for her without her becoming invested in me. I want her to have the strength to keep dating because she might get lucky…and she’ll tie up some of my competition by keeping them busy or perhaps taking one of them off the market. All I need is an excuse.
She stifles a yawn and I call her out on it, for which she apologizes. Then she asks me what the time is and my exit is complete.
“It’s half ten. Shall we call it a night? You’re starting to yawn,” I suggest.
“Yes, I think we’d better,” she says.
Perfect. She now thinks it’s her idea to bring this date to an end. She feels she’s in control, just what I wanted, a nice way to end the encounter. I do my usual gentlemanly thing of helping her put her coat on and I escort her to her car. There’s an awkward silence between us and I get the impression that she’d rather I didn’t accompany her. I don’t think she wants to see me again.
We stand next to her car and I kiss her on a cheek and say, “It was nice to meet you,” and nothing more. I look at her and devilishly watch her squirm for words.
“Yes, it was nice to meet you too. I’ll be seeing you…you…” and she got caught up in her thoughts, thrashing about for something polite to say, definitely avoiding anything that sounded like commitment. I just keep quiet and smile.
“Some other time,” she says, her sentence trailing off on the vapours of her breath that drifted away into the cold February night air.
I say nothing, turn around and walk off.
That felt like a total waste of time, but if I didn’t go I’d always wonder.
Anyway, I have two more dates lined up.
Akon Ft Kardinal Official – Dangerous
When I was seeing Busty Blonde, Travel Gal and going on one-off dates with the two Russians at the end of 2013, I got an email off the newspaper site from an intriguing blonde. I had enough to contend with, so I responded with “Sorry, I’m not looking for anyone right now.” The biggest problems I had with her was that she was two years older than me and seemed a little flat-chested; other than that she met the paper-based criteria I have. As I write this it’s a year ago all that was happening.
A couple of months after I had finished with Busty Blonde I remembered this intriguing blonde as I clicked through the newspaper website, seeing who’s new and what’s changed. Her profile was exactly the same as before and she had recently been online. It had recently occurred to me that the dates who contacted me first tended to result in a higher quality of interaction. I used the free one-liner chat-up facility to see if she might still be single and interested in lil’ ol’ me. The next day she checked out my profile but didn’t respond. Hers was the only profile on the site that was of interest to me, but her lack of response told me that there was no point in subscribing.
Now fast forward six months to just after Christmas 2014 and matters between me and the MILF of Xmas have ground to a shuddering halt. The newspaper dating site has given me a free one week subscription and the intriguing blonde was the first thought that popped into my mind. I had nothing to lose so I wrote a polite approach email, not really expecting to hear back from her.
The next day she writes back with a lengthy, wordy response that I like the tone of. She even has the foresight to provide an email address, which impresses me. It also tells me that she really wants to be in touch with me. Just from her choice of words I can tell that we’ll get along, at least in the conversation stakes. Will we have chemistry? Will that all-important lust factor be there?
She only has three photographs in her profile, one of which stirs something in my soul, no, not my loins. It’s a photo of her in a light-blue cardigan, her golden blonde hair loose around her shoulders and a daring look in her eyes. It’s a wholesome her with a hint of naughtiness. That photo makes me want to step up to her, put a hand on her hip and with my other hand cup the back of her head, feeling her hair resting on the back of my hand and then stoop down to give her a gentle kiss that makes her body go weak.
Her primary photo is of her dressed in formal attire, presumably heading off for a day at the races and it makes her look so prim and proper that she looks dorky. Not as good look. The third photo is of her holding up a wine glass at some Xmas party or industry awards event. She’s smartly dressed, but her face is partially obscured behind the glass. The tone of that picture tells me that she is social but can be guarded. Are those the most prominent sides to her personality? Does one of those prevail and if so, which one?
The content in her profile speaks of someone who likes variety (same as me) and has an interest in high-brow matters. Her favourite television show is a political satire. She claims to like a good debate, something that doesn’t sit too well with me, but I can hold my own. In the past this has indicated an argumentative personality. I wonder if she’s a sapiophile – a woman whose knickers get wet when talking to an intelligent man?
I write to her personal email address and she responds. All very positive so far, but at the time I’m contemplating suicide. Not the best of mindsets to be in when meeting someone new. My heart isn’t in it really, I’m just going through the motions to an extent.
It’s New Year’s Eve, so I don’t write back, having learned that it’s best to pace things slowly at first, then to increase the level of attention as the day of the first date draws near. She then writes again, on New Year’s Day, asking if I had got her previous email. She’s either really keen or a little intense with OCD tendencies. There’s a reason she’s single, after all, so what might it be?
I give her my mobile number in an email and she responds with hers. We’ve agreed to meet this coming Saturday and I’m looking forward to it. I’m intrigued by her. I connect with her on WhatsApp and suggest we chat. It’s been a while since I’ve done that and I’m thinking nowadays that it’s still a good screening mechanism. I’ll treat this as an experiment. Given that she is Date #52, the harsh reality is that she’s unlikely to be The One.
Her email address has her full name so I Google that; it’s a popular name. There’s a lack of photos and through a process of elimination and findings on the internet I arrive at the conclusion that she’s a lawyer. That doesn’t sit well with me. Baltic Babe and Lusty Lass were both lawyers and Miss Indecisive worked in law. All were intense, rigid-minded individuals for whom fun was a luxury. Could she be different? Time will tell.
I’m really looking forward to this date. Could she be The One?
Not likely, but one day it’ll happen. It could be said that it’s overdue. However, if I am right in that she’s a lawyer, then I’m a little uneasy because I’ve seen her type before. Country Girl, Musician Gal and Pretty Teacher come to mind in that they were all ‘independent’ and married to their jobs. She is likely to be what I call a ‘London girl’, someone brought up on the idea of being an independent woman, secretly carrying an adversarial attitude towards men, bordering on disrespectful.
I’m going to make a concerted effort to lean back in my seat at the dinner table and see how long it takes for her to lean forward. That’s my little challenge for myself, just to keep my dating skills sharp and fresh.
The night before our date she cancels, citing work. I take her explanation with a pinch of salt. Nevertheless she makes a concerted effort to keep in touch via email and text messages. Apparently she’s working on a big deal at work. I noticed in the business news that her employer is involved in one of the biggest takeovers in British corporate history. My faith in her is restored.
Weeks of excuses go by, but I’m not bothered about this because I’m getting my own act together. I need to be in a better frame of mind if I am to find and makes the most of what and who I am looking for. Perhaps all of these delays are happening as part of a greater divine scheme so that when we meet it’s all just perfect? It might be a case of my suffering is going to be rewarded?
Towards the end of January we eventually meet. Some things will never change it seems.
Her photos are at least five years old. I wouldn’t have recognised her if it wasn’t for her walking up to me outside Tower Hill Tube station. That familiar feeling of deflation took its usual place in my being. As we walk to St. Katharine Dock I am struck by how upbeat and lively she is, a pleasant surprise, but I guess my spending weeks by myself in a morose state will eventually have an effect. I’m pretty sure that she likes the look of me given how friendly and tactile she is. We sit down to lunch in the Dickens Inn, but she isn’t interested in food or drink, only in talking to me. It feels like a replay of that first date with Brazilian.
We are definitely an intellectual match and I enjoy talking to her, but I just don’t fancy her. She is too old and wrinkly for me to feel physically attracted to her. We have much in common, want the same things from life – someone to hold hands with when we’re really old and decrepit – both love to travel, exploring strange lands, learning interesting things for ourselves, cooking exotic foods, etc.
Yes, I was right, she is a corporate lawyer, but I didn’t let that stand in the way of anything. She is also very flat-chested, something that would probably bother me more and more as time went by. In terms of personality she is wonderful: open, gregarious, fair-minded and funny.
I think of her as the Lovely Lawyer.
Conversation flows easily, but at times I feel myself getting a little too negative in terms of what we are discussing. She didn’t seem to mind and is often flicking her hair which denotes physical attraction and playing with her ears which speaks of intellectual pleasure. She is indeed a sapiophile and loves getting to the crux of a topic. I spot her nipples hardening under her pale blue cardigan as we discuss the state of the economy. I would have been happy to spend the rest of the day talking to her, but I think that speaks more of my loneliness than anything else.
The Lovely Lawyers starts telling me about her relationship history. It’s quite similar to mine in that she has had a weakness for and a knack of becoming involved with people who are wrong for her. In essence our issue is the same: we want to be loved more than anything else. I sense that she is capable of the kind of love I have to offer and seek in return. Like me, she can revel in love at the expense of everything else, usually at great expense. She could very much be the quintessential woman in love; a rarity in my experience.
It’s such a shame that I don’t fancy her, otherwise she’d be perfect. I really like her personality, but I’ve tried with Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde to look past the lack of lust and it just doesn’t work for me. It’s so sad and I get a little choked up about it. Perfectly good, decent women I am having to pass over knowing full well that I can trust and respect them.
That wow factor HAS to be there, it doesn’t work for me otherwise. I don’t want to go hurting and damaging a great person by trying to do what I know I can’t do. So, Stupid Boy here is growing up and learning to resist what he knows is wrong for him. I’m not going to hurt another innocent woman; I’ve done more than enough of that.
I can tell that she’s happy to spend the rest of the day with me and an earlier version of me would have done so, but I’m more mindful of the other person I’m meeting nowadays. I don’t want to give her the wrong idea and let her get her hopes up. I’m also not at my best right now, so even if I did fancy her, she would run the risk of becoming enamoured with someone who is going to change in the near-future.
Lunch ends and Lovely Lawyers suggests going across the way to a comfortable-looking coffee shop, but I take the opportunity to end the encounter. Her face shows her disappointment, but I think that is better than her becoming embroiled with me. I’ll be a cannonball that she’s dodged, she just doesn’t know it.
The next day I send her my standard ‘thanks, but no thanks’ email message. She responds with words of disappointment.
Meeting her has restored my faith in women to a small extent.
My search continues.
Barbra Streisand-Woman In Love
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
The disappointment of The Brazilian has taken the wind out of my sales. As I write this, I’m trying to have a galia melon for breakfast, but I’m struggling to swallow it, such is my emotional state at the moment. Stupid me had high hopes for her.
A week after sending her my goodbye text message , driven by a sense of curiosity, I sent her another message. I figured I had nothing to lose and if she answered I would have more of an idea about what was going on in her head. I wasn’t hoping for a reconciliation in the way her favourite movie storylines go, but wanted to further my education about women. My message read, “I’m really curious about something: what was it that I said or did that put you off me?”
To my amazement her reply came within half an hour and it read, “Nothing much really apart from your last text!! Unfortunately then that made me think about distance, work, commitments I’m not ready to have, lifestyle and so on. Maybe we shared too much information too soon as well, but that doesn’t matter. I was very put off by your last text. And I don’t think I can deal with that at all.”
From that message I took it that she was scared and commitment was her issue. I also deduce that she wasn’t so taken by me that her fears and issues were overwhelmed. Her loss. I’ve learned that the two strongest human emotions are fear and greed. Fear has kept our species alive. Our greed has kept us evolving. In my experience when someone says ‘not ready’ it means they are being governed by their fear(s). It takes someone who taps into their greed for something – lust, intimacy, acceptance, love, whatever because it varies – to make them ignore their fear.
The Brazilian’s heart is fragile and scared. She’s in passive-defensive mode, waiting for any man to say or do one wrong thing and she’s gone. It’s an example of the Grey Knight’s First Law of Dating Physics: for every male action there is a disproportionate female over-reaction.
I am also firmly of the opinion that there was at least one other person on the scene, the person whom she was seeing on Wednesday nights far away from her home.
It occurs to me that it is two years since I went online dating. This gives me pause to remember and wonder what has happened to some of the women I’ve met, as well as the ones I wanted to meet but didn’t get to.
First, the women I did get to meet…
Tech Titan I’m still in touch with, but strictly as friends. She and her boyfriend have just got back from two weeks in the Seychelles, where he proposed to her. I’m happy for her, but he only got divorced a year ago.
Baltic Babe has married her Frenchman. LinkedIn sent me an update with her new surname, so I check out her Facebook page, but she has tightened her security settings and I garner nothing new. I find his Facebook and LinkedIn profile. Let’s just say that he has a face for radio. He must be able to lick his eyebrows. Good luck to them both.
As I sit writing about my dates with The Model, looking back over our email and text conversations, it’s now – yes, only now because I’ve had no reason to think about this – becoming apparent to me that she was dating at least one other person. There were the classic lies/excuses of being at the gym, falling asleep in front of the tv, always getting her voicemail. I was totally blind to it at the time; it was my early days of dating. Apparently all’s fair in love and war. I’m starting to understand what that means.
Krazy Gal got herself a new job then lost it three months later. She’s unemployed again and still living with her parents it seems.
I come across Delicate Flower on Plenty of Fish (PoF). She uses the same photos from when we met 2 years ago. I know that she is now 37 going on 38, but she says on her profile she’s 33. She’s also decided that she wants kids. We swap some emails, but when I suggested that we meet for coffee it seems she blocked me because the message history disappeared. I just wanted to chat with her because I enjoy her company. I wasn’t interested in sex because she is an awful lay. I leave matters there.
PoF also tells me that Angry Yank has changed her location to Greater Boston. Does that mean her visa was running out when we met?
I noticed on the national newspaper’s dating site that Musician Gal has blocked me from contacting her. I find that funny. She was recently active on the site.
I search online for Lusty Lass and can’t find her anywhere. Her Facebook page that I have seen before has disappeared. Our LinkedIn connection has been disconnected and her profile is gone. I do a Google search and find out she had declared herself bankrupt in 2010, probably because of her divorce. When we met in July 2013 she was working for a firm on the outskirts of London, but in early 2014 she had a so-called ‘condition’ set against her by her industry’s governing body that she could not work with client monies. Then latterly she had the same condition set against her but this time she was working for a firm on the opposite end of London. The new firm doesn’t have her on their website as a staff member. Doing a search on her profession’s register returns a blank. Has she been silly and lost her accreditation? She has a penchant for bringing drama into her life.
Cat Lady has acquired a second cat and from the photos she posts on Facebook is spending her evenings knitting things for the kitten.
Busty Blonde has landed her dream job and is still active on the dating site where we met. I hope she meets someone better than me.
Now for the women I didn’t get to meet, the near-misses as I now think of them. These are only some of the women whom I spent time swapping messages with but who couldn’t bring themselves to actually meet me for a date.
A New Zealander whom I was very keen to meet but disappeared when I suggested a date has updated her location on PoF as now being in Sydney, Australia. We interacted a month ago, just before I met The Brazilian.
A local lady and I struck up a great online conversation and agreed to a date. On the Saturday in question she sent me a message at 5am saying that she couldn’t bring herself to meet me that day. I see on PoF that she has changed her profile to say that she “wants to get married”. I would have met her for a date if she suggested rescheduling, but now that I know what her agenda is, I’m put off her.
Last night I was flipping through Tinder when I recognised a pretty blonde whom I had seen on my Happy Humping Ground dating site. On Tinder it shows her name and that she is 41. I find her dating profile where she claims to be 35 and looking to meet men aged 26 to 34! I guess she’s just looking for mindless sex. She’s just the sort of woman I’m visually attracted to; perhaps more proof that the look I like is the wrong sort of person for me.
I love a good, shocking surprise…a woman I noticed on one dating site reveals on another site that she is bisexual.
A lady in my town who approached me and was very keen to meet up, but ended up flaking on me an hour before we were supposed to meet in a local pub has updated her location as being in the north of the country now.
I got an approach email on PoF from someone who looked interesting. Then I noticed that she said that she does drugs on a social basis. I pointed that out to her and said that if it wasn’t for that I would have been happy to meet her for a date. I hear nothing but check her profile the next day to see that she’s changed it to “no drugs”. I write to her but the PoF system says that she has blocked me. She is now someone else’s nightmare in the making.
A woman I’ve swapped messages with in the past responds with “I’m in lurker mode.” What the fuck is that? It’s a woman playing games. There are so many of them on dating sites. They love the attention, will swap endless emails but will never agree to meet for a date. They are not emotionally ready for a relationship. They draw power from the emails, they feel better about themselves for being on a dating site, but they are not relationship material. They’re too fucked up. They eventually acquire cats and their brains are addled with toxoplasmosis. They agree to meet within 6 emails or they’re history.
I’m starting to think that flaky women are just a waste of time. The best encounters, the smoothest experiences have started well and gone well from there. Bad or broken communication is a warning sign; it’s how they operate and will do so in a relationship too.
I’ve realized something: For much of my early dating experiences I was in a mild state of delirium. The disappointment of the Exgf destabilised me, Baltic Babe knocked me over and Krazy Girl stomped me into the ground.
All these women have taken something from me. I don’t exactly know what it is, but I know I lack it. Whatever it was, I want it back. Through Busty Blonde I’m getting to see that an innocence and naiveté I had is gone. That hasn’t made me a better person, instead a more cynical one. I don’t think its that, however. I think it’s a goodness that gave me an arrogant strength is what is gone. It gave me the notion that when it came to relationships, I was better than most men. Now that I have experienced what I have, I feel like I am like other men carrying the same weariness and delusion that they do. I am no longer as special as I once was. Can I be that again, or is the best that I can hope for a different me, built on the ruins of the old? Time will tell.
For the first time ever, the thought of another first date makes my stomach turn. I’m struggling to believe that The One is out there. I’m fully aware that these are my salad days and that I should be out there, mixing and mingling, because I’ve never going to be as good looking and energetic as I am now. Yesterday I found a grey hair in a sideburn; it’s life reminding me that old age is creeping up on me. At the moment I’m just not interested in women.
Thunder is beating its drum and lightning is crackling across the sky outside my window. My window on life. I’ve spent much time looking out that window, wondering about what is and about what could be, even what should be, but the latter only causes me pain. Of course I would love to lie on my lounge floor with Her by my side, whoever Her might be, the one that I am longing to meet, longing so much that at times it hurts. I’ve never had a problem with being alone, but lately I’ve been feeling lonely. That horrible old feeling is back again, to tease and torment me.
After this short and slightly nasty experience with The Brazilian that has left a bitter taste in my mouth, I’ve come to accept that I’m destined to be alone for some time yet. I’ll see it as paying my dues, serving my apprenticeship, hoping that one day I shall be rewarded. Of course there’s no way of knowing what the future holds and it might just be a massive, echoing nothingness for me. A dried up empty husk, devoid of life and of no use to anyone – that is what my love life might hold. It’s a fate that I choose not to think too much about for fear of it depressing and then paralysing me.
My friend, you’re a tourist in the jail that is my dating life, I’m a prisoner here.
Michael Buble – Haven’t Met You Yet
Do I want to fuck her? Not really. In the shit-storm that is my life, I had forgotten to give Lusty Lass the brush-off after our first date. Now she’s in my town and wanting to have a drink with me. I’m learning that when a woman suggests drinks it might mean that she’s frisky. I’m still smarting from Krazy Girl’s rejection of a few hours earlier, so a drink with another woman will distract me.
I walk a few minutes and find Lusty Lass sitting by herself in a secluded part of a nearby hotel bar. After pleasantries she tells me that she was in my town for a funeral of an elderly friend. The funeral had ended an hour ago and she seemed a little sullen. She’s also about to finish what I assume is her first glass of wine. I commiserate with her and I realise that a real player would take advantage of her in this vulnerable state. How do I want this to turn out? I’m really not sure.
One of our similarities is that we like chenin blanc, so I join her with one of my own. We start talking about my town and how she has known it since as a teenager when she came to visit the friend. At one stage the friend took her in because Lusty Lass had become too much for her parents to handle. Highly intelligent kids are easily bored and become mischievous, so it was with her too. The friend straightened her out, well, to a certain degree only. Underneath this bookish, innocent, sweet exterior was a submissive little slut who liked to be physically used. It’s such a pity that I don’t fancy her, otherwise we’d know good times together.
A couple of hours go by as Lusty Lass talks herself out; jeez, she can talk. As usual she’s talking about her shitty divorce of five years ago. Boredom has me by the throat when an idea comes to me. I look at her footwear and she’s wearing Jimmy Choo pumps, not conducive to a stroll in the countryside.
“Do you fancy getting some fresh air by going for a walk, or would you like to go back to my place and I’ll introduce you to Californication?” I ask.
“Hmm, these heels are killing me. Let’s go back to yours. Is it far?” she answers instantly.
Within a blink of an eye Lusty Lass is perched on my sofa, another glass of wine in hand. She kicks her shoes off and casually raises her legs to rest her heels on the large footstool – or fuckstool as I think of it. I catch a hint of red panties. I can just see her on her hands and knees, naked on my fuckstool, her curly black hair flowing down over a nibbled shoulder, her large breasts dangling free, a mirror propped against the wall so that she can watch my face as my cock slides into her arse. That is, after all, what she likes. Is that why she’s here? Is that how she escapes her troubles, albeit briefly, by way of intense, emotionally-liberating sex? Does being used make her feel valued, make her feel something, instead of a silent, empty nothingness that waits at home for her every night after a day of telling others what to do?
The first two episodes are Californication have their usual effect of turning a woman on. I don’t have any desire to fuck Lusty Lass, but I am going to fuck with her mind. My improvised plan calls for me to engage in verbal masturbation; we both like it, our track record of naughty emails tells me so.
“So what do you think of Californication?” I ask.
“It’s very naughty. I like it,” she replies with a twinkle in her eye and some rubbing together of her knees.
“You like naughty, don’t you?” I tease. I wonder what her pussy tastes like. Stop it!
“Yes, I like naughty,” she says with a straight face, taking a deep breath that swells her breasts.
“What cup size are you?” I ask, wondering how she’ll react to such a brazen question.
“I’m a thirty six double d. I’m a big girl,” she answers with a smile.
“I’ll decide if you’re a big girl,” I say with a dead-pan face and commanding tone. The pupils of her brown eyes widen momentarily.
I’m learning that women with high-powered jobs are submissive in bed. Days of being in charge, constantly making decisions results in such women wanting a man to take charge, a man to lead them to the promised land of multi-orgasmic bliss. They long for reckless moments that someone else takes the blame for and nobody ever knows about; such is the lot of the London Girl. It all starts with verbal foreplay that gradually increments in naughtiness until they are so turned on that the man can say or do anything. Switch her brain on first and the body follows.
Lusty Lass is breathing heavier and her eyes are on fire. She wants to fuck. How far can I push her boundaries before she baulks? I wonder just how naughty she can be. I wonder what dirty talk does for her. I wonder what she will tell me.
“Have you ever sucked a cock that’s just come out of your arse?” I ask, looking her straight in the eye, latching onto something she told me in our explicit email exchanges. Is this when she decides to leave?
“Yes, I have,” she replies with a smile.
“Did you enjoy doing that?”
“Yes. It was incredibly naughty and it happened in the heat of the moment,” she says, looking upwards as she remembers.
“Would you do it again?” No woman has sucked my cock after it’s just come out of her arse. I wonder what that would feel like?
This is decision time now. All this naughty talk has surely got her dripping wet. If I was able to get her gushing via email, what is she feeling looking at me, watching me talking dirty to her? She’s responding without any reservation or sign of discomfort. If I say “Shall we find out?” I reckon she’ll have my cock in her arse within an hour. Do I want this?
Actually, no I don’t. I don’t find her attractive enough to want to fuck her. She might have an okay body and be sexually uninhibited and I reckon it’ll be fun, but sex always comes with some kind of price. With her it would be an unavoidable emotional connection, regular phonecalls, daily emails, things I’m not interested in with her. She’ll think we’ve started a relationship and I know that it just isn’t going to happen between us. Things will get messy for far longer than her arse would be.
This type of woman I call “A Misery”. Life for her is always a succession of miserable, unfortunate incidents that constantly throw her into an emotional tailspin. Usually it is of her own making, involving an ill-advised, hair-brained course of action driven by a desperate emotion that, when it inevitably backfires, the fallout is long-lasting. Finding yourself interacting with such a woman when she is in her fallout mode is misery. They whine and complain, are impossible to please and guys just fuck them until they can’t take the Misery any more or somebody better comes along. The Misery is left to moan about the nature of men, usually chanting their favourite refrain of “all men are the same”, never realising that they are the common denominator in these short-lived ‘relationships’.
My overriding emotion towards Lusty Lass is one of sympathy. I feel sorry for her more than everything else put together. She is a sweet, innocent, harmless, good-natured person who does not need another guy taking advantage of her, even if she does want her arse drilled. The last thing she needs right now is a man messing with her heart while she’s still putting it together after her failed marriage. I don’t want to be that guy.
Truthfully though, if I felt that I had no other women on my dating horizon or didn’t have the early promise of a fuckbuddy outlet with my Exgf, then I might see things differently. Bum-love is not something I crave and after the anal incident with Krazy Girl, I am wary of it. However, if that is what a woman expects and seemingly increasingly more women do these days, then I’ll indulge her request in rubbery safety, just not with Lusty Lass though.
Lusty Lass is looking at me with come-hither eyes, but I’m just not interested. If I ask her to leave now then she’ll feel hurt and into another tailspin she’ll go; she doesn’t deserve that. However, I don’t want her spending the night either because I know that it’s highly likely that something will happen between us then. We have shared a bottle of wine over the evening and we had another glass each in the hotel bar. She shouldn’t be driving, but she can’t be staying either. I need to sober her up, cool her loins and then get her on the road.
I do exactly that over the course of the next hour. First I make her a coffee, start talking about non-sexual, boring things and then start talking to her about her job. Nothing kills a woman’s mood quicker than talking about her work. My strategy is a success and when I ask her for the time, she glances at her watch.
“It’s ten o’clock,” she says, looking quizzically at me. She wants me to either make a move on her or kick her out. I can see it in her eyes.
“How long will it take you to drive home?” I ask.
“It’s about an hour,” she answers, biting her bottom lip. She doesn’t want to go. Is she still hoping to sleep with me? How do I get rid of her without being rude? Then it comes to me.
“You wouldn’t want to go to work dressed in those clothes again, would you?”
“I suppose not,” she says and her shoulders sag. Her high-powered career demands that she is impeccably dressed and turned out at all times, hence all the make-up that I loathe. I can’t imagine what she looks like without the make-up.
I stand up and she gets the hint that nothing is going to happen between us. Her car is parked a few blocks away and I escort her to it. A quick peck on the cheek and she drives off, in the wrong direction. A casual observer would say that I was a shit for toying with her, but I’m proud of myself for not letting things get out of control and lead to a situation in which she felt more hurt when I inevitably had to reject her.
A lot of guys would shake their heads in disbelief at my turning down guaranteed sex, even butt-secks at that. I’ve never been the type to do something just because other people are doing it. I do what I believe to be right. Taking advantage of this woman would not be right.
I get back to my place to find a text message on my phone. It’s from my Exgf and says, “Are you free on Friday? That new Chinese restaurant is having an opening party. You wanna?”
Yeah, I wanna. I wanna fuck you some more. I wanna make you do disgusting things for me.
Taking advantage of this woman is right.
I respond with, “That sounds lovely. Be at mine at 7pm. Don’t wear knickers.”
Sixto Rodriguez – I Wonder
Late at night, when my heart is weak, it whispers Baltic Babe’s name. In the mornings when I wake up with a raging hardon, my body shouts Krazy Girl’s name. I close my eyes and fantasize about feeling her riding me cowgirl style, watching her hands push her hair up and seeing her perfect breasts swaying as she grinds into me. I can feel her smooth skin under my fingertips, I can feel the weight of her tits in my hands, I can hear the sound Krazy Girl makes just before she cums…
I’ve just walked out of a job that many would kill to have, but the job was killing me. I badly need a holiday and can think of nothing better than spending a week on a sunny island with a busty, lusty nymphomaniac. Sun, sea and sex will restore me to my best. For some reason Krazy Girl comes to mind…as well as the idea behind MissTravel – a free holiday in exchange for sex. Can I twist her nipple and convince her to indulge in my idea? There might even be a slim hope that we reconcile.
On Tuesday morning I send her a neutral email to open the conversation. We haven’t been in contact for a while and she might want nothing to do with me. If we talk on the phone I might come away with the wrong idea, but the silence of an unanswered email is clear. If she answers and promptly, then I’m in with a chance.
Krazy Girl answers my email within a couple of hours; I’m excited. Polite banter ensues in which she tells me that she’s still unemployed, on government benefits, had to rent out her home in London and has moved in with her parents. I smile to myself; my luck might be in here because it sounds like she could do with a holiday too. I put my idea to her, hoping that she goes for it.
Me: “Just toying with an idea here. Any chance you could tear yourself away and would like to go somewhere in Europe, a sunny beach on holiday for a little while? I know you can’t afford it, so I’m paying…”
Krazy Girl: “I would love to go on a sailing holiday in the Med. What do you think?”
Me: “I’ll look into it and get back to you.”
Krazy Girl: “So would we be going as friends???”
Me: “What would you like to go as?”
Krazy Girl: “I don’t know at the mo, I am confused with my life.”
Me: “I don’t want you doing anything you’re not comfortable with. Total honesty here: I’m curious to see if anything could develop between us. Not counting on it, just curious. Maybe we should meet before agreeing on going away together?”
Krazy Girl: “That sounds sensible. I have to sort my work and family stuff out before I get involved with anyone as my head is full!”
We make arrangements to meet the next day. She hasn’t said ‘no’ but is open to discussion. I was being honest in telling her that I was curious about there being any prospect of an ‘us’. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but she hasn’t dismissed it out of hand. I’m also assuming from her response that she is single.
It’s a perfect sunny weekday in August as I park near Krazy Girl’s parent’s home. I’m not sure what to expect from this but it feels exciting to be here again. It’s a hellavu lot better than being chained to a desk surrounded by squawking turkeys. I walk a few blocks to draw cash from a cash machine and walking back to my car I see Krazy Girl standing next to it.
I almost come to standstill when I see her; she’s beautiful. Like any man with a heart I can go weak in the presence of beauty. As we make eye contact she smiles and my blood warms. I have to resist the urge to kiss her passionately on the mouth and force myself to peck her hello once on a cheek.
Her golden blonde hair’s shorter and hanging loose, shining in the sun. She’s wearing a one-piece boob-tube Summer dress that hints at her breasts underneath. Her shoulders and arms are exposed, but it’s her throat and neck that I want to kiss. She’s even prettier than I remember; maybe I’ve been on too many dates with less attractive women.
We make small-talk as we walk to a nearby recreation ground; it feels like we’ve never stopped talking. She’s doing most of the talking and I’m doing all the gawking. God, I want her so much; I want to take her by the hand and run wild with her, doing whatever our hearts desire. Am I going to be able to keep it together?
After walking and talking for a while we get coffees and pastries, find a bench in the shade and sit almost facing each other. God, she’s beautiful, but somehow I don’t let her see what I’m feeling. At an opportune moment I raise the subject of us going away on a beach holiday together. Krazy Girl listens politely but is non-committal. I escalate to what I know focusses her mind.
“Imagine this, you and me making love whenever we feel like it. Having nothing better to do than to just enjoy each other’s bodies.”
Krazy Girl looks down at my crotch; she remembers what’s in there. Time stands still as she thinks.
I was made for loving her, she was made for loving me. She’s tempted, I can see it, but she says nothing and just bites her bottom lip in that sexy way that makes me want to jump her. Her boob-tube dress hints at her ample breastage, I’ve been distracted by the occasional wobble and I so badly want to pull that top bit down to expose her perfect breasts, fondle them, lick them, suck them into my mouth as much as possible. (I wasn’t breast-fed as a baby. Can you tell?)
I want to kiss her, like the very first time we kissed. I want to hear her catch her breath and sense her body stiffen. I know that I mustn’t, but I so badly want to. How can Life be cruel? We obviously fancy the pants off of each other, but that connection between our hearts just isn’t happening. Her heart is in turmoil.
Life isn’t being fair to her because I know that I am everything she needs and could ever want (okay, with the exception of children) and she’s missing out. If only her emotional state was more sound she might be able to see that? Eventually Krazy Girl speaks.
“Oh, my jobseeker’s allowance requires me to make twenty job applications each day and to prove that I’ve done so. I’d love to go away with you, I know we’d have fun, but I just can’t at the moment.”
It’s her use of the word “oh” that tells me that she’s lying. That’s her ‘tell’ I’ve learned. I’ve heard Krazy Girl lie to her father on the phone and she started her lies like that. Her story about job applications is a load of bullshit from a silly girl. Her loss.
In truth her rejection hurts, but I’m not too surprised. I had nothing to lose by trying. I don’t show my disappointment and keep the conversation flowing, this time to more neutral matters. I accept her answer gracefully and keep being a gentleman, largely because I want to keep things as positive with her as possible because you never know what the future holds.
After chatting happily for a while longer Krazy Girl says she needs to get back to making job applications. I smile to myself and walk her back to her parent’s home. I kiss her goodbye on a cheek and I go back to my car to find a parking fine slapped on the windscreen. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, birthday cakes…and now parking fines.
I go home and lie on my bed, contemplating what just happened, how it felt to see Krazy Girl again when my phone vibrates to life. Its a text message from Lusty Lass that reads, “Hi. I’m in your town right now. I don’t suppose you’re about? If you are, fancy meeting up for a drink?”
Kiss – I was made for lovin’ you