Tag Archives: Magical Forest

Date of Destiny a.k.a. The hot date

On Sunday I drive for what seems like an eternity to get to Cambridge to see The Artist. I arrive after lunch and I get to meet her friends whom I instantly like. We get in my car which she makes approving sounds about while I’m struck by how natural it feels to be with her. It doesn’t take long for the chemistry between us to be almost touchable. I’m pretty sure that we like the look of each other, but there’s a definite meeting of minds as well.

The Artist has her hair down today and she looks lovely. I even tell her so and my words seem to lift her up. I find us parking in a multi-story car park in the centre of Cambridge and there is little drama involved. I can’t help but think how with my Exgf this mundane activity could lead to an argument. Outside we instantly hold hands and it feels good to me. I think she’s a instinctive hand-holder too.

Walking and talking with The Artist feels perfect. We feed off each other’s input and the last time I had this happen was with Baltic Babe. Through the confused streets of the academic district of Cambridge we walk, but I don’t think either of us notice a thing really; we only have eyes and ears for each other. We could be anywhere, it didn’t matter, we are engrossed in each other, lost in each other.

After a while I have a strange feeling inside me, like I’m in free-fall, but I know I’m not, it’s just a strange sensation that feels good. We can’t stop holding hands and I’m pleased that it feels like a totally natural fit the way our hands and fingers entwine. I can’t help but stop occasionally and kiss her. Each time it feels like it is our first ever kiss, it’s that good and exciting for me. Her smile tells me that she likes it too.

We wander aimlessly, just enjoying doing this together. This is what I want, this is what I have been missing, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

We stop in at a museum that The Artist visits regularly as part of her work. She needs to use the ladies and upon her return says to me the words I was hoping to hear. “Come, I want to show you my favourite things.” It tells me that she wants to share her world with me and is not afraid of rejection. It could also be her testing me, but I don’t think that that is her style of doing things.

It doesn’t take long before we’re standing in front of an exhibit and I watch in awe as The Artist comes into her own before me. She starts telling me about the technique of producing what we’re looking at, explains the variations and the history of these derivations. I listen politely as she speaks, not daring to interrupt her, but marvelling at her obvious passion for what she is talking about. It’s a beautiful moment that I will treasure forever more.

After a while we move along, making our way to the exit when I spot something that presents an opportunity to show her my cultural side, to display my knowledge of history which I think gives her some kind of brain-erection. She seems suitably impressed and interested in what I have to tell her too. We are definitely an intellectual match; that’s worth a lot in any relationship.

Dusk approaches and we become hungry, so we walk back to a pub that The Artist liked the look of. Sitting comfortably at a table for two, it’s a perfect romantic setting. Conversation is still flowing like a river of sweet nectar and we can’t get enough of each other. As the meal progresses it becomes dark outside, the restaurant dims the lights and staff put candles on the tables. She even looks beautiful by candlelight.

We hold hands across the table and I decide it’s the perfect time to find out conclusively just how compatible we are. I walk her through the Magical Forest scene and at the waterfall scene she jumps straight in. Perfect; same as me. With the wolf she stood her ground, while the house she first went in then ate what she wanted. That again is very similar to me in that she doesn’t run away from her problems (I attack) and she has a zest for life, just like me. I realize that her answers are the most similar to mine that anyone has ever given me in the almost thirty years I’ve asked these questions. Inwardly I go ice-cold while my heart goes warm; could she be The One? It looks and feels like it.

I want to tell her something nice, feeling cute, I beckon to her to come closer. She thinks I want to kiss her and she smiles. The Artist innocently leans across the table towards me. I smile to myself.

Ka-woosh!

Her hair catches alight!

There’s a football-sized yellow fireball on one side of her head and it’s about to spread to her face!

The strands from one side of her tresses has fallen onto the candle in the middle of the table. She must have used hairspray on herself for our date. Before she realizes it I’m swatting her hair with my hands as the fire is slowly spreading. Luckily I’m quick about it and douse it just as she realizes from my actions, the sound and pungent smell what is happening to her.

The Artist jumps up and runs off to the ladies. I look around the restaurant to see everyone there looking at us. The waiting staff are all rooted to their spots next to the tables they’re attending to, their jaws hanging open. The patrons all have eyes like golf balls. There’s not a sound to be heard. I think bubbles in champagne flutes stopped moving too. I look away and sounds of normal life return as voices murmur, cutlery clinks and bubbles flow again.

I think that this date will end here when The Artist returns to the table. She’ll probably ask me to take her to the train station. The embarrassment might be too much for her and I might never see her again. Damn.

When I set off this morning to fetch her, I had thought of this being a hot date; this is not what I had in mind.

The Artist returns and gives me the sweetest smile. Her hair seems fine, amazingly no trace of damage. There’s just an awful smell in the air, like that of grilled excrement but we try to ignore it as we resume our conversation. To my surprise she has regained her composure and continues like nothing has happened.

I was expecting the worst, but she is obviously intent on still being with me. I know for sure now that she wants me. Any other woman would have wanted to go home, but not The Artist, no she wants to keep going. My sense of relief is followed by a sense of comforting satisfaction. I think I’ve finally found The One.

After another hour of easy conversation I ask her opinion about Californication and she hasn’t even heard of it. I wonder what she’ll make of it? I have so many questions that I crave the answer to and I suspect that she does too.

The meal ends, but we don’t want the night to end. A moonlit stroll around the deserted historied streets of Cambridge seems a good idea – it might rid us of that awful smell from her hair – but after a while it becomes too chilly for her. I need a plan and quickly too otherwise this date will peter out and before I know it we’ll be at the nearby train station. Think, dammit, think!

“I don’t suppose I can tempt you with the first few episodes of Californication back at my place?”

“That might be fun,” she says with a coy smile.

Daniel Bedingfield – If You’re Not The One

Date #47 – The Brazilian

I’m fed up with conventional dating sites and it’s time to try something new: Tinder. I can see how it can be addictive, quickly swiping through faces as if it’s a game. At times I feel like a kid choosing sweets from an old-fashioned sweet shop. I like about one in twenty faces that meet my liberal criteria: blonde. Overnight I start getting matches and one in particular stands out.

She was Brazilian, lived in London and I liked the look of her; that’s Tinder for you. The Brazilian made excuses about not being able to get together because she was moving home and business at the same time. We kept swapping occasional messages for over a week which ended in me giving her my mobile number and suggesting that she phone me. Silence.

Then, several days later, on a Sunday night she puts in an appearance via Whatsapp and we spend a lot of time swapping messages until I ask when we’re getting together, upon which she disappears. Then she reappears on Monday night, we swap many more messages, so I get tired of this and suggest that we talk on the phone, upon which she instantly disappears. I phone and get her voicemail, but I don’t leave a message. She reappears later, saying she had to go get food. We swap a few more messages and I phone her, this time leaving a message. Absolutely nothing in response.

WTF?! Why do women play these stupid fucking games? I now think she’s another Lusty Lawyer, craving attention but unable and unwilling to contemplate anything more than that. A time thief, an emotional cripple, not relationship material, a no-hoper.

Well, I could be wrong. On Friday morning she contacted me via Whatsapp, claiming to have only got my voicemail message now. I didn’t believe her, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and agreed to her request to meet the next day. I suggested noon, but she countered with 3pm. Whatever! This woman seems a little hard work.

Could she be The One?

So there I was on Saturday afternoon outside the entrance to Tower Hill Tube station, taking shelter from a sudden Summer downpour with a horde of bemused, noisy, drenched Japanese tourists. I didn’t have high hopes for this date because she seemed a little flighty and her life had her firmly under control. It was just going to be another date, one to help get me back into the rhythm of dating so that when I met The One, my skills would be sharp and matters would turn out how I wanted. After all, you only get one chance to make a good first impression.

My phone rattled into life with a text message from The Brazilian, “Which side are you?”

I thought about texting back, but then got that familiar sensation that someone was looking at me. I looked up and my eyes met hers through the crowd of tourists. She instantly smiled and my heart skipped a beat; she was as pretty as her pictures on Tinder. I liked the look of her and a sense of relief spread across my body. A blonde haired, blue-eyed, pretty Brazilian? That’s a new one for my spreadsheet.

As she walked up to me I was surprised at how short she was, despite wearing boots that must have added at least two inches. She was still smiling as I kissed her hello on a cheek. What I really wanted to do was scoop her up in my arms and give her a good ol’ fashioned black-and-white movie kiss on the lips. That reaction upon meeting a woman hasn’t happened often for me.

I turned and motioned towards the steep stairs that lead down from Tower Hill Tube station, ready to roll out my “do you like chicken?” gag, but before I had a chance to say a word The Brazilian had coupled her arm with mine. That absolutely stunned me; no woman had done that before. You could have knocked six foot two inch, two-hundred and thirty pounds me over with a feather.

I took that as clear sign that she liked the look of me; we’d hardly said anything to each other. I led us to St Katharine Dock and The Brazilian didn’t know of it. We went to the Dickens Inn and had a pizza each and shared a bottle of wine. She ordered the spiciest pizza on offer which made me think that she was an exciting, energetic lover (it’s a theory I’ve been working on and the findings so far are good).

We sat on the balcony overlooking the marina, initially engaging in the usual small-talk of first dates. I was struck by something unusual; she did most of the talking and it revolved around her telling me about herself. I just sat back and didn’t have to ask many questions to keep the conversation going. In fact, after an hour it seemed like she was selling herself to me. Most women quizzed me on a date, but The Brazilian did not ask a single question about me. I thought this very unusual, but said nothing, instead continuing to listen her rattling off her life in chronological order. It seemed a very well rehearsed script; how many dates has she been on?

As she spoke about herself, I came to the conclusion that The Brazilian was a happy, energetic little person, something that makes my insides turn to cotton wool. Someone who is happy within themselves is so much less hard work than a miserable, anxious person with emotional baggage, which is how I would describe half the women I have met for dates.

“Do you like to cook?” It’s a question I’ve asked my dates only if I sniffed out the slightest prospect of a relationship. I’ve never treated that question as a deal-breaker, more of a fact-finder. If a woman said, “I’m a terrible cook and hate it” on the one extreme, I took that as a hint that they might be a selfish person, a Taker. If, on the opposite extreme of the spectrum, she said, “I love to cook,” I took that as a positive sign that she was something of a provider, a Giver, someone I’d more comfortable with. My ideal answer would be somewhere in the middle, something like, “I enjoy cooking with somebody.” That then is somebody like me, someone who wants to share life, not predominantly give or take. In my years of dating I had never heard any woman say that to me.

The Brazilian’s answer?

“I enjoy cooking with somebody.”

For the second time on our first date you could have knocked me over with a feather. All my blood rushed to my feet; even my cock was in awe. Something at the back of my brain sat up, then stood up, stiffened its spine and said, “Hello, what do we have here?!”

I couldn’t help myself, I immediately launched into to my Magical Forest HeartScan. Her answers were: 1) I’d arm myself – which told me she’s a fighter, the same as me 2) I’d wash my hands and face – which sadly told me that she didn’t throw herself into love and was cautious about it, the opposite of me 3) She’d eat some of the house and then knock on the door to ask permission to enter – which told me that she had a lust for life, was as daring as me, but was respectful and courteous to others; therefore similar but better than me. It was the fact that she was a fighter that impressed me most because nobody else came close to me in that regard. Her attitude towards love was disappointing though, but only because I was hoping for more, hoping that she’d be the same as me, but so far very few women were.

I told her my analysis of her answers, being honest about her approach to love, fully aware that I risk spoiling matters, but to my relief she just smiled coyly and took a sip of her wine. From everything she had told me and her attitude so far, I came to the conclusion that she was looking for a relationship, not just a sweaty role in the proverbial hay. She had my attention, but I was still playing it cool, leaning back in my seat while she sat on the edge of hers.

Lunch was over, the pizzas were good as always, the wine bottle was empty and our stomachs were full and, I think, so were our hearts because we were enjoying each other’s company. The Brazil versus Chile game in the World Cup was about to start so we made our way downstairs to find seats near a television. We got lucky and found a two-seater sofa all to ourselves with a clear view of a screen.

All the while we sat there, for almost two hours I was conscious of three things. First, she had almost no interest in the game and couldn’t take her eyes off me. She was a patriot and her profile pictures included shots of her at Brazilian football games, but today she wasn’t interested. At first it was flattering, then it became annoying and eventually creepy. Secondly, I was fighting off the desire to want to kiss her. I was constantly wondering what her lips felt like, whether she used her tongue, if she made sounds, if she was a good kisser. Thirdly and somewhat bizarrely, I wondered several times what it might be like to have sex with her on that leather sofa. What would it feel like to turn her onto her back, pull her red jeans and panties down to her knees, then lift her legs in the air, unzip my fly, pull my cock out and slide it into her. What would that feel like?

More time went by while I struggled to maintain my composure. I was hoping that Brazil would win the game so that she would be in a more positive frame of mind than if they had lost. Who knew where today might lead? A tonight? The game went to a penalty shoot-out which Brazil won, but I don’t think that my date noticed or cared; she only had eyes for me. This was bordering on freaky now.

The thought had entered my mind that our obvious mutual attraction was so great that it might lead to us going home together. I’d never slept with a woman on a first date; it’s not anything I’ve aspired to and have in the past had opportunity to do so (see The Russian Model). My old code of chivalry dictated that I not even consider let alone suggest this. A long-term relationship doesn’t start like that, I still believe.

With the game over, the date could have ended there. Most people would have done so, I think. However, I felt that it was going well and I was enjoying myself. Not expecting her to agree, I suggested that we go for a walk. This might all end abruptly now.

“I know it’s getting late, but I don’t suppose you’d like to go for a walk?” I said.

“That would be very nice,” were her words. I was reading the situation correctly, it seemed.

As we approached the stairs outside The Dickens Inn, I turned to The Brazilian, about to offer her my arm as she wasn’t totally steady on her heels, when I noticed that she didn’t seem to sure about what to do. In an act of pure instinct, born out of years of doing so with the few women I’ve cared about, I took her hand. It felt natural and right to do so and to my relief she seemed comfortable with this somewhat brazen act on my part. Out of the corner of my eye I think I saw her smile.

We walked around St Katharine Dock, with me taking the lead in the conversation, telling her of the history of the area that I knew by heart after so many dates, but still told it to her as if it was the first time ever I had said those words. This date was starting to feel magical.

Eventually we ended up going into a coffee shop on the Southbank. Seeing as I had paid for lunch, The Brazilian insisted on paying for our coffees, which I was uncomfortable with as usual, but relented because she seemed adamant. I needed the toilet and returned to find her having chosen a table with a padded bench and a single chair in front of it. She was sitting on the bench so I naturally took the chair in hand, but before I could sit down, she said, “Don’t you want to sit next to me?” and patted the seat next to her on the bench.

That simple act blew me away. Here was someone who was obviously comfortable with me and didn’t see me as an adversary, but instead as a partner that she wanted to share things with. No other woman I’d ever dated did that and I had also been to that very coffee shop with many of them. She certainly was setting herself aside from all those other dates. With a smile I sat down next to her.

Light-hearted, fun conversation shot between us, energized by what we were feeling. This is how it should be. Having enjoyed our coffees and banter, we realized that it was getting late. I said, “May I escort you to your station?”

“Yes, please. We need to get to Waterloo Station.”

I liked the fact that she used the word “we”. It sound like we were a couple already. It was starting to look and feel that way and at breath-taking speed.

So we walked to Waterloo Station, holding hands all the way, engaging in endless chatting. She certainly liked to talk, so I let her, which wasn’t a bad thing as it let me get to know a lot about her experiences, her viewpoint and opinions on things and, to my great surprise, she didn’t say anything that I thought was a show-stopper. I was starting to feel a connection with her, a meeting of minds and a hint of a meeting of spirits too. There were a few moments when I felt my heart swell. I could fall in love with her, I knew this already.

We stood at the gates to the bustling platform where her train was waiting to whisk her away from me, to her home, wherever and whatever that was. It felt almost to be the natural thing to get on that train with her, to hold hands as we walked up her street and wrap my arms around her as we fell asleep. I didn’t want the night to end.

Even now my lips get the better of my judgement. I said, “If we were naughty people I’d go home with you tonight,” with a wicked little laugh.

Her eyes darted between mine and I realised that she was taking me seriously.

“Hmm, tempting,” she said with a serious look in her eyes.

“No, not tonight. Not my style,” I said, rebuffing her, slightly concerned at her now obvious desire to want to sleep with me. I should have taken that as something of a red flag; if you sense a relationship with someone, you know there’ll eventually be lots of sex, so why rush it? But I did come across her on Tinder after all.

“Your train is about to leave, “ I said, defusing the situation.

She looked at me, her mind and heart obviously racing, but her lips were the cruel gatekeepers to her words that I would have loved to have heard.

Our eyes were locked on each other’s and I so badly didn’t want the night to end, but deep down knew that it had to, but also I knew there would be more nights, perhaps even better ones, with her.

I recalled something that had worked well with The Finn a few weeks ago, so I used it again, slightly uncertain what its effect would be.

“Umm, I don’t normally do this, but I’d like to see you again. Let me know sometime if you feel the same way,” I said.

“Yes, I want to see you again too,” she instantly shot back with a relieved little smile that showed some of her perfect, white teeth.

“Are you free tomorrow?” I asked jokingly, giving her my best smile.

“Yes, I am. What time?” was her instant response.

“Whoa! I was joking. Are you serious?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Okay, send me a text message with your thoughts and we’ll make a plan. Your train is getting ready to leave,” I said over the noise of an impatient, old-fashioned whistle.

The Brazilian quickly leaned forward and presented her cheek which I equally quickly kissed. It was too soon for our first kiss and the circumstances weren’t right.

I stood and watched her scamper off through the gates and down the platform as other passengers jumped into open carriage doors.

If she stops and turns to smile at me, she wants me.

The Brazilian stopped outside a brooding dark door, turned to me, waved at me and gave me a perfect smile that I can still see today.

Only Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl had this effect on me after a first date…and look what happened. I must be a glutton for punishment…but I really want to get to know her…be with her, because she feels ‘right’.

I feel good. Damn good.

Michael Buble – Feeling Good

Date #14 – The Confused Cutie

I spotted a cute face on MatchAffinity, I favourited her and overnight she had done the same thing, which I took as a “come-on” sign. Women are modest like that and will rarely approach a man first, for fear of seeming desperate or easy as well as not having to deal with the icy cold sting of rejection if the man doesn’t respond – that privilege is reserved for men. I wrote to her and after a few emails we agreed to meet.

She was house-hunting in my region and I suggested meeting at the same pub where I had first met Sweet Thing. I got there early so I sat in my car until she arrived and I recognized her as she drove in.

She was shorter and more portly than what I was expecting, but had a very pretty face, had at least c-cups, bright blue eyes and perfect blonde hair. I liked the look of her and she reciprocated by making the involuntary eye gesture women make when they fancy a man. None of us are attracted to someone’s personality at first sight.

Pleasantries aside we sit down to a very good lunch with wine. After a while conversation just didn’t flow. She seemed preoccupied and her answers to any questions were very short. I know how to make conversation, how to put a woman at ease in my company, but she was just hard work. Then it started to all come out; I think the alcohol helped.

It turned out that she was still married and had walked out of her marital home only two months previously. She was from the North of England and had moved to the South of England. After a long, unrewarding marriage one day she decided to cut her losses, packed what she could in her car and hit the road, heading South, with nowhere to go to. En route she made a plan and ended up sharing a house near London with a male friend of a female friend.

With a little bit of coaxing she confided that her and the flatmate had fucked a few times. She claimed to want something a little bit more serious than just a fuckbuddy, which was why she was on a dating site.

“So what kind of relationship are you looking for?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” is all she said after a few seconds of contemplation.

In my mind I christened her ‘Confused Cutie’.

I took stock of her: she was still wearing her wedding rings and another guy’s cum was dripping out of her. Not exactly Plan A (relationship) material, was she? It was time to invoke Plan B: to see if she was just looking for some fun. Did she just want to be someone’s piece of fuckmeat for a while? My romantic heart closed to her and my childish alter ego, Stupid Boy, materialised from nowhere, invisibly stroking my cock under the table.

Looking outside I thought of taking her for a walk in the woods that started across the road. How long would it take before Confused Cutie found herself leaning over a fallen tree, her legs spread with blouse and bra pushed up under her armpits, her milky white breasts swaying as I thumped my cock into her tight little pussy? At the same time I’m trying not to trip over her knickers with a wet spot that clung to an ankle…

I realized that I wasn’t packing rubber, so the daydream would have to wait for another time. What other people call fantasies, I call plans. I decided to pursue a subtler course with no outcome in mind.

In my high school we had a school psychologist. We were all told that he was a ‘guidance teacher’. His role was to help troubled teenagers, prepare kids for adult life by teaching practical life-skills and getting the boys mentally ready for the rigours of military service. He met with each class once a week for an hour to teach us things like how to write a resume, how to behave at a job interview, how to open and operate a bank account, practical things that young adults need to know about. Once he made all the girls carry a small pocket of potatoes everywhere for a week and at the end of it he told the girls that they now had an idea of what handling a baby was like.

One lesson was about love and relationships. He put us through a short questionnaire that showed how we all differed when it came to important life matters. He said that a good partner for each of us would give the same or similar answer as we did to three aspects of life. I decided to put my date through this questionnaire, not just to make conversation or get to know her better, but honestly to alleviate the boredom that I felt.

“You’re in a Magical Forest and you have to follow a path with dense tress either side of it. You can only go forwards and little bit either side of the path, but never backwards. You’re going to encounter three scenes and you have to tell me your instinctual reaction to each scene, your immediate gut reaction, as quickly as you can. Don’t worry, there’s no right or wrong answer. Got it?”

“Yes,” she said, apprehensively which is a totally normal reaction.

“The first scene is you’re walking along the path and you come face to face with a wolf. He’s snarling, the spit is flying and he’s about to attack you. Quick, tell me what you’d do!”

“Uh, I’d climb a tree” Confused Cutie said.

“Okay, you climb a tree and after a while the wolf gets bored and wanders off. He’s never to be seen again, you’re perfectly safe and you follow the path once more. It brings you out at a clearing dominated by a waterfall. The top of the waterfall is high above you and a plunge-pool is at your feet. It’s a pleasantly warm day and the water looks inviting. Tell me what you’d do,” I said.

“Uhm, I’d bend down and feel the water with my hand,” she responds.

“You wouldn’t go for a swim?” I coax.

“No. I don’t know what’s in the water or how deep it is or where it all goes,” Confused Cutie elaborates.

“Okay, you touch the water and get back on the path. It leads you to the final scene which is a house in a clearing. The house is made of your favourite sweets and treats, all the things you can’t resist eating. There’s a door and window, but no signs of life. Tell me, do you eat anything off of the house or try to go inside?”

“I look at the house but won’t eat anything because it might be poisoned. I might try and look through the window to see what’s inside, but I won’t knock on the door. Right, so what’s this all about?”

“Well, each of the scenes is a metaphor for something significant in life. The wolf is a cross-cultural symbol for problems. The vast majority of people do what you did and climb a tree.”

“So what does it mean?” Confused Cutie asked.

“It means that the vast majority of people seek shelter from their problems.” I didn’t want to point out that she had just run away from her married home.

“What do you do?”

“Me? I attack the wolf. I either kill it or it runs away. That’s just me for you,” I say with a smile.

“So what does that mean?” she asks, now very interested in this little game.

“It means I tackle my problems. Very few people do.”

“And the waterfall?”

“Ah, well that’s a metaphor for love. It shows what a person’s attitude towards love is,” I tell her.

“And my response shows what?”

“It shows that you have a very cautious approach to love. You need to know for certain before you commit to anything,” I explain. Once again it’s the most common answer given.

“Yes, I would agree with that. What’s your answer?”

“I take my clothes off and jump in,” I tell her.

“Which shows that you aren’t afraid of love, but can be reckless with it,” she pronounces proudly.

“You got it. Very good. You’re not just a pretty face,” I flatter which makes her smile. She’s very pretty when she smiles.

“And the final scene, the house?” Confused Cutie asks.

“That’s a complicated one. The house is about a person’s approach to life. There’s two parts to it. The temptations indicate degree of self-control and zest for life. The door and window show how curious and respectful someone is about life and other people,” I explain.

“So what does my answers tell you about me?” she asks cautiously.

“You observe life and are slightly curious about it. That’s the most common answer and approach in all my years of asking people about this,” I say. In my mind I know that the vast majority of people do exactly the same thing as her, voyeuristic as they watch life go by, which makes them and her boring to me.

“What do you do at the house?” she asks.

“I have an incredibly sweet tooth, so I eat so much of the house that I can inside it,” I tell her.

“Which says what about you?”

“It says says that I have such a zest for and curiosity about life that I get to understand things in a way that most people don’t. However, it says that I find it easier to ask for forgiveness than permission because I tend to do what I want, not always what I should” I confess, now not giving a damn about what she thought of me.

“Interesting,” is all she said.

As you can see, Confused Cutie and I were badly mismatched.

We moved outside into the unseasonally warm sun, slowly sipping our drinks, trying to make small-talk. There was no chemistry between us and we were just both going through the motions. Conversation was difficult at times as she closed her eyes and tilted her head to sun herself. This was going well. Not.

I was thinking of how to end this disaster when she said, “Right, it’s time for me to go. I have another house viewing in an hour.”

I walked Confused Cutie to her car and we stood beside it, not knowing what to say, so Stupid Boy took charge and I leaned in to kiss her, expecting a slap or a cheek being presented. I didn’t care what happened, I was practising being naughty, trying on my new Grey Knight armour. Stupid Boy was becoming Grey Knight.

To my surprise I got a very lusty full-mouth kiss with a probing tongue that shot out after just a few seconds. Confused Cutie was certainly a passionate kisser. You can tell a lot from a kiss; she was a horny little wench.

She let go of me, gave a satisfied smile and said, “It was great to meet you. I’ll be in touch,” and then she got in her car and drove off.

I had learned that in England “I’ll be in touch” actually meant “fuckoff and die”.

The Days of the Grey Knight were not off to a good start, but it mattered not a jot as I had another date lined up for the next day…

LESSON LEARNED: Always carry a condom. It gives me options.