Tag Archives: Miss Indecisive

Date #52 – Lovely Lawyer

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

Decider date

I decide that I have nothing to lose by seeing Make-up Madam again, but in the same breath I also have nothing to lose by meeting someone else too. A month ago I had been swapping messages with somebody on the national newspaper’s dating site, but although we had made noises about meeting it didn’t happen. I arrange to meet her this coming Saturday.

First I have some unfinished business with Make-up Madam. She’s gone away on another ‘girly weekend’ and is getting back on Monday morning. We arrange to meet late on Monday afternoon at a pub near where she lives. I drive for an hour into the wilds of the English countryside. It reminds me of the time I met Miss Indecisive in a lonely pub on a stormy night; internet dating was certainly broadening my geographic knowledge.

As usual I get to the venue first and it isn’t long before Make-up Madam arrives in her car with her pug strapped into the seat next to her. Is that curious chappy a safety blanket of sorts for her? We meet in the middle of the car park and politely kiss each other hello. Again my gut reaction is one of disapproval at the sight of all that unnecessary make-up. Does she use a shovel to plaster it on?

It’s a pleasant Autumnal dusk as we sit chatting in the beer-garden of the pub. There’s nobody else in the pub except the staff but that will soon change. I have no idea how this date will turn out or when it might even end up. Sex is not on my agenda; I want to know if this person and I can have a loving relationship.

“So you live nearby?” I ask.

“Yes, only a five minute drive away. I must tell you that I have a lodger,” she replies with an inquisitive look in her eyes.

Why is she choosing to tell me this? Is she trying to tell me that we can’t go back to her place? If so, does she think I’m only interested in sex? Well she’s wrong. Perhaps she’s letting me know that her living arrangements are complicated and planning is required if things go down that route. My brain sprints about and my silence makes her tell me more.

“It’s a guy, but nothing has ever happened between us. The money I make from that spare room pays for my horse,” she says.

I’m still not entirely sure why she’s telling me this, I’ll have to figure it out later. Men and women communicate in such different ways. Women prefer to be subtle and graceful, but unfortunately it often leads to ambiguity and then confusion on the man’s part.

“So what happened on this weekend away?” I ask as a way of changing the subject and fishing for information about what she gets up to with her friends in her free time.

“Well, it was a friend’s birthday so we went to the coast and boogied the nights away,” she says with a hint of defensiveness.

I decide to go on the offensive. Is she the type to sleep around?

“Oh c’mon, I know what happens on these girly weekends. Did you get lucky?” I ask calmly with my best naughty smile.

“No, I didn’t but my best friend did, but if you ever meet her please don’t say anything,” she replies.

“I won’t say anything. So what happened? I’m curious,” I proceed, pushing my luck. Hmm, she’s already picturing me meeting her social circle.

“Well, we had our Disney costumes again which the fellas really like. I think it’s the short skirts. My mate went home with a different fella each night. I went back to my hotel room alone,” she answers, giving me far more information than I was expecting.

A red flag goes up and I now start to feel somewhat uncomfortable about Make-up Madam. Birds of a feather flock and fuck together. If this is what goes on with her best friend then it’s not too far-fetched to think that Make-up Madam has also indulged in this kind of loose behaviour.

I’ve always been wary of promiscuous women. As a younger man my outlook was driven by a concern about sexual health. As a teenager I worked in a scrap-metal yard as a foreman and one day a labourer came to me about a health problem he had. An enormous growth the size of my fist was perched next to his genitals. This was quite shocking to me at the age of sixteen. I had this guy taken off to a clinic immediately. That sight caused me to be sexually conservative, something that I am grateful for. Now as an older man I see promiscuous women in a different light. In my experience their behaviour is driven by an emotion, an issue or a self-perception about themselves. They are using sex – and men – as a way of getting something that they feel they are lacking. They have an emotional issue or two that is not just sabotaging their relationships with men, but it is also hobbling their lives. I want and need to be with someone who is emotionally healthy.

lock n key

It gets dark and cold so we go inside the pub and share a meal. No topic of conversation seems to be off-limits with Make-up Madam. As we talk I’m charmed by her sweetness and willingness to be honest with me. Those are two things that I value in a woman, largely because each is rare and together in one person is even rarer still.

Despite my misgivings about how she chooses to socialize, from everything else that she has shared with me, I sense that I can trust and respect her. Yes, I can have a relationship with her I conclude, but there are a few red flags that just can’t be ignored. First, that ghastly make-up is always going to bother me. Second, she doesn’t seem to go anywhere without her dog; that’s just not practical in my world. Third, she has a back problem from her riding accident that might never heal, so our sex-life might never be what it might have been. Lastly, she has a lodger; we can forget about baptising every room and lazing about as we please in her place. Memories of that time with Krazy Girl having a lodger come to mind. Yes, all of those things are temporary and can be changed, but I don’t want to go changing anybody, in the same way that I don’t want anybody trying to change me.

On the plus-side, I do enjoy her company. A major bonus is that she loves my dry, twisted sense of humour and doesn’t mind the occasional pun. She has a positive outlook on life and has her shit sorted; she doesn’t need a man in her life, she only wants one to share things with. Those things matter to me.

The evening ends with her starting to fade and even the pug has fallen asleep. A brief bout of sweet kisses ensues before I walk Make-up Madam to her car. She speeds off into the dark and I drive home feeling conflicted.

The next evening we chat on the phone and I invite her to my home for the Friday night. I offer to cook for her, which excites her. Then she asks if she can bring her dog, to which I agree. I realize that there is a very real prospect of things getting physical between us on Friday night; I think that if I wanted to she’d be easy to seduce. The thought of that does not fill me with the feelings that it should.

The next day I rethink things and conclude that she’s not The One. On a purely logical level there is cause for optimism for us having a relationship. The problem is that love is a matter of the heart. My heart does not crave her. I’m learning about myself that I need to feel besotted with a woman, like I did with Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl.

I don’t want to hurt Make-up Madam in any way. She’s a good decent person who does not deserve to be used or misled. The kind of love that her and I would share can only be a sympathetic love, which is never the best kind. I want another love: the best kind.

I want to share my life with someone whom I cannot imagine being without. A woman who I cherish, treasure and will never fail. She has a way about her that I find mesmerising, an effortless femininity that I find alluring and reassuring. She has a heart untouched by the strife of life. She completes my world and I am prepared to die defending her. When I look at her, I must be stirred. When I touch her I must feel something inside me react. When I kiss her my body must rise to the pleasure. When I hold her hand it must feel just right. When we look at each other, words are unnecessary, we just know and can’t help but smile at each other. When we make love, every part of who we are is involved and satisfied. We must feel like we’re made for each other.

From what I have experienced with her, I do not for a moment believe that Make-up Madam fits that description, so I send her my standard goodbye text message.

She responds with:

I have to just say that I am feeling sad today as you are the first guy in a very long time whose company and conversation I have really enjoyed. I fear that you have got me wrong and have me down as a party girl which I’m not at all. I haven’t had the joy of a good relationship in a long time. I miss having a lover who is my best friend and giving each other support. Either way I am pleased that I met you and do wish you every happiness. X

I find her words touching so I respond with soothing thoughts and a suggestion that she join my Happy Humping Ground dating site which, I believe, has a better type of person on there.

I’m looking forward to meeting someone new on Saturday and that in itself tells me that my decision is the correct one.

Tom Odell – Another love

Something died

I was sitting alone at home on a rainy Sunday night, staring blankly at my television, my thoughts racing in circles trying to understand what had happened with Krazy Girl and all the other women I had met in the previous 10 months. I was trying to make sense of it all when an unusual chill came over me, unlike any other I had felt before. It was coming from behind me.

A giant invisible hand gripped me, picked me up with ease and dropped me into the Arctic Ocean that had appeared out of nowhere. Everything became cold and dark. Natural buoyancy and the vice-like grip of the icy water propelled me to the surface. Thunder and lightning raged overhead in the pitch-black night sky as a vicious wind swept up the waves. Pieces of jagged ice sped past me, carried by a strong current as bigger, dangerous icebergs were threatening to crash into me. I started swimming towards a flatter sheet of floating ice; I knew I only had a few minutes to survive the freezing water. My clothes were becoming heavy and were betraying me, trying to take me under, into the dark, lonely depths below where nothing and nobody mattered.

Between the booms of thunder I could hear voices, chattering voices, women’s voices. I couldn’t see where they were, but their high-pitched sounds were becoming louder.

“Help me!” I shouted out, in a pathetic attempt to be heard above the roar of the storm.

“Hahaha. Hahahaha,” the women’s voices answered, laughing at me, in a cacophony of mockery and scorn.

I tried clambering up the sharp sides of the sheet of ice, pulling myself up as forcefully as I could, but I was struggling. Hypothermia was setting in, my muscles weren’t working as they should; my clothes felt like a dead weight pulling me back into the black waters that yearned to be my grave. With the last of my strength I pulled myself up over the edge, as I did so there was a strange snapping sound. It felt like a piece of me had broken free from inside my chest, morphed out of my ribs and slipped into the eager waters so quickly that I couldn’t see what it was. It was gone forever, whatever it was.

I woke up realizing that my single glass of wine had put me to sleep. Or had it?

Something inside me had indeed snapped and then died.

Months of unrewarding, demanding dating had taken its toll and I was now angry. I was angry at women, all women. I was angry at women because of their seemingly endless messing me around. I was angry at their insatiable need for silly fucking games.

I was angry about all those many pointless nights I spent swapping messages with dozens of women on dating sites that never led to a date because they just couldn’t bring themselves to meet in person. They preferred hiding behind a screen, basking themselves in male attention without having to give or do anything in return. How women had jerked my chain and wasted my time. I was sick of it.

Why couldn’t they just be happy to be with me? Why couldn’t they just accept that I’m a good guy with a lot to offer? Why must they dwell on their past to the extent that they sabotage their present and future and embroil me in that? Why do they treat me with suspicion when there is no reason for it?

Why couldn’t they just want to hold hands as we walked? Why couldn’t they be happy to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon telling each other stories that made us laugh? Why couldn’t it be simple instead of all so complicated? Why couldn’t they be happy and just be looking to add to their happiness?! Why did they have to be so messed up? Why couldn’t they just be normal?! Why couldn’t they be more like me?

Tech Titan was unbearably clingy. Baltic Babe wanted a glorified sperm-donor. Demolition Debbie was still married. The Model was deranged. Miss Indecisive was a serial dater, a female player I suspect. Potty Mouth disgusted me. The Hirsute Russian made me cringe. The German Shrink bored me. Quiet Katie nearly left me in a coma. Sweet Thing wanted me as a slave and dog-sitter in her home. Irish Eyes had her bloody games. NutSlut was an attention-seeking, approval-craving unpaid whore. Krazy Gal, well who the hell knew what she wanted?

It was that last one who really hurt me, the one who did the most damage, because I had got my hopes up.

I had always adored women. I still think that the most amazing creature on our planet is the female human. She is designed for and capable of a multitude of roles, yet still so delicate and sensitive, despite the versatility. I had always thought that women have a far harder time in life than men do. Most men embarrass me because of their weakness. Mother Nature has even decreed a cruel irony in that women tend to spend their last years alone and struggling. Was it because they could cope with it? After my father died when I was thirteen my mother was a single mother, so I know the hardship and even today my heart (what’s left of it) still goes out to the single mothers of the world. I read somewhere that, if a man treats a woman like a queen, it shows that he was raised by one. My mother had raised me to treat every woman like a queen. I revered women, so much so that I had put every single woman up on a high pedestal. They could do no wrong in my world.

I had always thought that the sweetest thing in the world was little girls between the ages of two and four. I couldn’t agree more with Charles Aznavour: ‘Thank heaven for little girls’. To me they are all just so cute, with their big eyes, abundant enthusiasm, their sense of adventure, even their wilful ways. It always made me smile to see a little girl dressed in a chequered skirt, cream cardigan and pig-tails running along, laughing, with an ice-cream in her hand.

Sadly, somewhere along in their development these little girls all seem to fall into the clutches of a Miss Haversham; they become spiteful and mean to boys, determined to play games with them. They develop the mindset and skills that reduce men into mere playthings for them. Men are there to be toyed with, to be accommodated while it suited her, to be played off against another guy (publicly or secretly, it didn’t really matter) and then to be belittled and rejected when the time was right. Little girls grow into young women devoid of respect for men, even before they have life experience of men. Women seemed to think that men don’t have feelings.

The so-called fairer sex were anything but fair to me. The more respect I gave them, the less they appreciated me. My manners and consideration were being mistaken for weakness. Is it possible that I was “too nice”? All those nights of dates where I was the consummate gentleman, pulling back restaurant chairs, opening doors, offering my jacket, making polite conversation, paying for everything. Where did it get me? Fucking nowhere.

A sense of outrage had been accumulating and it finally came out in me. My ex-wife and ex-girlfriend had both deceived me. You don’t deceive somebody you love. Therefore they didn’t really love me; I felt like a fool because of it. Nobody likes feeling like a fool and especially not me. Years of harbouring memories of their deceit seeped to the surface. That mixed with my feelings about my previous dates and an overwhelming sense of frustration bubbled over in my psyche.

I concluded that the nice guy that I am had gotten me nowhere with women. They didn’t seem to value me. Instead, they seemed to want to take advantage of me, to use me. They didn’t want to give me anything, they only wanted to take.

The thing in me that had died was respect for women.

I decided that it was time that I changed my ways and started playing women at their own game.

I harboured out-dated, unrealistic notions about the true nature of women and these ideas were hurting me. You see, I had lived life in reverse order compared to most people. I got into a serious, committed relationship at the age of twenty that lasted until my mid-thirties. I didn’t have that crazy exploration phase that most people have in their twenties. I didn’t go bed-hopping and heart-breaking when I was young. I had skipped all that and consequently I lacked experience and skills when it came to women.

I resolved to improve my skills with women to such an extent that people who knew me would start accusing me of being a player. Yes, that much-maligned male aberration would become a velvety cape that I would slip on when it suited me and I wouldn’t give a damn. No woman would ever again outsmart me, abuse me or hurt me; I was going to make sure of that.

There’s a great line from Californication (for the aficionado it’s season 1, episode 3, minute 5:55) in which Hank says, “A girl knows within seconds whether she wants to fuck, marry or kill a guy” and I think it’s true. I had to stop assuming that the woman in front of me wanted the same things as me. Some of them, perhaps most of them, just wanted to get laid. I hadn’t bothered to find out. All along I had been leaning towards the “marry” angle, a long-term relationship, not just a quick forgettable fumble in the dark to stave off loneliness. The latter was never appealing to me, but perhaps it was time to explore that side of life. Instead of trying to direct the currents of the dating ocean, going with the flow was much easier and who knows what it might lead to?

My father’s advice about there being only two types of women, “Good Girls and Good-Time Girls”, became more poignant. If my date was the latter, I would give her what she wanted and a lot more than she bargained for.

I made a conscious decision that, if I didn’t deem the woman in front of me to be a Good Girl, to be relationship material (I call that Plan A), I would revert to Plan B – to see if she just wanted to get laid, and if she did, to see how much fun I could have with her. It would become a game to see how long it took before I could have my way with her; consequences be damned.

The night of the iceberg dream was the night the idea of all women being a ‘nice girl’ died in my mind, along with the ‘nice guy’ my parents had raised me to be. My White Knight mindset had not served me well and had in fact got me into trouble in the past and it was causing me trouble now by way of unfulfilled expectations – that of finding my queen, The One, and living happily ever after. They were proving to be unrealistic expectations given the environment I found myself in, this crazy online dating scene.

It was now time for me, a whole new me: a leaner, meaner, more selfish me. No more White Knight in shining armour only offering the best of intentions, but instead a Grey Knight, much less shiny and white. A knight still capable of being a White Knight if the reason was there, but now more intent on indulging himself in the sins of the flesh.

Yes, I was going to dive headlong into a sea of pointless pussy. Would I learn to swim or would I drown? I didn’t care.

Either way, no more Mr Fucking Nice Guy…more like Mr Nice Guy Fucking…

Sinnerman by Nina Simone

Miss Indecisive gets put on the cupboard? Or do I?

I suggested to Miss Indecisive that she visit me in my town on the Friday night and that we go for dinner. It was also a way of letting her see my home, all in an effort to develop the relationship. I was also hoping to share our first kiss. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

On the Friday morning I got up early to clean and tidy my apartment. I knew I wouldn’t have time in the evening getting back from work to do so. Nobody cleans quicker than a man expecting a lady visitor!

That night we met outside my block and went straight to the restaurant. Winter was nearly upon us and it was cold and dark as we walked up to the Italian taverna that had cute Christmas lights on the trees outside. I was looking forward to this encounter because I could sense the possibility of a relationship with Miss Indecisive.

We sat down to an excellent meal accompanied by great wine. It was a classically romantic dinner for a newly-dating couple. She still had a bad cold, but I was determined to kiss her at the end of the night.

Conversation flowed easily and we were both very relaxed and comfortable with each other. Once again the cocktail of medicine and alcohol slowly took effect. Miss Indecisive moved the conversation towards her previous boyfriend, which made me wonder if she was still hung up on him. I wasn’t expecting what she said next though.

“He liked to have me dress up in skimpy leather outfits with knee-high boots, then put me over his lap and spank me until my backside went red. After that he would pick me up and put me on top of the cupboard.”

“Then what?” I asked while trying not to choke on my veal.

“Oh, he would lie on the bed and have a wank while we stared at each other.”

“You’re kidding. How did you feel about this?” I asked, hiding my surprise.

“I would just laugh. The whole thing was just preposterous, but it’s what he liked, so I went along with it.”

This story struck me as somewhat unbelievable. What man would do that when he had such an attractive woman before him? Seeing as she was in a chatty frame of mind about this I decided to be naughty and for once dared to delve deeper.

“What did he do to pleasure you?” I asked.

“Pleasure me? Absolutely nothing! He wasn’t interested in pleasuring me. It was all about him. I was just his toy. It’s one of the reasons I left him.”

“So how did you get off?” I couldn’t believe that I was having this conversation, but what the hell.

“I would simply have to play with myself while he watched. He was a bit of a voyeur, Mr Banker-Wanker.”

Every man is a bit of a voyeur, it’s just the degree that varies. Any man that says he doesn’t enjoy watching pornography is a liar. Men are visual creatures, it’s how we are. I’ve watched my fair share of porn, but I don’t need it every day, I’m not addicted. But to have a sexy woman like her in front of you and not want to make the beast with two backs is highly unusual to my mind.

The meal ended and I invited Miss Indecisive back to my place on the pretext of introducing her to Californication. She accepted and we left the restaurant with her thanking me for paying for the meal. Something told me that she was going to like that show.

My apartment is nothing fancy, it’s quite plain and simple actually. I keep it clean and tidy as a rule because that’s how I am. The clean-up of the morning was just a confidence booster for me. It has a separate bedroom, an awful apricot-coloured bathroom, a kitchen that was very with it when it was installed in the 1980s and a decent-sized lounge that I have worked minor miracles with to make it what it was. Is now a good time to mention that I’m colour-blind?

About a minute after entering it I could sense that Miss Indecisive’s mood had changed. She became less chatty. Undaunted I got us comfortable on the sofa in front of my huge television. I offered her a drink, but she declined, so I changed her world by switching on Californication. As I expected, she loved it, laughing at everything that I laughed at too. Good, we had a similar sense of humour.

I sat on one end of the sofa and she sat on the far end with a cushion on her lap, her arms folded and her legs crossed. Her body language told me that she was uncomfortable. I had no intention of jumping her, I just wanted one kiss. Of course she couldn’t know this. I decided not to try my luck in my home because it might have freaked her out. Saying goodbye later would seem a more appropriate and safe time for her.

The second episode of Californication ended and Miss Indecisive said that it was time for her to go. I was little surprised as it was barely 10pm on a Friday night, but said nothing. I escorted her to her car which was parked on the street in front of my block.

“What are your plans for the coming week and next weekend?” I asked, wondering when our next date would be.

“Umm, I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I have dates all weekend next week,” she said without much emotion.

“Oh, I see,” was all I could stammer.

Was she trying to brush me off? Let me know that there were other guys on the scene? Let me down gently?

So I had a little competition. That’s okay, I can handle that. Sod it, I still wanted to kiss her.

I was just about to kiss her when an old lady walking her decrepit dog came by. The dog stopped to sniff Miss Indecisive’s car. We all paused to see if it would dare lift a leg.

It didn’t and the two interlopers shuffled down the street. I turned to kiss Miss Indecisive, but she was halfway into her driver’s seat.

“Right, got to go. Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said and drove off, leaving me standing befuddled and bemused.

The next morning, having had some time to digest her bombshell, I sent her the following email:

I really enjoyed last night. I hope you did too?

May all your dates this coming week be lacking in stature, eloquence, intellect, morals, wit and cologne.
:)

Phil

PS. I’d like to see you again.

On the Sunday evening I got the following response:

I have enjoyed meeting you and our three dates, however I have decided that one day I may want children and as you are adamant that you do not it would not be fair on either of us to go out again.

I wish you the best of luck finding Miss Right.

Take care.

I was disappointed in a couple of ways. First, I thought there was a chance of a relationship. Second, that she used the excuse that she did. Third, I probably wouldn’t know the real reason why and was left guessing that she was more attracted to someone else.

Dumped

Miss Indecisive rides topless but can’t kiss me

We swapped a few emails the next day and agreed to meet the following Saturday night. I make that sound so simple. It took several emails that involved her suggesting three places near her to meet, I’d choose one, she would agree, then change her mind, plumb for one of the others, change her mind again. We ended up settling for the first one I chose. All this via email, so it felt like it was happening in slow motion.

The following dark Saturday night I drove through deserted English countryside as a storm was brewing and ghostly bare trees waved their branches at me, admonishing me for choosing a pub in the middle of nowhere. My trusty satnav got me to the pub’s empty car park a few minutes before 8pm. I decided to sit in my car to wait for Miss Indecisive. There were no signs of life in the pub.

Suddenly headlights came speeding down the country lane towards me, they slowed abruptly and turned sharply into the giant car park and then drove slowly around the parking area. Was it bored boy racers looking to cause mischief? Was the car going to come to a stop, headlights in my face, engine gunning and smoke coming from the tyres?

Eventually the car stopped wandering around the car park and ended up straddling two parking spots. The driver got out. It was Miss Indecisive.

Miss Indecisive

I went to meet her halfway between her car and the door to the pub. After giving her a kiss on the cheek, she said, “I must warn you that I have a stonkingly bad cold.”

“Well, I guess that means you can’t kiss me or have too much alcohol,” I said with a smile. She laughed.

The pub inside was empty except for two guys dressed in black behind the bar who seemed annoyed at our intrusion. I quickly chose a table for fear of Miss Indecisive becoming involved.

The date got progressively better, banter flowed, the food was good and I even coaxed her into having a glass of wine with me. I think it was the mixture of the alcohol and her medication that relaxed her. Other patrons had started streaming in and the place had come to life. Somehow we got talking about previous relationships and it seemed that she had had quite a few, the longest of which lasted five years.

“My last long-term boyfriend was a bit kinky,” she said, catching me by surprise.

“What do you mean?” I asked, cautiously prying while at the same being concerned that what I heard might put me off her.

“Well, he was a banker and he had a Porsche. I swear he liked that car more than me. Anyway, last Summer he surprised me with a weekend away to Brighton. The only condition was that I sat topless in the car on the drive down to the coast.”

“Did you?” I couldn’t help but look at her chest as I spoke.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Well, we got a bit of attention from a few other cars,” Miss Indecisive said with a smile.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh and a coy smile.

It seemed that there was a naughty side to Miss Indecisive. She was becoming more interesting by the hour. I didn’t expand the conversation on that topic, but perhaps I should have.

Before we knew it, it was midnight and we were the only people left in the pub except for the two black-shirted guys who were noisily cleaning up. I had no intention of pushing my luck and trying to go home with her. It just wasn’t my style. I was looking for a relationship, not a plaything. Giving her the impression that I was just after sex would have destroyed the prospect of a serious romance.

I paid the bill and escorted Miss Indecisive to her car. It was cold and windy, so I offered her my jacket which she politely declined.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said as we stood next to her car.

“You’re welcome,” I said and kissed her on the cheek. I avoided her lips because I didn’t want to catch her cold, but I did take the opportunity to give her a hug.

I put my arms under hers and pulled her carefully against me. I could feel her body against mine and it felt good. For a moment she rested her head on my shoulder before pushing herself off of me and getting in her car to drive off. She smiled and waved at me before speeding off in to the murky night.

Miss Indecisive certainly had my attention…

Date #5 – Miss Indecisive hates brown shoes?!

I signed up to Plenty of Fish as it’s the biggest free dating site out there, so surely She could be waiting there? I copied my killer profile over from my Happy Humping Ground site, hoping it would bring me better luck in finding true love.

After much scouring of profiles I conjured up a short list of interesting profiles and sent off a polite, brief email to each to establish contact. One of the ladies wrote back overnight; my all-new profile had done the trick. We swapped courteous emails and at my suggestion we made plans to meet for a coffee in a town halfway between us outside London.

At noon on a Saturday I was standing outside a busy, fancy coffee shop from a bygone era in a town I had never been to, thinking to myself that at least dating was going to broaden my geographic knowledge. It started to rain so I went inside and found a table that gave me a view of the door and allowed my date to spot me too.

I recognised her as she came in and she made a positive first impression. She was tall, almost six foot it seemed, quite pretty with natural golden blonde hair, very slim and well dressed, wearing tight-fitting blue jeans, a blouse and a smart, short jacket…and ankle-high boots. There is something about a woman in boots that stirs me. I liked the look of her.

Our eyes met, I smiled and stood up to greet her as she approached. She had quite a serious look on her face as I kissed her on a cheek. As an ice-breaker I suggested that we inspect the cakes and pastries on offer at the glass counter. We stood choosing what we wanted, but I was secretly checking her out. She certainly was skinny; I might break her.

It took her quite a while to choose what pastry she wanted, but I didn’t mind as I thought it a pleasant way of her becoming comfortable being around me. She was more attractive than what I was expecting, so the date was off to a good start.

Back at our table the initial polite small-talk about traffic, parking and rain turned serious when she said, “I noticed on your profile that you don’t want children.”

“Correct. How about you?” I said, curious to see where this was leading. I recalled that on her profile she said ‘undecided’ next to the field marked ‘wants children’.

“I can’t make up my mind. Some days I do, then some days I don’t. I think it’s because of my being a Libra; constantly weighing everything up,” she said with a serious face, making a balancing motion with her hands. I thought that her recently turning forty might have added some pressure to her thinking, but didn’t say so.

Our pastries arrived and the waitress asked what drinks we would like. I instantly asked for a latte, but my date took forever to order something, having to first consult a menu and then have a chat with the patient waitress. She went for a latte too. Were all Librans like her?

It was there and then that I decided to dub her ‘Miss Indecisive’.

“Show me your shoes,” she said.

“Sorry, what?” Had I heard correctly?

“I want you to show me your shoes,” she said with a serious look in her dark brown eyes.

Did she have some kind of weird shoe fetish going on? No Stupid Boy, she wants to see how big your feet are because she wants to know how big your dick is. That’s what I thought in that instant.

I stuck a leg out from under the table, dangling a foot towards her, smiling to myself at the absurdity and apparent naughtiness of this. (I’m a UK size 13 which is a 14 in the USA.)

“Oh good, they’re not brown,” she said, finally relaxing her face. She looked prettier without a frown.

“Er, sorry, what?”

“Your shoes aren’t brown. I hate brown shoes. Men’s shoes must always be black. I must note that in my spreadsheet,” Miss Indecisive said.

“Er, sorry, what?” Had the guy behind the counter slipped some magic mushrooms in to my pastry and this was a cute dream?

“I keep a spreadsheet at home with all the details of the guys I date. One of the columns is whether or not he wears brown shoes. If he does, I don’t see him again,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, I see,” is all I said as I eyed my pastry with suspicion. Were those really pieces of chocolate?

I don’t mind a bit of quirkiness in a person. It makes them interesting, unpredictable and fun. A perpetually cold, rational person doesn’t tend to enjoy a laugh and I like to laugh.

“So, how many guys have you dated? How many names are on this spreadsheet?” I asked with a cheeky grin, intrigued as to what the answer would be.

“Oh, a few. It’s more than ten in the last year,” came her reply as she nonchalantly forked her pastry, causing cream to ooze out of it.

I left it there, but in hindsight I should have delved deeper. Conversation with Miss Indecisive flowed adequately, but would come to a halt whenever I asked her opinion on something. She would pause, look to the ceiling, frown, purse her lips and think for a few seconds before giving some kind of non-committal answer. Aside from brown shoes, she didn’t seem to have firm views on much.

Nevertheless, I was interested in learning more about her. She seemed to have a good heart, was lively, open to new ideas, not uncomfortable with being thrown a challenging question, the vibe between us felt good…and I fancied her.

The date ended with me walking her to her car where I politely kissed her goodbye on her cheek.

“I don’t normally do this, but I’d like to see you again,” I said, trying to sound cavalier and sophisticated.

“I’d like that,” she replied with a smile.

Was she The One?