Tag Archives: Passive-Disinterested

Date #56 – The Artist – Final part

It’s a bitterly cold Wednesday noon at the end of February 2015. I get to Tower Hill almost an hour earlier than our date, so I scout out the area and find a coffee shop near the Dickens Inn that I’ve never been to. I don’t want to spoil The Artist on the first date despite my wanting to make a good first impression. With time to kill I go to another coffee shop close to where we are to meet and I sit thinking about her and how this date could turn out. I’m really nervous and I don’t know why, but I suspect because I sense real potential with her despite the odds being against me. I know that in her country of origin – somewhere in central Europe – people are incredibly class and status conscious and if she’s of that mindset then we’re both wasting our time. Nothing ventured, nothing gained; it’s time to go find out.

As I sit nursing my over-priced coffee, I realize that this is the best I have felt about myself in several months. Something I’ve been wondering about is did my state of depression come about because I come off a high induced by copious amounts of exciting sex with glorified strangers? There was certainly a pervasive adrenaline rush that I was operating under for several years; I think of it as a prolonged sexualized state. I stopped the sex and the cold turkey stage was my depression?

I can’t think about that now, it’s finally time to meet The Artist. I make my way over to the exit to Tower Hill Tube station where I find a good spot to see and be seen. Thumbing my phone, I’m standing sending her a text message saying that “your knight in dented and tarnished armour is at his spot” when a crowd of people come through the turnstiles. I send my message and look up, wondering if she’s a new arrival. Out of the corner of my eye I fleetingly spot someone who might be her, but I don’t stare. It is her and she comes up to me.

The first impression of The Artist is not a good one. I had been wondering if she might be overweight, but the size of her shocks me. Then I realize that she’s wearing a poncho and her arms are by her side and that makes her look bigger than what she is. Her face is pleasant enough but not nearly as pretty as in all the photos I’d seen on the internet.

I kiss her hello on both cheeks out of habit, despite reading up the previous night that in her culture that that is not the done thing, but she seems happy enough about it. I’m wearing my regular first date outfit of blue jeans, white shirt and smart blazer. Without saying a word she slips a lapel of my jacket between her fingers and I think that she tries to say that I look very smart but I suggest that we get out of the way of the crowds.

“Are we going to St Katharine Docks?” she asks.

Fuck it. I was so hoping that it would be a wonderful surprise for her. So few Londoners even know it exists because it’s right next to Tower Bridge, an area heaving in tourists all year round so locals avoid it.

“Yes,” I say, with a scowl on my face.

“I’m sorry, have I ruined your surprise?” she asks.

“You’re no fun,” I retort and we laugh.

Her laugh is nothing special, but at least she has a sense of humour. People from her country are not famous for their sense of humour. I really can’t be bothered to conjure up an alternative plan on the spot so I decide to soldier ahead with my plan. I really want to see her in surroundings familiar to me, that will make it easier to see her in context.

“How do you know about St Katharine Docks?” I ask.

“My parents brought me here on holiday when I was a teenager and we stayed in the hotel there,” she replies.

“Oh, by the way, how do you pronounce your name?” I ask, not sure if it’s the French or German pronunciation. She tells me and it’s the German version.

“Do you know how to pronounce my name,” I ask, curious as to whether she knows how because native English-speakers struggle to get it right. She says it correctly and I’m impressed. She probably asked someone at work.

As we walk to St Katharine Docks the banter between us is relaxed with a healthy tinge of nervousness at times on both our parts. She’s very smiley and chatty, but I’m still nagged by a feeling of disappointment because it looks as if she made no effort to get dressed up for this date at all. I find that a little disrespectful. In the moment I realize that it’s perhaps not an entirely bad thing because if she was drop-dead stunning I would be so intimidated that my dating behaviour might be thrown off kilter.

We settle into our seats at a table in the coffee shop that I had scouted out earlier. Banter is incessant and comfortable, consisting largely of me asking questions and her doing the talking. She does like to talk. We order coffee and a tiramisu each. Most women on a date are very reluctant to eat anything, preferring usually something neutral to drink that they can nurse for a while. As they become more comfortable in my company they relent and order something, usually because hunger has caught up with them. Not so with The Artist, oh no, she keeps talking and still manages to finish her tiramisu before me. I don’t think anybody has managed to do that before.

As we talk it becomes evident to me that we are an intellectual match for each other. We both have an interest and ability to observe people’s behaviour. We both love history and travel, both have lived in several countries and speak several languages to varying degrees of fluency.

We have many other significant things in common in that we both come from unhappy childhood homes. Her mother died when she was 22 and my father died when I was thirteen. She is also an only child; I think we might be able to understand each other in a way few others can.

I find myself talking about the same old things that I have with the dozens of other dates that I’ve been on in recent years, but today it feels different; today it feels like it really matters. Swapping our life histories feels like the natural thing to do and I find hers mildly interesting. I’m paying attention because I know already that I want to see her again. From my side I feel some chemistry, but of course I have no way of knowing what she’s feeling.

As she speaks I become more taken with her appearance. I can see the good pictures of her on her profile, so if she makes the effort she can scrub up nicely. She has pleasant green eyes that seem soft and loving. Her skin is on the milky-white side but still touched by the sun, yet there are few blemishes. I don’t think that she’s the 38 years old that she states on her profile, she looks younger, but I’m not going to say anything, but will instead see how long it takes for her to come clean with me. Her golden-blonde hair up tight in a confused bun probably adds a few years. I bet she’s beautiful with her hair hanging down, just like in her profile photo that I’ve stared at so much.

So far I’ve come across with active interest and remember to go passive disinterested on her, so I deliberately turn sideways and lean back against the window behind me. She almost instantly leans forward, keeping the distance between us the same, which tells me that she’s very comfortable with me and wants to maintain the vibe.

I can feel the sun on my back and she gets some sun on the front of her, nevertheless I realize that is on the chilly side in this coffee shop, probably from the refrigeration equipment. It surprises me then to see The Artist every few minutes taking another layer of clothing off until she is only wearing a thin vest-like top. I make a concerted effort to not let her catch me checking out her breasts; I know it comes across as lame and immature to a woman notices a man doing that. I also know from female friends and Busty Blonde that their breasts are something they are particularly cautious about.

So it surprises me further when The Artist sits back in her seat, puts her arms around the back of her seat and essentially sticks her breasts out at me. I deliberately don’t look, struggling manfully to fight Nature and keep looking her in the eye. Only when she looks away a few times do I stare at what I consider an amazing rack; I would love to fondle and kiss them. How does she not fall over when she walks? Patience; she’s either subconsciously trying to attract me or is deliberately doing this for whatever reason. I would prefer it if it was the former because that makes it more sincere and powerful.

Conversation between us twists and turns easily and naturally. It becomes evident to me that we have a very similar way of looking at matters and interpreting them. I sense that she has a gentle nature, but more importantly I come to the conclusion that she is a Good Girl and a Giver. I can trust her and I already know from her life story that I can respect her. I’m starting to sense serious relationship material here.

Its been a couple of hours now and I don’t want this quick coffee date to end any time soon, but it’s getting cold in here and these seats are uncomfortable. I didn’t want to do this on our first date for fear of spoiling her if I thought that there would be a second date, but walking over to the Dickens Inn is the obvious thing to do. Will she want to do this? It’s a big assumption to think that she’s as interested in me as I am in her, but ‘he who fears rejection never knows love’.

“I’m getting hungry. How about we go share a pizza and a drink over there?” I suggest, nodding toward the Inn, holding my breath as I await her answer.

“Yes, I am too. Sounds like a good idea,” she says without any hesitation.

Oh yes, I think she’s feeling what I’m feeling too. Her smile and eyes hint at this. I also get the feeling that she wants to touch me; I don’t know why I think this, but I do. She goes off to the ladies and I guard her belongings that she has left at the table. I sit there in a mild stupor, contemplating the hereto unimaginable in that I might have finally found The One. Stop it, I’m being stupid, it’s only been a few hours…but I can’t help feeling this way.

Upon her return I say “My turn,” but I don’t go to the ablutions and instead go settle the bill for our coffees and cakes. I steal a glance her way and she’s sitting staring out at the marina, smiling to herself. She looks happy.

I return to our table and help her get her layers back on. She seems quite at ease with me doing so, unlike some of the other women I’ve dated who didn’t have a clue what was going on or didn’t like it. The Artist is as classy as I was expecting. Good, she might appreciate some of my old-fashioned touches and in the next few hours together I’ll know for sure, not just about that, but a host of other things too.

“We need to pay,” she says.

“I’ve already taken care of it,” I respond with a wry smile.

“Oh, well then thank you,” she retorts.

“You’re welcome,” is all I say. Hmm, she has manners too; that’s good. So many of my dates haven’t had the common decency to say ‘thank you’ for anything.

We get seated in the Dickens Inn at a quiet table away from the hubbub and my regular waiter gives me a knowing wink. He’s not done that before. Does he know something I don’t?

Pizza and wine is ordered quickly, something I pay attention to wondering if she’s a ditherer. To my delight she’s decisive and orders the spiciest pizza on the menu and asks the waiter for a bottle of tabasco sauce. She likes her food spicy, which pleases me because I know it’s a sign of her being an enthusiastic lover.

We make pleasant small-talk about our travels and I ask where she wants to go to next. It’s a ploy I’ve used in the past with other dates, getting them to project forward about something positive as this makes for a pleasant date. Today my question isn’t about mind games, it’s genuine interest. The Artist rattles off a series of places that I’ve already been to, but I say nothing, pleased again that she shares an interest in similar places. I can see myself going back to these places with her, especially China, Japan and Turkey.

We lose ourselves in conversation and an idea comes to me as we finish dessert. I do my old dating trick of presenting her my spoon laden with dessert to see if she’ll play along. She has the same dessert on her plate but to my delight leans forward and with a naughty tinkle in her eye takes my spoon in her mouth.

My heart thunders as I smile.

Another idea comes to me, all my moves are coming out tonight.

“What colour are your eyes?” I ask.

“Light green,” she says.

“I can’t see. Come closer,” I respond.

She leans forward again, leaning her breasts on the table.

“I still can’t see. Closer,” I say.

The Artist smiles, I think she’s rumbled my plan, but nevertheless leans over as far as she can.

I lean forward, my lips stopping just short of hers. I look her in the eye.

She almost stands up out of her seat, her elbows on the table propping her up and our lips meet.

Her lips feel like fine strands of silk.

She has no hesitation in kissing me, that’s good. As first kisses go it’s not bad, but not as good as I would like. Maybe I’ve been spoiled in the past?

The Artist smiles and sits back in her seat, there’s a hint of a blush.

“Did you write to me hoping that I would answer?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, with a coy smile.

The restaurant staff noisily start closing for the night and we realize that we’re the last patrons. I settle the bill while The Artist goes to the ladies. She makes a point of thanking me for paying when she returns to the table and realizes what I’ve done.

Walking back to the Tube station I stop her twice and under a clear moon above we embrace in increasingly passionate kisses. I don’t want this night to end. I want to talk more, get to know more about her, make plans for the future and walk around holding her hand. I resist the urge to extend the evening and risk spoiling it somehow. I’ve learned it’s best to end a date on a good note, leaving the woman wanting more. We say our goodbye at the Tube station, agreeing to be in touch again.

She is one of the prettiest women I have met for a date. I struggle to think of a woman I’ve met with bigger breasts than her. She is definitely my intellectual equal and we both love history. I think that she’s very sweet and has made her fair share of mistakes in relationships.

I’m disappointed by her poor dress sense for a first date; a shawl, a gilet and a poncho is not very elegant. In the grand scheme of things that’s trivial.

Can I live with her imperfections? Yes, at the moment they seem petty. Do I realistically think that I can do better than her? Possibly, but it will take a long time. Do I think I can fall in love with her? I’m inclined to say ‘yes’, but it’s only been one date.

I consider it quite an achievement to have gone on a date with her. I’ve felt a bit on the defensive the whole time since I first saw her profile because she seems a social class above me, now having met her I still feel that way. However, I want to see where things lead with her. There are two milestones in the future, the first is getting her to sleep with me and the second is to have a relationship with her. I’m pretty confident that I can bed her, but it’s too soon to say if we can have a relationship.

I am so taken with The Artist that on my train home I send a text message to someone whom I’m supposed to meet on the weekend saying that I’ve met someone else and that her and I won’t be meeting any time soon.

The Artist feels good and right, perfect even, but I’ve been here before.

Jeff Buckley – Hallelujah

Date #50 – The Lying Lithuanian

After The Saffa had pissed me off I went onto Tinder. One of the two faces who matched with me looked familiar. I was convinced that I had swapped messages with her on ‘Plenty of Fish’ (PoF) earlier in the year but I became bored with her one or two-word answers. Good banter via email has lead to good dates; poor banter has meant poor dates. I wondered if she was dealing with a torrent of emails from other guys.

Tonight I went and found what I thought was her profile on PoF. Comparing the computer screen and the phone in my hand I can see that they were both definitely Lithuanian from signs in the photos on their profiles. The facial similarities are clear but perhaps not the same person. A major difference is that on Pof the age is forty-one and on Tinder it’s thirty-five; both of which could be lies. The major similarity is that their profiles’ wording is identical. It’s a long-winded quote from a popular book. Coincidence?

Irrespective of all that, she was very pretty and I would love to see her face sucking on the end of my cock. This was Tinder – after the experience with the Brazilian on Tinder my hopes are very low.

I wrote to her and she answered with very short sentences. Becoming irritated at her poor writing in one of my final messages I suggested we get together. I was expecting silence or an excuse, but was pleasantly surprised when she replied with suggesting that we meet two days hence on Saturday.

I suspect culture and language will be a barrier, but quite honestly, my objective is just to have sex with her; in most of her photos she’s stunning. I’ve learned enough about other Eastern European women to know to not even contemplate a romantic relationship. I must just keep telling her how much money I have and how important I am at work and she’ll eagerly open her legs for me.

I know that I’ve forsworn Eastern European women, but this is unfinished business. I’ll always wonder, “what about that one who reappeared?”.

Could she be The One?

I’m standing outside Tower Hill Tube station and am amazed at the fact that this is now my fiftieth first date but I still feel the occasional butterfly in my stomach. However, the cause of my nervousness is largely because I feel like I’m cheating on the Saffa and the girl I just spent the night with, The Cockaholic.

The Saffa is suspicious of my movements and is clever enough to conjure up a trap for me. What if the woman I’m about to meet is a stooge for the Saffa? What if she doesn’t exist and the Saffa taps me on the shoulder instead, followed by a swift slap through the face. The slap won’t bother me, it’s more about her telling everyone who knows me in the old country that I cheated on her. Why the hell would that bother me? I don’t know.

I realize that losing The Saffa wouldn’t bother me at all. That tells me something. I’m putting myself through stress for what exactly? A lot of stilted conversation and occasional good sex, that’s what. Is it worth it? No. The bullshit drama that she is capable of just isn’t worth it.

I feel that old familiar sensation of eyes looking at me. I turn and it’s my date and…she’s so fucking fat!

She has rolls of fat in her neck, a belly protrudes from under the black raincoat she’s trying to cover it with but the buttons can’t close. Is she pregnant? No, just obese.

I don’t mind a bit of jiggle, a bit of cushion for the pushin’, but if I’m expecting a slender nymphette and ponderous heffalump is what appears, then I’m not happy. My Trust Demon rolls around laughing on the floor of his cage, slapping a thigh and holding a hand to his stomach as a tear drips from a beady eye. I don’t have a poker face and can only guess that, at best, I look surprised. She’s definitely not thirty-five either, more like forty-five.

Just another disillusioned or desperate woman coming across to me as deceitful, I think to myself, fully aware of my hypocrisy. I decide to be civil in case she has the most amazing personality going. I’m also starving, fucking The Cockaholic has taken a lot out of me and it’s not just my sperm. I know that this date is going nowhere, but I’ll be a polite gentleman over lunch, eat my food while I ask her open-ended questions which might get her chatting.

“Do you like chicken?” I ask her after the customary polite kiss on the cheek. At least I think it’s her cheek, it could have been a roll of fat on her neck.

“Yes,” she says, looking at me quizzically.

“Then take a wing,” I say with my cheesiest of smiles.

She laughs and links up arms with me as we make our way down the stairs. Once on the concourse I relax my arm, expecting her to do likewise, but she holds on. Not since the Lusty Lass has a woman held onto my arm so tightly, not wanting to let go. What a shame I don’t fancy her, otherwise it would have been a great start.

My usual waiter at the Dickens Inn raises a disapproving eyebrow as he leads us to a table on the balcony overlooking the marina. I know, I know, not the hottest date I’ve brought in here. Is that a look of pity I spot on his face? Or is he concerned about the strength of the chair she’s just forced herself into? Am I going to have to extricate her out of it later? Or should I leave her trapped and then run?

In the spirit of making the best of this we order wine and pizzas. I direct the conversation and we get talking about how dating in London is difficult. I get more than I bargained for.

“I had a twenty-two year-old toy-boy once. I didn’t want him to know my real age, so I had a fake Facebook account. That’s what the account Tinder has picked up. It says I’m thirty-five, but I’m not. I actually forty-one,” she says.

“Wow! Really? You don’t look it,” I say, to which she smiles, not realizing I think that she looks forty-five or older. Then my brain kicks in and I remember the PoF profile that I thought was hers and suddenly she starts to remind me more of that profile. Details of that PoF profile come flooding back: Scorpio, accountant, forty-one, fat face.

“When I arrived in London nine years ago, my English wasn’t very good and he was from my country so it was easy to see him,” she elaborates.

Right, so those pictures I was drooling over are nine years old!

This was a serious case of deja moo – I’ve heard this bullshit before. What does she think she’s playing at? Is her modus operandi one of using her oldest, best photos to lure men onto dates then once they’re on the hook count on her personality to win the day? Why do women not realize that this is a flawed strategy because once trust is broken it ain’t coming back? Stupid girl.

Deja moo - the feeling you've heard this bullshit before.
Deja moo – the feeling you’ve heard this bullshit before.

This flagrant deceit towards another man instantly evokes my Trust Demon again; he snarls contempt. Before I get a chance to form any kind of opinion of her, any interest in her is finally crushed by her innocent admission of being a vain, manipulative, dishonest person.

I now think of her as ‘The Lying Lithuanian’. I think I’m being kind with this moniker.

Ah, I mustn’t lose sight of her being on Tinder. Maybe she’s just looking to get laid? Conventional wisdom says that fat girls don’t get sex as often as skinnier girls, or this that just a scurrilous rumour put out by Weight Watchers?

We talk and eat some more. Despite my hunger and her doing most of the talking she finishes her pizza before me. I think her errant glands have had some help in getting her to be almost as wide as she is tall.

“I’m studying to get a British qualification in accounting,” she says confidently, as if she’s trying to impress me.

I couldn’t care less, but seeing as she’s chatty I seize the opportunity to confirm a suspicion.

“What star sign are you?” I ask.

“Scorpio. Why?”

“I think some star signs make natural accountants,” I tell her. She seems to believe me.

Yep, you are who I think you are. She clearly doesn’t remember me.

Her English is adequate at best; most of my humour is wasted on her, unfortunately because laughter is what binds a couple together. In her defence I must say that even a native English-speaker would miss some of my humour. I couldn’t help but compare this aspect with The Cockaholic who not only caught all my humour, but loves it.

By the end of dessert I’m shocked to realize that she’s totally into me. I went passive-disinterested on her because it was a genuine response. It has had the usual effect of the woman playing with her golden-blonde hair, perpetually smiling at me, making sly glances at me, pointing her knees at me and paying absolute attention to anything that I care to say.

A part of me reckons I could tell her anything and she would nod her head in agreement. Did I want to see her head nodding and bobbing off my cock? No.

Earlier I had looked at my watch as I got off my Tube train and it was 2.30pm. It’s now 5pm. These two and a half hours felt like an eternity with her.

I also get the feeling that she’s a bit of a Misery, a downer to be around. I’ve met her type in the past: finding solace with takeaway meals, wine, chocolate, ‘Sex and the City’ and probably a collection of vibrators. What is it with some women who have such negative centres of energy?

I could invite her to my place, pour her some chilled wine, show her Californication, make my move and fuck her silly on my sofa while videoing it all. Been there, done that. Getting tedious now. Fuck off, stupid girl. I’ve had enough and want to get out of here.

I make my excuses about needing to get home. It’s true, I’d rather be washing my belly-button fluff than spend another minute with her.

“Would you like to join me for a walk around a park?” she asks as we head for the Tube station.

“No, thanks,” is the brutal best I can muster.

This was the shortest date because I simply wasn’t enjoying it. Yes, she was intelligent and friendly, I’m pretty sure that she fancied me, but the reality is that I didn’t fancy her, but more the younger, slimmer version of her. The thought of having sex with her made me uncomfortable. Having The Cockaholic and The Saffa on my cock is good enough for now.

The next day I sent her a text message complimenting her to start with then saying that I didn’t think that we were right for each other, then wishing her all the best for the future. A couple of hours later, while I was “entertaining” someone else, I get a lengthy reply from her that barely made sense it was so badly written. In essence she was saying that I was being too hasty after such a short date, which told me that she saw potential with me. My silence might help her understand that I’m just not interested in her.

I’m interested in The Cockaholic and have to say goodbye to The Saffa.

The inexperienced, White Knight me would have wasted time on this stupid girl. This Grey Knight swings his sword, slashes through the bullshit of another deranged woman, fending off her blubber with his shield, is entertaining some lusty wenches while keeping his gaze firmly on the prize that is love.

They say men can’t multi-task.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Maybe it’s time I realize that I really should stay away from Eastern European women. 2) Tinder can be gamed by having a fake Facebook account.

Pink – Stupid Girls

Cock-eyed Brazilian

The next day I’m speeding towards the trendy part of London where The Brazilian lives. My heart is pounding and there’s a little itch in my groin as thoughts of her race through my head. Could this be it? Is this Her? Finally, after all this time, effort and disappointment, could I finally have found The One?

Stop it. It’s only been one date, fool! You know the rules by now. Only get excited by the end of the third date because only then do you know if the feelings are mutual. Getting excited now is just setting myself up for a big fall. Keep it together. Be more Passive-Disinterested; it drives women wild.

I keep thinking about how much I wanted to kiss her yesterday. I even went home and looked up what the term for it is. Basorexilia: the overwhelming desire to kiss.

After more than an hour’s driving I get to her home which doubles as her business. I’ve always had immense admiration for anyone who runs their own business because I know how hard it is. We greet politely at her front door and it’s just cute kisses on each of her cheeks. I’m pretty sure that the real kissing will come later in the day.

In the blink of an eye we find ourselves on my picnic blanket in a nearby public park. Earlier I’d been to the shops as soon as they opened and bought everything anyone could want to eat at a picnic. The Brazilian is pleased with my surprise and suitably impressed by my selection. Conversation is easy, positive and energetic. She laughs at my every joke, but there’s much more going on between us.

The electricity between us is palpable and I want to kiss her. How and when should I make my move? I think she’s too much of a lady to make the first move. Almost all women are like that though; they want the man to initiate proceedings. Luckily for me I’ve never been afraid to lead.

As if on cue a cluster of rain-clouds speedily collect overhead and start spitting on us. I’m prepared for this and hoist the largest umbrella that I could find at home. I motion to The Brazilian to join me under it, which she duly obliges. Our shoulders are touching; it’s the strongest physical contact we’ve had so far and it feels good. I’ll try my luck soon. An idea comes to me.

I take a spicy cocktail samoosa and I feed it to her. She laughs as I do so, but she accepts my gesture. I’ve always thought it incredibly naughty and titillating to feed a woman food. It’s an erotic act that touches a woman on several levels. The most obvious mental image is that of feeding her my penis. On the cerebral level it also tells a woman that I am prepared and able to dominate her; that is a turn-on for women too. In my experience women find this act to be a part of foreplay and they like it.

“Oh, there’s a bit of crumb next to your mouth,” I say. There isn’t but I want her to think that there is.

The Brazilian wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I smile to myself. Here we go…

“Nope. You’ve missed it. Let me get it,” I say.

I lean towards her, aiming my lips at the side of her mouth, but stopping just short from making contact. Will she pull away, signalling that she’s not yet ready to get physical with me? Or will she come in and meet my lips, thus showing her attraction and desire for me?

The Brazilian instantly moves her head to meet my lips with hers. Our lips are a perfect match. Our first kiss is slow and gentle. I just make my lips available and let her rise to the occasion. Whenever I’ve done this within a few seconds a woman is getting into the kiss as I can feel the energy within her rising, she closes her eyes and her breathing intensifies. It’s when I notice the breathing that I pull away, thus leaving her wanting more. As I pull away from The Brazilian she opens her eyes and they’re ablaze with passion. There’s something I need to know.

“When did you first want to kiss me?” I ask.

“From the very first moment I saw you standing outside the station.”

“Really?” I was surprised.

“Yes, and the whole time we were sitting on the sofa in the pub watching the Brazil game, all I wanted to do was kiss you.”

“Guess what? I wanted to kiss you then too.”

We both smile and then share a kiss that seemed to go on forever. Spots of rain fall on the ground around us as we kiss, but I don’t recall feeling a single drop land on me. It was one of those moments when the universe stood still, just for us, as our lips and tongues entwined, bonding not just our bodies but our souls too. I knew then for sure that I could fall in love with her.

Seeing as we’re having this moment of honesty and she’s forthcoming, there’s something else that I need to know.

“Tell me something. What kind of relationship are you looking for?” I ask, this question driven by the niggling fact that we found each other on Tinder.

“More than anything, I want a relationship free of drama.” She answers with a plaintive look in her eyes.

“Me too. I’ve had enough drama to last me another lifetime.”

I think for a few seconds, feeling her gaze still upon me, I turn and say, “I won’t hurt you, but you can hurt me, because I can take it.”

“I won’t hurt you,” she says softly.

The clouds multiply and an English Summer downpour forces us to abandon our picnic.

“How about we go back to my place?” The Brazilian suggests.

“I don’t think we have much choice,” I say, starting to pack everything away. I haven’t driven for so long only to go home after a couple of hours. I’m quite happy to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon with her snuggled up in my arms, watching movies, chatting and kissing occasionally. I think it’s too soon for sex; we only met 24 hours ago.

In the car park I pack picnic gear into my car and I watch as The Brazilian happily skips over to a rubbish bin to dispose of surplus packaging. She looks so cute and I spot her breasts bouncing. I hadn’t noticed before that she has surprisingly large breasts. Until now she’s kept them hidden away under a tasteful scarf, like most big-breasted women do. Hmm, I look forward to playing with those one day. Patience.

Back at her place she makes us coffee and we get comfortable upstairs in her lounge area which is cluttered with unpacked boxes. The downstairs of her dwelling is reserved for her business. We sit side by side on her new fabric sofa as she flicks through television channels trying to find something that might distract us. We’re in serious danger of ripping each other’s clothes off and fucking like rabbits, such is the sexual tension between us.

The Brazilian finds a mindless rom-com and we pretend to watch it. She excuses herself and goes to another room, returning wearing a tight t-shirt and flimsy tracksuit trousers. She looks so sexy and her breasts are on full display. Damn, they look squeezable!

Hang on, what’s going on here? I’ve been in this position before. It was with Baltic Babe when she returned to the lounge wearing a nice little nothing too. Sex was on offer that night and I turned it down, then haven’t seen her since. If you say no to a woman she won’t offer again because her ego couldn’t risk or tolerate another rejection. A woman will only offer herself to you once. Is The Brazilian signalling that she wants sex?

She throws herself down on the sofa, snuggling up next to me. After a minute of silence The Brazilian snaps me out of my train of erotic thought by uncharacteristically asking me a question about myself.

“What’s your favourite type of ending to a movie?”

“At the end of the movie, ‘When Harry Met Sally’, Harry says to Sally, ‘when you realize that you’ve met the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, the rest of your life can’t start soon enough’,” I say.

“I like that. It’s beautiful,” she replies and sighs.

I cup her face and we kiss…and keep kissing. The Brazilian is getting turned on, the sounds she’s making tell me so. What do I do? Should we go all the way? No, it’s too soon for my liking. I want a loving relationship that has sex as the finishing touch on top, not the foundation of where it all started. Am I wrong in this regard? Perhaps, but it’s what I’m comfortable with. Fucking first then hoping for love afterwards is not likely to work in my opinion.

The Brazilian comes to life, opens her eyes that are blazing again and pulls away from me. She gets up and clambers onto the sofa with both feet, deftly stepping one foot over my legs before lowering herself down onto my lap, facing me. She slides her arms behind my head and starts grinding her crotch into mine.

To Be Continued…

Date #37 – Make-up Madam

The exchange of emails died abruptly just before Xmas and now, ten months later, she re-appears. I instantly assume that she’s been seeing someone. She catches my suspicions off-guard by telling me that she had been involved in a bad horse-riding accident and has been in rehabilitation which involved three months in traction. This story is too outrageous not to be true, so I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I had come across her profile on Plenty of Fish, being instantly struck by her beauty in her profile picture. The usual opening messages flew about quickly, so I suggested we meet. Until that point the banter had been good. I was a little disappointed by her suddenly disappearing, but it’s not unusual for women to indulge in endless messages then baulk at the first mention of meeting face-to-face.

Now it’s a perfect, sunny Sunday afternoon as I loiter in the car park of a nature reserve on the outskirts of London. I’m cautiously optimistic about this date; it could be heaven or it could be hell. The banter via email and text message has again been quick and positive, which is always a good sign, but it’s that personal magic that makes or breaks matters.

Could she be The One?

I notice her car arriving because it has her prize dog sitting in the front seat next to her. The dog is one of those pugs with wild, googly eyes and a sideways-dangling tongue. An appearance like that can only garner attention from other dogs and humans alike.

Rude dog

It’s quite a sight and I almost burst out laughing but manage to turn it into a smile as our eyes meet. Her facial expression doesn’t change much except for a reciprocating smile.

She parks her car and I walk over to greet her. As she gets out she stands upright and we get a good look at each other. I’m underwhelmed. From a distance she looks like her photos which, given my experiences of late, is something of a relief. The issue is that up close it’s all fake.

She’s got hair extensions, somewhat dyed natural hair, heaps of make-up on her face (her foundation might have foundation), freakishly long false eyelashes and fake nails. There’s even unseasonal bronze suntan lotion slathered on her exposed bits. Almost everything about her appearance is carefully thought-out and presented…and it’s almost all fake. I feel disappointed.

I instantly think of her as ‘Make-up Madam’.

Memories of The Russian Model come to mind. Have I arrived at a point in my dating life that I am now going to start seeing the same types of women? Is there a finite cast of types of women on dating sites? The thought of that fills me with dread. Am I now going to embark on a series of Groundhog Day-like experiences? If so, then I will be better able to make the most of what’s on offer a second time around, if that’s what’s coming. Just like Bill Murray’s character started having fun with his predicament I think that I should too.

We make pleasant small-talk about her dog, which I don’t mind because I love dogs. You always know where you stand with a dog; you can’t with a human.


The obvious thing to do is to walk around the reserve just like the dozens of other people intent on enjoying the last of the sunshine before another dour Winter arrives. We set off on our walk of discovery being lead by a pugnacious little creature on the end of a leash.

Make-up Madam seems a little nervous and apprehensive at first, which isn’t unusual for a first date. She smiles unconvincingly a few times and lets ofl ill-timed laughs. I feel that I’m becoming such an old hand at this that I hardly ever feel any kind of butterflies any more. I’ll just be me and within a couple of hours she’ll be relaxed enough to just be her.

It’s a pretty setting where we are. Leaves are changing character, a stream trickles by and people are smiley. My soul longs for the day when I walk somewhere like this, holding hands with The One. Right now that feels further away than ever before. I just haven’t had that thunderbolt moment that makes me suspect that this is the person for me.

About an hour later Make-up Madam is much more relaxed and natural around me. Her laugh has become genuine and her eyes twinkle at me from behind the facade. She’s even comfortable enough to let her pooch off his leash and let him roam free, defecating on foliage that children will play in later.


We end up having tea and cake at a quaint tea-house in the grounds of the reserve. Conversation is easy to come by and I ask about something that is intriguing me: star signs. I’ve noticed in my dating escapades that there are some star signs that I seem to get along with best, such as Taurus and Libra. It’s also a topic of conversation that most women enjoy.

“So what’s your star sign?” I ask.

“I’m a Libra,” she answers.

“Oh, so your birthday has been or is close by,” I reply.

“It was yesterday.,” she says with a smile.

“Congratulations. I hope that you had a great day,” I respond.

“Thanks. Yes, I was away with my friends for a girly weekend. We went to Brighton on Friday night and came home this morning, which is why I could only meet you after lunch today,” she replies.

Make-up Madam takes her phone out and starts showing me photos from her weekend away. She and her friends made an effort to dress up in Disney character costumes…and then hit the night-clubs.

Remembering her profile details more clearly now I realize that she’s now the same age as me, with me being a month older. I find it a bit odd that a woman in her early forties still goes off for “girly weekends”. That’s behaviour more for a woman in her twenties. Is she a Good-time Girl? I can’t help but wonder.

We stroll back toward our cars but being careful to take the long route back. I’m enjoying her company and she gets my sense of humour. She seems to be warming to me too. There’s a steep hill and her shoes struggle with the grass, so I see the chance for an old favourite.

“Tell me something, do you like chicken?” I ask.

“Yes, why?” she answers, just like so many other women before her.

“Take a wing,” I say extending an arm towards her.

Make-up madam lets off an almighty laugh, as if it is the funniest thing she’s heard in ages. The dog turns and looks at her as if she’s just gone insane. She then couples up with me and I help her up the hill. The physical barrier between us has been broken. As we get to the top of the hill I let go of her.

“Hmm, you’ve got muscles. I like that in a man,” she says with a naughty smile.

That was the first unprovoked comment about me that she’s made all date. So far she has been all politeness and civility. I’m learning that if I make no mention of anything sexual during a date, if a woman is the first to do so, then it’s a sign that she’s thought of doing it with me. Do I want to bed her? Maybe. It could be interesting. Then I remember her bad back.

At the car park we decide to sit down for a coffee at a thronging cafe. She doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave and I’m enjoying spending time with her. As I stand waiting for our drinks, Make-up Madam plus doggy go off to find us a table. My thoughts take flight to assessing her. Is she The One? I don’t think so, there’s no reason to believe so. Do I fancy her enough to want to shag her? I’m not sure; there’s just too much make-up. Is she a good, decent person? I’m inclined to say so. Do I know what to do next? Nope; haven’t a clue. I hate indecision.

We sit talking amidst the noisy crowd and to make each other heard I move to sit next to her. She smiles at my doing so and doesn’t lurch away in horror. As she tells me about her job as a civil servant I get a chance to have a good look at her. Underneath all that gunk is a naturally pretty woman. She doesn’t need all that stuff on her face. I guess she’s a fashion slave and all her friends are too. She strikes me as being the sort of woman who buys a fashion magazine or two every week and knows all the celebrity gossip. She must just be vain.

I don’t know why I did this, but at an opportune moment I leaned in to kiss her. She came forward to meet my lips and as first kisses go it was good. I pull away before she does and her heavy eyelids flutter and she smiles at me.

“Tell me about your back situation,” I ask before she gets to say anything.

“Oh, it’s getting better. I’m still on meds, but the days of endless niggly pains are over,” she replies.

Hmm, so getting rough in bed is out of the question. I’m not actually keen to bed her but it’s good to know what her situation is in case matters head in that direction.

“Do that again,” she says with that naughty smile of hers.

I think quickly and realize that she wants me to kiss her again. It’s not every day that I get a woman asking me to kiss her. I take it as a compliment. I think of it as adult fun, but I also know that you can tell a lot from a kiss. Our lips match, there’s a little magic to it for us…and no teeth or tongue getting in the way like it has with some other dates.

This time I stray a little further and kiss her neck too. I’ve learned that that can really turn a woman on. I stop before matters go too far and resume my composure. Make-up Madam stares at me blankly for a few seconds before speaking.

“I was expecting this to be another pointless date,” she says.

I find her honesty refreshing and astounding at the same time. She’s just told me that she thinks I’m some kind of special, which is always nice to hear. While I smile in surprise and think of what to say next, it seems that when I was getting us coffee earlier Make-up Madam was hatching a plan.

“I’m getting really hungry. I don’t suppose you fancy a bite to eat at a nearby pub?” she asks.

Now she’s inviting me out for dinner? That’s a first. Wow, she’s very keen to keep spending time with me. This is most unexpected and flattering. I’ve got nothing better to do, so what the hell, why not? We end up driving for what seems like an eternity to a pub in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully my satnav will get me home, or does somebody else have ideas about where tonight will end?

Make-up Madam and I spend several pleasant hours sitting chatting in that pub…with her dog on a stool by her side. Several times patrons would come over to make a fuss over the dog, which at first was charming but by the third time it became intrusive. Memories of Sweet Thing come back to me, focussing on how having a pet is much like having a child. It requires consideration, planning and often inconvenience when dating. I’m not sure that I want a repeat of that experience, having to arrange my plans around the needs of a pet.

pug ugg

We talk about anything and everything; we get along very well. I am Passive-Disinterested for most of the date which slowly leads to her pursuing me by way of asking more and more questions about me. I have a weakness for sweetness and Make-up Madam was starting to show a genuine sweetness to her. Saying goodnight involved being wrapped around each other in the car park of the pub at closing time. Our kisses were sweet, tender and endless. We certainly kissed well together. I take that as a sign that we’ll fuck well together too.

Maybe with it being a first date she’s gone overboard with the make-up. Maybe next time she’ll be more natural-looking. Maybe I should give her – and us – more time.

“Are you free next weekend?” I ask.

“No, sorry. I’m going away with my girlfriends,” she says.

Another ‘girly weekend’? So soon? Hmm, maybe she’s a bit of a party animal who hasn’t outgrown it yet. Is that why she’s single? I say nothing and leave it at that, not entirely sure what to make of her answer. By the time I get home she’s sent me a text message.

Make-up Madam: Thank you again for such a lovely afternoon. Would really like to see you again :0) xx

I give it some thought, decide to proceed with cautious optimism and reply as follows:

Grey Knight: I want to spend more time with you too. We could have talked all night – that is rare. I’m not going to wait 2 weeks – are you free any night this week?

After swapping many messages it turned out we could only see each other again the following Monday. I decided to leave matters there, thinking I’d make contact later in the week; I didn’t want to seem too keen. She had other ideas though. I woke up the next morning to a text message from her.

Make-up Madam: Morning. Hope you slept well? Have a great day xx

I responded and she then launches into a series of messages about her dog having a seizure in the morning and how she’s now having to go off to the vet. All of this at 8am? It feels like I’m being instantly jammed into a relationship in which I have to give emotional support and input on every trivial little matter. It all feels so clingy and desperate; very off-putting. Later in the day she texts me a lengthy report on what happened at the vets.

What am I going to do?

Carly Simon – You’re So Vain

More riverside revelations

It’s a warm Sunday morning and I’m standing at the exact same spot I was yesterday at the Embankment next to the Thames in central London. This time I’m waiting for Cat Lady; it’s our second date but first proper one and today I’m going to do exactly the same things as yesterday. I believe that doing something very similar with another date gives me the opportunity to compare and contrast each person more clearly if the environment is the same. I know that makes my dates sound like rodents in a science experiment, but my track record with women dictates that I take as few chances as possible.

I’m aware that I’m getting older and that my marketability will be diminished if I’m ever single again, so I want to make the effort to get it right. If I was a twenty-something neophyte I’d have the luxury of time on my side, that there’s always time to recover from a failed relationship but the reality is that I’m running out of time. I don’t want to keep dating endlessly, it’s becoming hard work, but I won’t rush into a relationship either. The cost of doing so is too high, what with missing opportunities to be with someone who is The One, wasting my time and money, squandering my emotional capital and ending up with a broken heart again that takes more time to heal. If I don’t have the time to get it right, where am I going to find the time to do it over?

Cat Lady texts me that she’s on a bus and will be late. I’m unimpressed because travelling by bus in London, even on a Sunday, is only marginally faster than walking. I know that she has a train and Tube station equidistant from where she lives, but she chooses to take a bus. Humph, but what can I do?

I stand waiting, watching tourists, my eye occasionally catching a pretty blonde. I think it’s because of my colour-blindness that I find blondes so alluring. Perhaps my predilection for blondes has been my undoing across all my dates? Almost all of them have been blondes, so maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong? Today I’m spending with a brunette, so I’m looking to see if there’s any great discernible difference. Yes, a tad unfair to place so much responsibility on one brunette head, but let’s have fun with this idea.

Eventually Cat Lady arrives, more than half an hour late, but I say nothing. Why make things worse? We join the back of the now lengthy queue for tickets to catch a river cruiser. I put her rudeness to one side and opt to make the best of the day.

We stand on the pontoon making small-talk and I’m again surprised by her high-pitched girly voice that really doesn’t suit a woman of almost six foot tall. With time, if anything happens between us, I’ll probably become oblivious to it. She hasn’t been in the UK as long as me and her guttural accent is much more pronounced than mine. Nevertheless, our common upbringing takes centre-stage and it isn’t long before we’re laughing heartily every couple of minutes.

Once on board the boat I quickly get us what I now know to be the prize seats at the bow so that we have an unobstructed view. The Irish Cougar sat by my side, feminine to the point of being regal, her knees together and her hands clasped together in her lap, just like Baltic Babe did. Not Cat Lady. Oh no, she was up on her feet, walking around, Iphone in hand, taking pictures of everything, clumsily getting in the crew’s way even after they had repeatedly asked her to remain seated like everyone else.

Cat Lady was ensconced in her own little world, doing a credible version of the gaudy foreign tourist. People were looking at her and then at me. I don’t appreciate that. It brought back memories of times when my Exgf would embarrass me in public and I was made to feel like the pitiable fool by other people’s looks directed at me. I don’t think anybody appreciates being embarrassed in public by their other half. It’s the sort of thing that I call a ‘relationship paper-cut’. A human can die from enough paper-cuts, a slow bleeding to death of the recipient entity.

This date is not off to a good start. She’s late and then makes a spectacle of us. Charming not. I say nothing and just let her be herself. It’s just a date after all.

We don’t lack for conversation once we’re back on dry land, but I’m fully aware that it is just our mutual memories of endless days of Summer in our youth that is being exercised to the full. I find this refreshing, speaking to someone who knows the same things I know, watched the same television shows that I did, did the same things growing up as I did. I can’t help but wonder if this lack of mutual heritage has been a problem with all my other dates and I just wasn’t aware of it until now. My former dates have been exclusively with either English or Eastern European women.

Cat Lady and I are easy company for each other as we catch the cableway over the Thames, stroll around the O2 centre and enjoy a meal at the South African steakhouse there. In a spontaneous departure from yesterday’s agenda we make a detour to Canary Wharf, London’s new financial district, which Cat Lady has never been to. She’s suitably impressed by the new cathedrals of capitalism and then we catch a driverless train on the Dockland Light Railway back to central London. I think it’s safe to say that we’re both having fun.

It’s beautiful day and I suggest that we walk a little, knowing in my mind where I’d be leading her to. At one point the pavement becomes uneven and she almost loses her balance. I quickly grab her hips to steady her and we giggle like schoolgirls. It’s the first time I’ve really put my hands on her and she feels good to touch. The moment serves as an innocent ice-breaker for physical intimacy between us. On the back of that, I don’t know why, but I hold her hand as we walk. She smiles and doesn’t recoil or show any kind of displeasure.

We arrive at St Katharine Docks which surprises and delights Cat Lady.

“I didn’t know that something like this is right here in the centre of London,” she gushes.

I get a kick out of showing someone something that once took my breath away too. Their reaction takes me back to my first time. Cat Lady being new to London might have many benefits for me in this regard.

Dickens Inn
Dickens Inn at St Katharine Docks

Luckily we find a free table on the middle floor balcony of the Dickens Inn and get comfortable with cold drinks and fattening desserts. The conversation meanders like it has all day until we arrive at the inevitable hot topic for singletons: our previous relationships. I tell her my sordid tale of woe, keeping it as brief as possible, then she starts.

“I was sitting pretty in South Africa. I had my dream job, my own house and two cars. Then one day a guy I’ve been friends with since primary school tells me on Facebook that he’s been in love with me all his life. I was shocked because I never suspected,” she says.

My thoughts sprint over to my knowledge about men being secret admirers of a woman in their lives. Then one day they snap, not being able to take it any more and in a last-ditch attempt to make something out of it profess their feelings which, if not positively received, they will then disappear from that woman’s life.

“We started an online romance, Skypeing every night, he came to visit me once and to cut a long story short, after about a year of this, he asked me to come to the UK to live with him. I gave up everything and moved to the other side of the world to be with him. After a year of living together the picture had changed completely. I saw that he was a control-freak and that he wasn’t living up to the financial plan that we had agreed to,” she continues before falling silent for a few moments in which I say nothing, preferring to let her keep talking.

“So I moved out and went to stay with a friend for a few months until I got the place I’m in now,” she says more cheerily, but not convincing me.

“When did you move into your own place?” I ask.

“At the beginning of June,” she replies.

It was now early October, so she’s been on her own for four months, plus two months with a friend, thus having left her previous boyfriend about six months ago. Oh dear. It’s highly likely that she’s on the rebound, not emotionally healthy, not ready yet for a loving relationship. I feel deflated by this realization, just as I did yesterday with The Irish Cougar. Cat Lady is fresh out of a relationship, it is therefore unlikely that any relationship soon – irrespective of whether I’m involved or not – will last long. She needs time for emotional healing; I don’t want to be anybody’s rebound fling.

From all the dates that I’ve been on and from all the conversations I’ve had with women, it is obvious to me that women take far longer than men to get over a failed relationship. Sometimes the rebound phase or mindset can last years. Krazy Girl and Lusty Lass are years past their respective divorces but in their heads they’re still reliving it to some extent daily. I think it’s a shame for both of them because at heart they are both sweet and lovely and deserve to be in a good relationship.

I realize on the spot that Cat Lady and I have very little more to offer each other than friendship at this stage. Luckily I didn’t have high hopes for her, but it has been an interesting experience so far by merely interacting with her. Perhaps dating more within my cultural realm is something I should look into? I guess that old adage must be true, that if you are born in Africa you will never shake off the ancient dust of Africa.

At my behest we go for a walk along the Southbank. It’s never the same walking along there and something or somebody – a busker, street performer, pop-up gallery – will always delight any passers-by. At dusk we end up sharing a coffee at a coffee shop next to the river. Conversation is flowing easily, about anything and everything, but I’m not paying rapt attention any more because I know that it won’t matter in the long-run. I go Passive-Disinterested on her and it doesn’t matter, to my mind at least.

Bright sunlight gives way to softer lighting as we stand at a bus-stop from where she wants to catch a bus home. Again I don’t know why I did this but I lean toward her and we kiss. Her lips are soft and welcoming. Without a word we kiss slowly and gently, she keeps her eyes closed. I don’t use my tongue and neither does she; doing so would have felt inappropriate. We unlock our embrace that took hold naturally and just smile at each other. Words are superfluous.

Cat Lady’s bus arrives as if on cue and she traipses off, smiling and waving at me as she boards. I make my way across London, walking through shadows, unperturbed by the thronging crowds as I take stock of the day I’ve just had. She is a good person and largely on the basis of her massive sacrifice in the pursuit of love, I’m inclined to say that she’s a Giver. Her being a brunette has made no difference in any regard.

On the train home I figure out why I do these things that I don’t know why I’m doing them. I’m desperate to be in a loving relationship and that desperation mixed with a pervasive sense of frustration bubbles over occasionally. This is not a good thing, but I can’t help it. Contrary to a common belief held by the majority of women I’ve met, men do have feelings. I do and I think I’m a regular guy, it’s just that I can articulate my feelings. Most men don’t like to talk about their feelings because it makes them feel vulnerable and nobody likes to feel vulnerable.

Vulnerability is an impression I have of Cat Lady; it’s in the vibe that she gives off. She projects a friendly, affable facade but behind it I know there’s a world of hurt. What kind of hurt is it? Am I being premature in my assessment of her being on the rebound? If I’m wrong then is there cause for optimism? I need another date to know for sure.

What I am sure of is that the next date with The Irish Cougar is going to be interesting…

Toto – Africa