Tag Archives: Plenty of Fish

Date #53 – Tall Gal

It’s been more than two months since I’ve had sex and I’m as horny as hell. I know I pledged to only sleep with The One when I finally find her, but my resolve is being sorely tested by the ready supply of eager pussy to be found on the internet. I accidentally stumble across a way to game Plenty of Fish to get more traffic and approach emails from women. Consequently I get an email late on a Thursday night from a pretty brunette. I look at her profile and see that she’s 31 years-old and six feet tall. Those are two items on my Fuckit List, i.e. scandalously younger and how tall must a woman be to become impractical to fuck. I say thank you to Life for this opportunity and answer her email.

Witty, flirty emails ping-pong between us for an hour and it turns out that she has a thing for tall guys with my accent. She later makes a comment about “if you can keep me intrigued for that long” which tells me that she’s looking for fun and not a long relationship. I notice on her profile that her longest relationship has only lasted a year. She’s perfect one-night stand material and just in time too because I’m starting to forget what the warm wetness of a woman’s pussy wrapped around my cock feels like.

I end the interaction by challenging her to buy me a coffee in exchange for all the questions that she wants answers to. She claims to have plans for the Friday night and is going off to Spain for work on the weekend. We swap phone numbers and I leave it there, doubting I’ll ever hear from her again.

This interaction with her combines to make me think of the stunning brunette I encountered at the dating site’s drinks evening. Maybe my addiction to blondes has been the reason that I’m still single despite my best efforts. Maybe blondes and me just aren’t a good fit? Perhaps I should broaden my horizons a bit and see if the grass is better on the brunette side of the fence? At the same time I’m wondering if my belief that dates off free sites tend to be disappointing has any validity to it.

The next night, Friday, at seven o’clock she sends me a message on WhatsApp and I ask about her plans for the night and before I know it we agree to meet in a pub in my town in less than an hour’s time. I run around like a mad thing getting my place tidy in case we end up back here. As I’m getting dressed a good female friend contacts me via WhatsApp wanting relationship advice from me. In my current state I’m the last person to be giving anybody any kind of advice but I do my best. It’s amazing how there are bouts of silence, icy nothingness and then all these women come at once. I say this because there is another lady who made contact with me on Friday that I like the look and sound of, as well somebody else who I matched with late on Thursday night. Maybe there is something to astrology after all? Is my moon in Uranus?

Could tonight’s date be The One?

She gets to the pub before me and we find each other. Wow, she’s tall, the tallest girl I’ve ever met on a date. She’s wearing heels and is almost as tall as me. Fucking her might feel like copulating with a giraffe; long legs and limbs everywhere.

Naturally I think of her as Tall Gal.

She’s a pretty girl with blue-green eyes, round cheeks and a pleasant smile. We make a little small talk as we queue at the bar and after a couple of minutes pointless banter she says to me, “No, you still have your accent,” which pleases me because I know it’s something she finds attractive about me. Game on!

The pub is busy and noisy because of a major rugby match being shown on the giant television screens and we find the last available seats against a pillar. Not ideal as this is too noisy for a decent conversation and calm enough for me to evoke emotions of lust in her. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, curious about her sexual side.

“I love spicy food! The spicier the better,” she replies.

She likes the sound of her own voice and I just encourage her to keep talking. She’s probably nervous and it will put her at ease. I’m conscious of how little I feel; I’m like a cold-blooded Great White shark patrolling my turf out at sea. I smile politely and ask open-ended questions that sets her off. Over the course of the evening she hardly asks any questions of me.

“I worked on a resort that was popular with Russian tourists,” she says, recounting her work experience abroad.

“What did you think of them?” I ask.

“When they’re young, they’re stunning, but they’re all only after a man with money,” she rejoins.

It’s nice to hear someone else parrot the conclusion I have come to about Russian women.

“Don’t you think it’s understandable though that marrying up is their best chance of bettering themselves?” I ask, playing devil’s advocate in a test of her moral outlook.

“Yes, I do and I think that if I were in their shoes I would probably do the same thing,” she replies.

Her answer leaves me cold. She really couldn’t have said anything else to have put me off her. I still steadfastly believe that people should only marry for love, because that is what will make it work. Any other reason for marriage won’t last very long and if it does it won’t be a happy one. Why do people struggle to understand this?

On the plus side her answer just reinforces my initial idea that she either isn’t interested in a long-term relationship or just isn’t relationship material. This girl is just trouble, just dangerous for a man looking for love. I feel somewhat more justified in just wanting a one-night shag off her.

I change the subject slightly and she starts telling me about her longest relationship.

“He wasn’t from this country, he was much older than me and he had loads of money. We had a lot of good times together,” she says.

“Was the age gap a problem in any way at times?” I ask, wondering exactly what her pull towards older men is about.

“Yes, when we were out and about I was conscious of people staring at us. People probably thought that I was one of those Russian trophy girlfriends,” she says with a childish giggle.

“What was the attraction?” I ask, tying to get closer to the truth.

“We had a chemistry that I’ve never felt with anyone else before or since,” she answers, then continues,”I wonder if that amazing chemistry is what has kept me from meeting someone else? I can’t help but compare every guy I meet to my older guy,” she says with a frown.

My thoughts wonder over to the part of my brain reserved for Baltic Babe and the answer is ‘yes’. I’ve been guilty of that too and I realize that this Tall Gal is in no way causing me to feel another kind of attraction to her. It’s not because I find her unattractive – she is pretty – but I’m realizing that there’s also too much of an age-gap between us to give hope for a relationship. She speaks in a way about things that are new to her, but that I have already grown tired of.

“So what happened with your older guy?” I ask in an effort to complete the picture.

“He went back to his country,” she says with a sad face and looks away from me. Is she still hung up on him?

“Is that when you came back to the UK?”

“No, I stayed on but came back a year after that,” she replies with still a downcast look on her face and evading eye contact with me. I see what is obvious to me and press on it.

“Did you come back here because of another guy?” I ask as softly as I know how.

“Yes,” she says, still evading eye contact.

I change the topic by asking her about her favourite television shows and she starts rattling off a slew of depressing psychological dramas, murder mysteries and supernatural-themed shows. She starts telling me how she likes the gritty realism of the gory shows and the real-life application of horror moments. All that she speaks off is filled with negativity and the dark side of life. I could see that she could be a real drag to be around sometimes. Where have I felt this before?

Suddenly it hits me that Tall Gal is another Lusty Lass and Krazy Girl. A soft-hearted, sweet, well-intentioned young woman who is unlucky in love because she just doesn’t take a timeout for herself to get her emotions in order before embarking on a new relationship. She’s constantly on the rebound, carrying ever-increasing emotional baggage around with her. I start to feel sorry for her. Do I really want to be another guy who just uses her? Do I want to go back to being that self-appointed vengeful shit who avails himself of vulnerable women’s orifices? No.

Tall Gal unravels her scarf to reveal a bit of cleavage. It’s actually cold in here, so why did she do that? The pub erupts in celebration as a try is scored which causes her to look around. I take the opportunity to check her body out. She’s not as slim as in her photos with several rolls of puppy fat bulging under her white blouse. For a big girl and one carrying a few extra pounds her breasts are surprisingly small and no more than a B-cup. Am I that desperate to have sex that she’ll do? No.

I decide to employ my Golden Silence trick, in which I keep quiet for as long as it takes for my date to initiate a topic of conversation. Whatever they go with is usually what is on their minds lately. Tall Gal turns to me and I just smile, biding my time as I take a sip from my drink. As they all have, she eventually cracks and speaks.

“How many dates have you been on?” she asks. An interesting choice of topic. Is she genuinely interested in me that’s why she’s asking or does it bother her.

“I’ve been on more than most, I’m starting to realize. Why how many have you been on?” I retort before she realizes what I’ve done.

“I’ve been on five before tonight and that’s over three months,” she says proudly. Amateur, I think to myself.

“What have they been like?” I ask before she can say anything else. I’ve learned that no woman wants to hear that I’ve had more than fifty dates, so I avoid giving a direct answer.

“Well the second one was an absolute nightmare because he got totally drunk, but the others were okay. I was so nervous for my first one,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“That’s normal. Is this your first time you’ve been online dating?” I ask, suspecting I know the answer.

“Yes, I’ve always thought it an odd thing to do, but everyone is doing it nowadays so I thought I’d give it a go,” she replies.

Wow, you must be the last woman in the country not to have tried internet dating. And you’ve started off with Plenty of Fish?! Talk about a baptism of fire.

I start telling her of my memorable dates such as the Angry Yank and the Wild Animal Tickler. I tell her about the typical lies that women tell on their profiles (age, old photos, height, smoking, job) and she seems a little surprised at my words. I take her reaction to indicate surprise or curiosity. I’m wrong.

“Well, there is one thing I’ve lied about on my profile,” she says with a mischievous look in her eye. Here we go, what now?

“I’ve said that I’m a non-smoker, but I do, only a few a day, usually at the end of the day after work. I suppose I’m a social smoker,” she says matter-of-factly.

That’s it! I want to go home now!

I wasn’t feeling any chemistry with her, wasn’t exactly enjoying myself, didn’t really fancy her, didn’t want to have sex with her and now she turns out to be a smoker. Gross. Why am I wasting my time here?

She seems emotionally needy to me and that will eventually spill over into clingyness that leads to men rejecting her. She is going to keep getting hurt, but it doesn’t have to be at the hands of me. I don’t need more notches on my bedpost or stains on my conscience.

I decide that the best thing to do is to end the evening gracefully, not do her any harm emotionally and just let it be as positive an experience for her without her becoming invested in me. I want her to have the strength to keep dating because she might get lucky…and she’ll tie up some of my competition by keeping them busy or perhaps taking one of them off the market. All I need is an excuse.

She stifles a yawn and I call her out on it, for which she apologizes. Then she asks me what the time is and my exit is complete.

“It’s half ten. Shall we call it a night? You’re starting to yawn,” I suggest.

“Yes, I think we’d better,” she says.

Perfect. She now thinks it’s her idea to bring this date to an end. She feels she’s in control, just what I wanted, a nice way to end the encounter. I do my usual gentlemanly thing of helping her put her coat on and I escort her to her car. There’s an awkward silence between us and I get the impression that she’d rather I didn’t accompany her. I don’t think she wants to see me again.

We stand next to her car and I kiss her on a cheek and say, “It was nice to meet you,” and nothing more. I look at her and devilishly watch her squirm for words.

“Yes, it was nice to meet you too. I’ll be seeing you…you…” and she got caught up in her thoughts, thrashing about for something polite to say, definitely avoiding anything that sounded like commitment. I just keep quiet and smile.

“Some other time,” she says, her sentence trailing off on the vapours of her breath that drifted away into the cold February night air.

I say nothing, turn around and walk off.

That felt like a total waste of time, but if I didn’t go I’d always wonder.

Anyway, I have two more dates lined up.

Akon Ft Kardinal Official – Dangerous


As I sit contemplating suicide it occurs to me that my greatest successes in life were preceded by intense struggle and total uncertainty. Each time when I had got to a point where anyone else would have given up, I made more of an effort and I broke through to the other side known as success. Perhaps I was now at such a point in my life, that now was the time to try one more time, to keep going when there seems no point.

I remember two people’s stories who have inspired me over the years: Abraham Lincoln and U.S. Grant. It’s not their presidencies that impressed me, but more the story of their lives before they were famous. Lincoln had lost every election he stood for before becoming president. Grant was an alcoholic failure who drifted around until he saw his time and opportunity.

Was it a case of their having true grit or just no alternative? I think it’s the latter. Courtesy of my depressed state I can clearly see that they too must have arrived at a point whereby it seems that all is lost, so there is nothing to lose by keeping on trying. If that’s the case, I can do it too!

Thus I resolve to take a deep breath, put the boxes of ibuprofen away and think things through, trying to find clarity that somewhere along the way got lost amidst an unblinking computer screen and copious amounts of sex. I switch off all my dating profiles and stay away from dating sites for days on end until I have things straightened out in my head and, more importantly, in my heart.

Over the course of a week’s focussed, intense contemplation I make a series of realizations.

Firstly, everything I have done in my adult life has been for love. All aspects of my life are layers to a pyramid that has love as its pinnacle. That might not be the best approach to life and I think it’s driven in part by my Avoidant Personality Disorder. However, I am too old to change. There just isn’t time for cognitive behaviour therapy that lasts years. Much better to just proceed as normal and hope for the best, hope for The One.

My second insight is that I’ve been looking for love in the wrong places. The type of women I have met through dating sites is not the typical woman. The typical woman I have encountered is emotionally messed up and not capable of a relationship. Very few of them have love in their hearts. These are lesser women; it’s why they’re on these sites and are there for so long. No man will put up with their craziness, bitchiness and/or selfishness.

I am now thoroughly disenchanted with online dating. It seems to be the domain of deranged, emotionally unhealthy women. It has so negatively affected my view of women that I find myself wondering if any good women exist, instead of all these self-seeking charlatans.

I review and analyze my history of dates on my dating spreadsheet that I primarily created to help me with my writing. It becomes obvious that my best dates came off the national newspaper’s dating site with my Happy Humping Ground site second-best. I realize that Plenty of Fish in particular is where the most undesirable women end up. That and other free sites is where the bulk of my bad dating experiences have come from. It has distorted my view of women.

Thirdly, reflecting on my own behaviour towards women, I feel ashamed. I am used to being better than I have been. However, some lessons have been learned. Only a man who doesn’t respect women and will therefore treat them badly, will be with a woman that he doesn’t respect. A man who respects woman will only be with a woman he respects. I can not attach value to a woman who does not value herself, a woman who cheapens herself by doing anything with any guy. I am worth a lot, I have a lot to offer and only to someone deserving, because otherwise they will only squander what I have to give them.

Fourthly, I have greater insights about women that should better prepare me for the future. I’ve learned that when a woman says that she is “fussy”, it means that she’s not seriously looking for a relationship and more than anything else is on a big ego-trip. All those men running after her and getting them to do things to please her. Wow, that must be wonderful for the ego!

From young women are told that they are the weaker sex and that they’re not as strong as men. That sets off a life-long desire for power over men in many a young mind. It’s inherent in human nature that anything gained easily is not valued. So, any man who easily gives a woman her sense of power, he is quickly discarded. Play hard to get with a woman and she wants you. I’m starting think that for a relationship to work, the woman must want the man more than he wants her.

Some women seem to think that to get a husband all they need to do is open their legs. What they don’t know is that, the sort of man who falls for that, will divorce her if she opens her mouth. To find a prince, a woman needs to kiss a few frogs, but not fuck the whole pond!

In this current younger generation of liberal democracies, girls have been told that they are the same as men and men have been told to be nice to women. So men come across as grovelling weaklings and women despise them for it. There is thus a bigger disconnect between the genders than ever before. Men are confused about their exact identity in society and women are told that they can have it all.

I watched ‘The Counselor’ the other day and Javier Bardem’s character says something profound:

Men are attracted to flawed women too of course, but their illusion is that they can fix them. Women don’t want to fix anything. They just want to be entertained. The truth about women is you can do anything to them except bore them.” ― Cormac McCarthy, The Counselor: A Screenplay

Lastly, from my own shameful experiences, as soon as a man thinks he’s being played, he takes it as permission to become a player. “Take me seriously and treat me respectfully, or I will look for someone who does and I shall treat you like a piece of meat in prison until then” is the resulting attitude. A gender difference related to this I’ve noted is that women have affairs to get back at their men, while men have affairs to get away from their women.

I’m left with a few questions bugging me. First, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever love someone else again. Second, just how many women’s lives do I want to fuck up? I suppose these questions will only be answered with time.

How am I to be from now on?

I’ve resigned myself to singledom for the foreseeable future. I’ve realized that I’m just not going to fall in love with anyone while I feel so shit about myself. I’ve based this on the understanding that I’m far more primitive than I had previously realized; I am a caveman. I only feel good about myself when my financial position is strong. The more money I have the better I feel about myself. It’s easy to dismiss this outlook as narcissistic, but the reality is far more complex. I can only feel that I am at my best, a real man, if my bank account is a source of pleasure. On the back of that I feel I shall have the confidence to be the best me I can. It’s hard to fall in love with someone else if you’re not in love with yourself first. It’s also hard to do the things in a relationship that require money when you’re worried about making the rent.

I’m so stressed about my financial situation that I have very little interest in sex right now. No desire, no urge, not a nothing. I’ve never been like this before. It’s a strange sensation. Is this what eunuchs or lesser men feel? Despite that, all this random sex with virtual strangers has got to end because it’s doing me no good. It’s been messing with my brain. I’m not going to have sex with another woman until my feelings for her are clear. Yes, the next woman I’m going to sleep with is going to be The One.

That’s it. I’m not running from myself any more. If I lose myself then it’s all been for nothing.

I need to fix my working life, get over my Avoidant Personality Disorder, look for love in the right places, not get sexual so quickly and somehow believe in a better future.

I’ve got nothing to lose, because I’ve pretty much lost everything already.

Naughty Boy – Runnin’ (Lose It All)

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

Date #46 – The Finn

In a moment of discomfort after breaking up with Busty Blonde I go on to Plenty of Fish to see what or who was in the Dating Ocean. My usual search for an attractive woman who didn’t want children yielded a new profile. It was a single photo profile of a 40 year-old pretty blonde who, after reading her profile, I realized was not British. Her second language was “other” and her religion was Lutheran, so I surmised that she was another Eastern European.

I thought nothing more of it because single photo profiles had been disappointments to me. However, when I went on to PoF a few days later to look at her profile again, I noticed that she had viewed me too. Catfish don’t tend to view victim’s profiles because they’re too busy working over some innocent who has written to them.

“What the hell,” I thought as I wrote a short approach message. I didn’t expect to hear back, it was just a bit of naughtiness mixed with frustration that made me press “send”.

She wrote back the next day, a lengthier message than mine, telling me that she was Finnish. I answered with a little polite banter and my usual way of suggesting that we meet. She wrote back later that same night agreeing that we meet up. Game on!

The Finn’s profile spoke of a physically active woman who likes the outdoors. I have always been in danger of becoming a slouch-potato, so having someone who gets my arse out the door more often will be a good thing.

I had never met a Finnish person before, so I read up online about their social norms and customs. It appears physical contact in public is eschewed and they are famous for being quiet and introverted. That said, they are also considered the most promiscuous in the Western World. If it is written on the internet it must be true.

I have to keep an open mind. I am not of my national stereotype, so I have to proceed in the belief that neither is she. It would also be churlish to assume the moral high ground after the year that I’ve had.

Old habits die hard. I did my usual Googling routine and found her surname, so I located her LinkedIn and Facebook profiles. I only found three photos of The Finn and I like the look of her; a wholesome girl-next-door blonde.

Could she be The One?

It’s a Wednesday night in June as I stand waiting outside Tower Hill Tube station. Is The Finn going to look like her photos? Probably not. Are we going to get along? Possibly; I can talk to anybody about anything. Will we fancy each other? That would be a nice change.

I spot The Finn walking up to me and I can’t help but smile. She is very pretty and I instantly fancy her. At least the third best-looking woman I’ve dated; The Model and Krazy Girl were close to perfect. I’m keen to make love to her. She smells good too as I kiss her hello on her cheeks.

Outside the Tube station I do the chicken-wing thing. She laughs and holds on politely, but lets go at the first opportunity. By the time we’re seated at the Dickens Inn she’s warmed to me. We don’t lack for conversation and from the amount of time she spent playing with her ears and hair, I would say that she liked the look of me too.

Conversation was upbeat and positive; she was far more lively than what I expected. My expectations were based on the dour stereotypes about Finns. A bit like me, she is not like from where she comes. She had worked with several South Africans in London and I think she was positively disposed to my being South African.

We have similar emotional backgrounds in that we didn’t get along with our mothers, prefer the wide open spaces to cities and love to travel. A sense of freedom is important to us. We’re both in a position of not being too choosy about nationality. There aren’t that many of out compatriots in and around London who could be relationship material.

She also left her home country the first chance she could get. In her case she went to a Middle Eastern Kingdom for 3 years which was a financial success for her. Then she moved to the UK and had been here 11 years. I conclude that she’s very similar to me in that she’s not afraid to take big risks and see things through no matter how rough the going gets.

The more I look at her, the more I like her. I remember thinking to myself, “This is more like it!” Someone whose look pleases me, someone who, when I look at her, my spirits feel lifted. The opposite of feeling, “Nice person, shame about the face.” Shallow, perhaps, but it matters. It so matters.

She’s very trim and I can just imagine her slender body against mine, her legs and arms wrapped around me as we make the beast with two backs. She’s somewhat flat-chested, but I will happily trade in boobage in exchange for the far more valuable albeit invisible substance called “chemistry”.

There were a couple of notable negatives. First, she asked hardly any questions of me. If you’re interested in someone there are things you want to know about. Secondly, she didn’t say thank you for the meal and wine. Thirdly, she has been on various dating sites for over a year and hinted at having been on many dates. There’s either a problem somewhere or, like me, she knows what she’s looking for. The only thing that bothers me that can’t be explained away is that she has a deep voice for a woman. I checked her Adam’s apple and there’s no scar. Yes, her voice is that deep that I felt the need to do that.

I went out of my way to see her off at Kings Cross Station, where we stood at the escalators saying our goodbyes. I knew that I wanted to see her again, but didn’t want to come across as too eager, so I said, “If you’d like to see me again, send me a message.”

Her facial expression turned negative and it seemed that she didn’t know what to make of that. I didn’t want to risk her misunderstanding, for fear of losing her, so I went for it and made my intentions clear by saying, “I’d like to see you again.”

Instantly her face lit up, she half-smiled and she said, “I want to see you again too.”

I like her. I get a good vibe off her, but she seems very guarded, which I know I have to give time to resolve itself. There were times sitting at the table in the Dickens Inn when I could see the glimmer of a relationship. We’re an intellectual match, both just want to be happy and I think we fancy each other.

For the first time in a long time, I’m excited about someone.

It would be naivety in the extreme to think that seeing someone for six months will be followed by The One. I still have it in me to hope for the best, but I am so well equipped for dealing with the worst nowadays.

I suspect that she’s something of a serial dater. Whenever I’ve been on PoF, she’ll have been on too. It seems she goes on in the morning, then at lunchtime and then very late at night. I’m not entirely sure what to make of that.

As attracted as I am to her, I know from all my years of experience that I’m going to have to play it very cool with her; act nonchalant and be Passive-Disinterested. It’s going to take a lot to maintain this for several hours on a date, but I know I have to do it.

The night before our second date we swapped a few emails. Here’s how it ended.

The Finn: However, despite knowing your dark secret I’m still going out on a second date with you. What does that tell about me??

Grey Knight:
A) That you like to live dangerously…
B) You fancy me
C) I’m the best date you’ve had in a long time…

I can’t decide. Care to help?

The Finn: All three

With that she handed me all the power in the relationship…

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

Date #25 – The Pretty Pole

In recent weeks a plethora of potential matches has hit Plenty of Fish; I can only guess they don’t want to spend the Summer alone. One pretty blonde, thirty-five year-old lady catches my eye (amongst others), but this one seems different. The energy captured in her photos speak of someone grounded and wholesome. Her words are humble and down-to-earth.

I write an approach email commenting on something in one of her photos and it leads to good-natured banter via email between us. In her first reply she makes a point of telling me that she’s Polish. I decide to keep an open mind and forget about the Picky Pole date. She quickly agrees to meeting up for a date. Perfect; I hate email ping-pong.

Could she be the One?

It’s a Monday night after work and the sun is tingeing people’s skins outside Tower Hill Tube station. Other daters arrive and stand around, expecting to meet someone too. It’s busy and some of the women look like they could be my date. I ride an emotional roller-coaster each time I see a blonde who might be her.

Jeez, I hope that’s not her! Nope, it isn’t. Phew.
There, that one, she’s looking at me. Ah, there’s her fella.
Wow! She’s nice, I hope that’s her. Nope, that must be her parents. Pity.
Hmm, is that her? Looks a bit frumpy. Good, she’s meeting some friends.
This one looks alright. She’s kissing another girl. I think I saw some tongue there.
Oh no, I hope this isn’t her. Keep walking, keep walking, don’t make eye-contact…thank god, she walked past.

I know that the day will come when I look back on all these dates and laugh about them. More than anything I look forward to the moment when I know she’s The One, while we’re lying on our sides, legs entwined and lost in each other’s eyes, I say to her with all my heart “I knew you existed”.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot my date. She’s tall, slender, wearing a one-piece white dress and white court shoes. Her hair is straight, almost touching her shoulders and she’s a natural blonde. Her eyes are the colour of the sky above us. She is pretty and looks angelic. My heart jumps. Finally, is this Her?

I instantly think of her as ‘The Pretty Pole’.

My sense of relief at her attractiveness causes me to not notice her facial expression when she first sees me. I say her name and kiss her hello on a cheek as she smiles. She tries to say my name and gets it horribly wrong. I just laugh and tell her how to say it.

At the stairs I do my usual thing of, “Tell me something, do you like chicken?”

“Yes. Why?” The Pretty Pole says predictably.

“You better take a wing then,” I say with my best smile and extend an elbow towards her.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” she says with a puzzled look on her face.

“It’s just a little joke. Never mind. Would you like to take my arm as we go down these stairs?” I respond, a little disappointed that she didn’t catch my attempt at humour. She holds onto my arm as we make our way down the stairs and, like most other women, she lets go once we’re on flat ground. That’s fine, it shows me she is comfortable with me, no sign of trust issues, we’ve broken a physical barrier, so it’s all good.

As we walk to St Katharine Dock, we chat away and she’s only been in the UK for two years. When Poland joined the European Union in 2004 over a million young Poles moved to the UK in the following two years. Compared to her compatriots she’s a late arrival. I ask The Pretty Pole about this.

“I got divorced and wanted a new start. My friends here kept telling me to come over, so here I am,” she says with a heavy Polish accent. I can make out what she’s saying because I speak several languages to varying degrees of fluency, but I think a native English-speaker would struggle with her accent.

“Is my accent a problem for you?” I ask.

“No, it’s fine as long as you speak slowly,” she replies.

I endeavour to speak as slowly as I can, for both our benefits. In my job I work with a wonderfully mixed assortment of nationalities and I am often asked to address everyone as my accent is the most neutral. I’m pretty sure that my accent won’t be a problem

At the Dickens Inn the usual waiter looks at me and cocks his head sideways. I smile proudly. This is third woman he has seen me with in five days and she’s the prettiest. Once seated at “my table” on the balcony, I’m quite happy to let The Pretty Pole talk. I’ll just sit back and admire her beauty. She’s lovely. I like the look of her and especially like the vibe I’m getting off of her. She’s down-to-earth, not flighty, nor high-spirited, but a pleasant reminder of what refinement and sophistication is. She’s a true lady.

As is the norm on a first date the initial topic centres on what we do for work. I tell her what I do and she tells her line of work.

“I arrived in London not speaking a word of English and now I’m a team leader in a call-centre co-ordinating the English, German and Polish-speaking markets,” she says slowly.

I start speaking German to her and we have a brief conversation in German. She comes to life with that little interaction, but I revert to English because my German isn’t as good as hers. It dawns on me that she isn’t comfortable speaking English.

Houston, we have a language barrier. Fuck.

Speaking slowly does not come naturally to me, but I try my best. What really starts to bother me is that she just doesn’t get any of my humour. All of it is lost in translation. I crack a joke, smile and she just stares back at me, blinking and trying to understand what I just said. I can be quite punny and I don’t know if other languages and cultures incorporate puns as part of their humour; I’m starting to think not.

I’m also starting to think that humour is a vital ingredient in “chemistry”, that rare and elusive thing that when two people meet there is positive electricity between them. Baltic Babe and I were great in the humour department; I’d have her literally in tears of laughter once an hour. She’d beg me to stop because her sides were hurting. I miss that and the sound of her laugh.

Sadly I can’t tell you what The Pretty Pole’s laugh sounded like because I don’t think I heard it. After about an hour conversation has died and we both just stare out at the marina, not knowing what the hell to say to each other any more. The date pretty much died there.

It was cringe-worthy for both of us. I felt particularly bad, thinking that I hadn’t been speaking slowly enough. If only her English was better. I know that it was more than that, but I still felt bad. The Pretty Pole probably felt worse.

I could see that she was a Good Girl and that she was a Giver too. I was also feeling disappointed because in front of me sits a woman who not only looks the part, but also has the moral fibre and decency of someone whom I want to share my life with. It feels like life was teasing me, dangling what I want in front of my nose and then whipping it away.

I suppose with a lot of time, patience and effort we could teach each other languages, but even then the outcome isn’t guaranteed. In fact, it’s highly unlikely because the focus of the relationship is all wrong. The realization comes to me that I’m not in the market for a project; I’m looking for a finished product. Someone whom I have nothing to teach, but only to share with. I’d happily be with a woman who wants to teach me new things. Doing new things together is fun, it binds a couple together, but if it’s all about overcoming a communication barrier, well that’s not fun.

I pay for our wine and pizzas which The Pretty Pole politely thanks me for. Walking my date to wherever she needs to get to I shall always do, no matter how bad the date. When I kiss her goodbye on a cheek outside the Tube station, I think we both knew we’ll never be seeing each other again.

On this date communication had let us down.

Never mind, I have a date on Friday night with someone who is a 99% match on OKCupid…

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) I’m not looking for a project but a finished article 2) Laughter is key to chemistry

Spandau Ballet: Communication

Date #21 – Country Girl

I spotted a new profile on Plenty of Fish that I liked; she had the look I can’t resist and interesting words. She responds to my approach message the next day and we set up a date for the coming Thursday night without having to engage in email ping-pong. I’m learning that lengthy email exchanges rarely lead to a date. Either she’s interested in meeting or she’s not and no amount of messages flying backwards and forwards will change that.

We agree to meet in a town almost halfway between where we live and I suggest a great Italian restaurant that does perfect pizzas. I like the positive start to our interactions, I think it portends well.

Could she be The One?

It’s Thursday night and I’m sitting in my car when I spot her walk past; she’s early too. I resist the urge to run after her and choose instead to do something I’ve not done before – I’ll make her wait. Perhaps my luck will change if I do that? A few minutes later she texts me that she is sitting at a table, so I respond that I’m almost there.

She’s seated with her back to me as I walk around the side of her, stop next to the table and say her name. She looks up at me and instantly her eyes widen as her mouth falls open. I think it’s safe to say that she likes the look of me. I stoop down and kiss her hello on a cheek. I can’t help but smile to myself as I sit down while she regains her composure and sits more upright.

I like the look of her too. She’s pretty, has lovely brown eyes and golden blonde hair that touches her shoulders. She’s very smartly dressed in a dark blue dress and is wearing silver earrings and a matching necklace. She looks lovely and it’s pleasing to see a woman prepared to make an effort, unlike the Picky Pole. What a wonderful contrast. There’s a little bit of puppy fat on her, which I don’t mind and she comes with a hint of respectable boobage.

We ease into light-hearted banter and she tells me that she works in nature conservation. I think of her as Country Girl.

We hit it off in the conversation stakes and there’s a liveliness about her that I find refreshing. It feels like we’re evenly matched in that our energy levels seem similar, she’s not afraid to initiate topics of conversation and has a calm confidence about her.

Country Girl is 38 years-old and used to be an accountant, working her butt off over long days for many years until the call of the countryside became too much to resist. She’d made enough money for herself to be comfortable and do a job that she loves. I respect her choices and ability to make her wishes come true. She’s never been married nor felt the urge to have children. She’s perfect so far.

Before we know it we’re the last customers left in the restaurant; the staff are noisily getting ready to close. It’s approaching 11pm and we both have to work in the morning, but it feels like we could sit chatting and laughing until dawn. We have chemistry and I love the feeling of it, partly because I’m realising just how rare it is.

It’s been a good evening but all things, good and bad, have to come to an end. I pay the bill which she politely thanks me for. Her manners are impeccable. I offer to walk Country Girl to her car to which she just smiles. When we stand up it comes as a surprise as to just how much shorter than me she is. I like that feeling, it brings out my protective nature.

As we leave the restaurant I say to her, “Tell me something, do you like chicken?”

“Yes, why?” she asks with a puzzled look.

“Better take a wing then,” I say with a smile and extend a bowed arm towards her.

Country Girl scrunches up her face and says, “That’s terrible,” but couples an arm with mine nevertheless. Okay, so she fails that sense of humour test; no big deal.

We arrive at her car and she turns to face me.

“Well, I guess this is goodnight then. Thank you for a lovely evening,” she says.

Over the course of the encounter I had been sneaking little peaks at her mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss her. I just had to know, so I leaned down towards her mouth, knowing full well that I might be making a fool of myself, knowing that I risk embarrassing rejection, risk killing off what could be the start of everything that I want, but I just had to do this.

The chess grand master Garry Kasparov said, “He who does not risk, does not drink champagne”. My version of that is, “I’m willing to suffer countless rejection so that one day I may know love.”

I stop my lips just short of Country Girl’s, hoping that I haven’t assessed the evening wrongly. Any fears that my reptilian brain can conjure up if it is given enough time are misplaced.

Her mouth comes forward and our lips make gentle contact that quickly becomes a warm embrace.

Our first kiss lasts almost half a minute I reckon; well it felt that long. As first kisses go it’s a good one. Neither of us use our tongue, but I could feel that she wanted to cut loose. Before she does I pull away, satisfied that my reading of how the evening has gone is correct. She likes me too.

Country Girl’s eyes sparkle at me and her rosy little cheeks are beaming. I decide to leave it there, to leave her breathless and wanting more. Yes, I know that I didn’t do my pussy-mouth test, but something tells me that there’ll be much more time for that.

Without another word she gets in her car and drives off. I go home with a fantastic warm feeling all over my body; my brain is buzzing with chemicals. I feel good…I also feel bad, because I have another date lined up for tomorrow night with someone else.

I couldn’t know that tonight’s date will be the closest thing to heaven as far as dates go, so I feel a bit guilty. Then I remind myself of a first date being like a bikini: what it suggests is provocative and what it conceals is vital.

Still, this was the best first date since Baltic Babe, that Friday lunchtime now almost a year ago. http://www.meanddating.com/2013/11/date-2-baltic-babe/

Kane Gang – Closest Thing To Heaven