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Date #52 – Lovely Lawyer

When I was seeing Busty Blonde, Travel Gal and going on one-off dates with the two Russians at the end of 2013, I got an email off the newspaper site from an intriguing blonde. I had enough to contend with, so I responded with “Sorry, I’m not looking for anyone right now.” The biggest problems I had with her was that she was two years older than me and seemed a little flat-chested; other than that she met the paper-based criteria I have. As I write this it’s a year ago all that was happening.

A couple of months after I had finished with Busty Blonde I remembered this intriguing blonde as I clicked through the newspaper website, seeing who’s new and what’s changed. Her profile was exactly the same as before and she had recently been online. It had recently occurred to me that the dates who contacted me first tended to result in a higher quality of interaction. I used the free one-liner chat-up facility to see if she might still be single and interested in lil’ ol’ me. The next day she checked out my profile but didn’t respond. Hers was the only profile on the site that was of interest to me, but her lack of response told me that there was no point in subscribing.

Now fast forward six months to just after Christmas 2014 and matters between me and the MILF of Xmas have ground to a shuddering halt. The newspaper dating site has given me a free one week subscription and the intriguing blonde was the first thought that popped into my mind. I had nothing to lose so I wrote a polite approach email, not really expecting to hear back from her.

The next day she writes back with a lengthy, wordy response that I like the tone of. She even has the foresight to provide an email address, which impresses me. It also tells me that she really wants to be in touch with me. Just from her choice of words I can tell that we’ll get along, at least in the conversation stakes. Will we have chemistry? Will that all-important lust factor be there?

She only has three photographs in her profile, one of which stirs something in my soul, no, not my loins. It’s a photo of her in a light-blue cardigan, her golden blonde hair loose around her shoulders and a daring look in her eyes. It’s a wholesome her with a hint of naughtiness. That photo makes me want to step up to her, put a hand on her hip and with my other hand cup the back of her head, feeling her hair resting on the back of my hand and then stoop down to give her a gentle kiss that makes her body go weak.

Her primary photo is of her dressed in formal attire, presumably heading off for a day at the races and it makes her look so prim and proper that she looks dorky. Not as good look. The third photo is of her holding up a wine glass at some Xmas party or industry awards event. She’s smartly dressed, but her face is partially obscured behind the glass. The tone of that picture tells me that she is social but can be guarded. Are those the most prominent sides to her personality? Does one of those prevail and if so, which one?

The content in her profile speaks of someone who likes variety (same as me) and has an interest in high-brow matters. Her favourite television show is a political satire. She claims to like a good debate, something that doesn’t sit too well with me, but I can hold my own. In the past this has indicated an argumentative personality. I wonder if she’s a sapiophile – a woman whose knickers get wet when talking to an intelligent man?

I write to her personal email address and she responds. All very positive so far, but at the time I’m contemplating suicide. Not the best of mindsets to be in when meeting someone new. My heart isn’t in it really, I’m just going through the motions to an extent.

It’s New Year’s Eve, so I don’t write back, having learned that it’s best to pace things slowly at first, then to increase the level of attention as the day of the first date draws near. She then writes again, on New Year’s Day, asking if I had got her previous email. She’s either really keen or a little intense with OCD tendencies. There’s a reason she’s single, after all, so what might it be?

I give her my mobile number in an email and she responds with hers. We’ve agreed to meet this coming Saturday and I’m looking forward to it. I’m intrigued by her. I connect with her on WhatsApp and suggest we chat. It’s been a while since I’ve done that and I’m thinking nowadays that it’s still a good screening mechanism. I’ll treat this as an experiment. Given that she is Date #52, the harsh reality is that she’s unlikely to be The One.

Her email address has her full name so I Google that; it’s a popular name. There’s a lack of photos and through a process of elimination and findings on the internet I arrive at the conclusion that she’s a lawyer. That doesn’t sit well with me. Baltic Babe and Lusty Lass were both lawyers and Miss Indecisive worked in law. All were intense, rigid-minded individuals for whom fun was a luxury. Could she be different? Time will tell.

I’m really looking forward to this date. Could she be The One?

Not likely, but one day it’ll happen. It could be said that it’s overdue. However, if I am right in that she’s a lawyer, then I’m a little uneasy because I’ve seen her type before. Country Girl, Musician Gal and Pretty Teacher come to mind in that they were all ‘independent’ and married to their jobs. She is likely to be what I call a ‘London girl’, someone brought up on the idea of being an independent woman, secretly carrying an adversarial attitude towards men, bordering on disrespectful.

I’m going to make a concerted effort to lean back in my seat at the dinner table and see how long it takes for her to lean forward. That’s my little challenge for myself, just to keep my dating skills sharp and fresh.

The night before our date she cancels, citing work. I take her explanation with a pinch of salt. Nevertheless she makes a concerted effort to keep in touch via email and text messages. Apparently she’s working on a big deal at work. I noticed in the business news that her employer is involved in one of the biggest takeovers in British corporate history. My faith in her is restored.

Weeks of excuses go by, but I’m not bothered about this because I’m getting my own act together. I need to be in a better frame of mind if I am to find and makes the most of what and who I am looking for. Perhaps all of these delays are happening as part of a greater divine scheme so that when we meet it’s all just perfect? It might be a case of my suffering is going to be rewarded?

Towards the end of January we eventually meet. Some things will never change it seems.

Her photos are at least five years old. I wouldn’t have recognised her if it wasn’t for her walking up to me outside Tower Hill Tube station. That familiar feeling of deflation took its usual place in my being. As we walk to St. Katharine Dock I am struck by how upbeat and lively she is, a pleasant surprise, but I guess my spending weeks by myself in a morose state will eventually have an effect. I’m pretty sure that she likes the look of me given how friendly and tactile she is. We sit down to lunch in the Dickens Inn, but she isn’t interested in food or drink, only in talking to me. It feels like a replay of that first date with Brazilian.

We are definitely an intellectual match and I enjoy talking to her, but I just don’t fancy her. She is too old and wrinkly for me to feel physically attracted to her. We have much in common, want the same things from life – someone to hold hands with when we’re really old and decrepit – both love to travel, exploring strange lands, learning interesting things for ourselves, cooking exotic foods, etc.

Yes, I was right, she is a corporate lawyer, but I didn’t let that stand in the way of anything. She is also very flat-chested, something that would probably bother me more and more as time went by. In terms of personality she is wonderful: open, gregarious, fair-minded and funny.

I think of her as the Lovely Lawyer.

Conversation flows easily, but at times I feel myself getting a little too negative in terms of what we are discussing. She didn’t seem to mind and is often flicking her hair which denotes physical attraction and playing with her ears which speaks of intellectual pleasure. She is indeed a sapiophile and loves getting to the crux of a topic. I spot her nipples hardening under her pale blue cardigan as we discuss the state of the economy. I would have been happy to spend the rest of the day talking to her, but I think that speaks more of my loneliness than anything else.

The Lovely Lawyers starts telling me about her relationship history. It’s quite similar to mine in that she has had a weakness for and a knack of becoming involved with people who are wrong for her. In essence our issue is the same: we want to be loved more than anything else. I sense that she is capable of the kind of love I have to offer and seek in return. Like me, she can revel in love at the expense of everything else, usually at great expense. She could very much be the quintessential woman in love; a rarity in my experience.

It’s such a shame that I don’t fancy her, otherwise she’d be perfect. I really like her personality, but I’ve tried with Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde to look past the lack of lust and it just doesn’t work for me. It’s so sad and I get a little choked up about it. Perfectly good, decent women I am having to pass over knowing full well that I can trust and respect them.

That wow factor HAS to be there, it doesn’t work for me otherwise. I don’t want to go hurting and damaging a great person by trying to do what I know I can’t do. So, Stupid Boy here is growing up and learning to resist what he knows is wrong for him. I’m not going to hurt another innocent woman; I’ve done more than enough of that.

I can tell that she’s happy to spend the rest of the day with me and an earlier version of me would have done so, but I’m more mindful of the other person I’m meeting nowadays. I don’t want to give her the wrong idea and let her get her hopes up. I’m also not at my best right now, so even if I did fancy her, she would run the risk of becoming enamoured with someone who is going to change in the near-future.

Lunch ends and Lovely Lawyers suggests going across the way to a comfortable-looking coffee shop, but I take the opportunity to end the encounter. Her face shows her disappointment, but I think that is better than her becoming embroiled with me. I’ll be a cannonball that she’s dodged, she just doesn’t know it.

The next day I send her my standard ‘thanks, but no thanks’ email message. She responds with words of disappointment.

Meeting her has restored my faith in women to a small extent.

My search continues.

Barbra Streisand-Woman In Love

Feel

Sunday morning we’re both awake before sunrise and the banter is light and easy. The Cockaholic’s eyes sparkle and she says, “I’m sorry, but please forgive me for doing this,” and pushes the covers off of me and starts sucking on my morning glory. Not a bad way to be woken, for sure, but I would much prefer it to be with a women who is crazy about me and not crazy at me.

I feel it’s too risky to cum in her pussy; I don’t want to get her pregnant, so I cum in her mouth. As always The Cockaholic happily swallows my load without a break in her rhythm. She is the happiest cock-sucking, cum-swallower I’ve ever encountered. I think there are men who would put up with her for just the phenomenal blowjobs.

A little later I’m licking her clit and fingering her g-spot. Suddenly The Cockaholic lifts her head, looks at me and says, “You have a fucking gorgeous body.” Yes, it’s nice to hear, but I’m surprised at her timing of this declaration of undying lust. Where did that come from? What is she thinking about as she lies there? I don’t think I’ll ever understand the workings of any one woman’s mind, especially after this one’s cold, aloof behaviour of last night.

After breakfast we speed off in her sports car to a nearby town to visit the Christmas market around the cathedral. She’s a speed-freak and takes unnecessary risks, swearing at any other motorist who dares hoot at us. In this moment she reminds me of Pretty Teacher. On the drive over she starts snapping at anything I say. After a while I’m reluctant to say anything. The Cockaholic has become hard work again. Sitting at traffic lights I decide to tell her how I’m feeling, that she’s changed and I don’t know why. She responds angrily with, “Do you want me to drop you off here?”

That killed my feelings for her – stone dead. The fact that she was willing to discard me like a bag of unwanted rubbish at the side of the road is a gross insult, laced with disrespect and contempt. We see out the rest of the day in muted hostility. I can’t figure out what has brought on this attitude. I’ve said and done nothing to deserve it.

We silently walk around the Christmas market, there’s the smell of warm, mulled wine and sweet frying onions in the air, children’s laughter serenades us as a contented buzz envelopes us, but it all feels like a straight-jacket to me. My stomach is clenched tight and my brain is racing, my heart is filled with familiar bitter feelings.

I’m going off The Cockaholic and find my thoughts wandering over to finding a way to say goodbye to her. Instead of staying over like I do every Sunday night, I make polite excuses and go home. Although I can’t wait to get the hell away from her, I make a point of leaving in a civil fashion, to keep my options open. I now have enough experience to not make any rash decisions, but to take a moment or two to think things over before taking irreversible action.

Monday night I phone her, hoping to have a civil chat, but she starts fretting over trivial things and making mountains out of molehills. I become exasperated and simply say her name in an attempt to calm her down, to which she becomes indignant and we essentially put the phone down on each other. I don’t understand why she’s pushing me away, constantly being at odds with anything I say, quick to take offence, constantly feeding back negatively. Until recently she was so positive, letting nothing phase her. Whatever her reasons, I frankly don’t care. I don’t need this. I just don’t feel enough for her to take on board and work through this shit.

I’ll say goodbye to The Cockaholic this week.

As far as I’m concerned I’m totally single again, so out of curiosity more than anything I re-install Tinder on my phone and start flicking through faces. My search area is narrow so it doesn’t take me long to spot a profile that I’m convinced is The Cockaholic putting on a disguise. She’s wearing a broad beach-hat, has a large scarf draped around her neck and the photo is taken from a distance in low light. Nevertheless I recognize The Cockaholic from her distinctive body shape and hint of a smile. The distance is two miles further than her home, but that would place her at naughty best friend’s place. Has this friend been influencing her, given that she’s an expert at sneaking around? I don’t actually care any more.

The Cockaholic mentioned on Monday night that she was having dinner with someone on Tuesday night. The way she said it made me suspicious. I suspect that it’s a date and, quite frankly, I couldn’t care less. Neither of us make any attempt to communicate with the other on Tuesday. I phone her at 9.30pm on Wednesday night, knowing that she’s always home by then, but my call goes to her voicemail. At lunchtime on Thursday she sends me a text message saying that she only got my message then. I suspect that she was out again, perhaps sleeping over at some guys place. She was very quick to jump into bed with me, so why not someone else?

The Cockaholic promises to call me tonight; I’ll say goodbye to her then.

11th December – Thursday
I’m expecting this break-up to result in one of three responses: 1) She’s shocked and disappointed 2) She’s not shocked nor disappointed 3) Tells me that she’s met someone anyway. My instincts tell me that’s it’s most likely the latter.

I’ve just got off the phone from The Cockaholic. I said to her, “I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re not right for each other”. Her initial reaction was a curt, emotionless “Okay”. That was it. I pry for further words, but she didn’t want to discuss it or say anything else. It was option 2 – she wasn’t shocked or disappointed. The Cockaholic didn’t seem upset at all, more blasé and indifferent. I said a few nice words to be civil and soften the blow in case she was upset in some way. My words seemed to have zero impact. Less than a minute later we said goodbye.

Despite everything I think she’s a good, decent person, but just devoid of the appeal and magic that I want, expect and need from a relationship. I think her insecurities will wreck any relationship. I know that I have my own trust issues, but I’m aware of them and I try to keep them in check. Experiences like this are not helping soothe them though.

The more I think about what happened between us and her sudden change in behaviour, the more I think she had started seeing someone else. It would be churlish of me to be indignant, after all I wasn’t exactly honest with her in the beginning. It seems almost fair that she wasn’t honest with me towards the end. There’s an irony there that amuses me somewhat. Easy come, easy go – Tinder hey-ho and heave-ho.

The very next night, a Friday, The Cockaholic sends me a text message just after 10pm that simply says, “Hahahaha.

At first I thought that she sent this to me by mistake, but then I see another angle. The way I know The Cockaholic, it’s her saying that she’s having the last laugh. I take that as final confirmation that she has been seeing someone else or has just met someone interesting for a date or a shag. Good luck to her…and him.

This encounter has left me a hollow feeling inside. I know that my intent was bad, that The Cockaholic was supposed to just be a one-night stand, but I liked her, well, the initial her. I guess I got literally sucked into a so-called ‘situationship’ with her. Then it quickly turned sour and I think it’s because she developed suspicions about my whereabouts which led to her choosing to pursue a course of action which was not warranted. Perhaps it was for the best.

I’m surprised by how little I feel about this, it scares me.

Is it because I wasn’t that taken by her to start with? Is it because I’m starting to expect all encounters to end in failure? Is my heart hardening? More importantly, am I capable of love any more? I don’t know.

All that coupled with the recent revelation of The Saffa’s duplicitous actions while I was still interested in her has reinforced this hollow feeling. I understand now that the source of her self-induced drama was exaggerated by guilt from her sneaking around too.

I find myself sitting listening to Robbie Williams’ ‘Feel’ over and over again. The words are about me and I don’t know what to do about that.

Who or what am I going to meet next? I’m developing a sense of trepidation…

Lessons learned: 1) Beware a jealous, insecure woman because she’ll make your life hell and ruin the relationship. Don’t make excuses for her behaviour, they don’t change, don’t be a diaper for her issues, just move on. 2) A mutual lack or erosion of trust kills a romance quicker than acid. 3) No matter how good the sex, it’s only a matter of time before it all ends. 4) Some women are ‘anacondas’ in their relationship style. At first they’re all sweetness and light, but slowly they tighten the noose and try to control their man. 5) When a woman’s behaviour suddenly changes for the worse, then something serious is going on, perhaps another man. Passive-aggressive behaviour might be driven by guilt.

Robbie Williams- Feel

Trapped – Part 2

The Saffa leads me to a swanky part of London, to an imperious building and into an old-fashioned apartment straight out of the 50s. This is where she looks after a little old lady, thus her place of employment and the closest thing to home that she has on this sceptred isle. It feels like I’m treading on forbidden ground; I don’t belong here. In The Saffa’s profession as a carer it isn’t permitted for the carer to have visitors as it poses a risk to the vulnerable elderly.

“Isn’t your employer going to be home soon?” I ask as I spot the sun heading for the horizon that is the tops of London’s historic buildings.

“Nah, she’ll be home much later. We have the place to ourselves. What I want to show you is in the kitchen,” she says, gesturing down the musty-smelling corridor.

Once in the kitchen, which is resplendent with utensils and equipment that is older than me, The Saffa points out a potted plant sitting in the centre of an old table.

“Ta-dah! It’s your birthday present,” she exclaims, flapping her arms and hands about like a brainless bimbo hostess on a lame gameshow pointing out an insulting prize to a speechless contestant.

“Oh,” is all I can say.

“It’s a chilli bush. I know your birthday is after next weekend but I wasn’t sure what was going to happen between us today but seeing as you’re in London you can take it home with you,” she says.

“Thank you,” I stammer.

“Yes, we both like our food on the spicy side so whenever you cook for me you can add a little chilli from here. It’s cute, hey?” she gushes, impressed by her own idea and effort while I’m just non-plussed.

“Listen doll, I’m a little tired from all our walking of today. Let’s go lie down for a bit,” she suggests.

Huh? No. I can guess what this will lead to.

“Thanks, but I’d rather go now. Your boss won’t be impressed if she comes home to find a strange man standing in her kitchen. I don’t want you getting into trouble,” I say, reaching for my present.

“Ag, no man, don’t worry about that. We’ve got lots of time. Besides, I just want to feel close to you,” she says with puppy-dog eyes.

How could I say no?

Her room is neat and tidy with an over-sized suitcase dominating the free space. It’s apparent that she lives out of this suitcase as I can see her clothes stuffed into it. Toiletries, hairbrushes and a hair-dryer – a woman’s essentials – litter the meagre other free space offered by this small room.

The Saffa lies down on the bed which is a three-quarter-sized one, great for a single person but inadequate for a couple. I take my shoes off and join her on the bed, putting an arm under her and holding her against me. It isn’t long before she falls asleep against me. I feel her nerve-endings twitching and sense her body going limp against mine. I think minutes later I must have fallen asleep too.

It’s the noise of London’s night-life ramping up, the sound of more cars and chattering pedestrians below a slightly open window that wakes me. It’s dark and I don’t know what the time is. I’ve got to get out of here; I don’t want her losing her job. If she did get fired and thus homeless, The Saffa would have nowhere to go and I’d feel obliged to take her in. Not the best start to a relationship.

My trying to look at my watch in the gloom wakes The Saffa. She blinks her eyes open and we smile at each other.

“Today has been great, but I think it best that I hit the road,” I say, pulling myself away from her.

“No man, it’s still early. Anyway, there’s something I want,” she says enigmatically.

“What?”

“You,” she replies with a naughty smile just before latching her lips onto my neck.

“No, no, no,” I say trying to resist, pulling my head away. “Let’s not get carried away now. What if you lose your job?” I try to reason.

“Agh, c’mon man, live a little,” she says, tugging at my belt and sliding a hand into my jocks. Her warm hand easily finds my erect penis which is still engorged from our snooze.

In the blink of an eye she’s got my cock in her mouth and she’s sucking away on it like a woman possessed. How in less than a minute can she go from being asleep to sucking the chrome off a tow-bar?

Fuck, that feels good. She gives the best blowjob I’ve ever experienced. I thought the Pretty Teacher was a good cock-sucker, but The Saffa is even better.

Okay, I’ll let her suck me off, but then I really have to high-tail it out of here before there’s unnecessary trouble. So I lie back and savour her oral skills. She must enjoy doing this because nobody can be an expert at something they detest.

Suddenly she stops and I raise my head to see what she’s doing, just in time to watch her quickly pull up her skirt then straddle me, drag her knickers to one side and slide her slippery, wet, warm vagina over and around my cock.

“Ugh,” she says in that satisfied tone that all women seem to make as they perch themselves on me. I like that sound.

She starts wriggling her hips and tilts her head back. Fuck, she feels good. Her pussy is smaller and tighter than I thought it would be, but she’ll loosen up as she gets more turned on.

Okay, I’ll let her ride me until she cums, then I really have to get the hell out of here. We’re playing with fire now. Her boss and who knows who else can walk through the front door at any second. I hope she’s a quick cummer.

No, not.

The Saffa rides me for what feels like an eternity. At least she’s not as vocal as Busty Czech, but nevertheless I’m not exactly enjoying this encounter because I’m so distracted. The sounds she’s making and the aggressiveness of her hip motions tell me that she’s revelling in this which, all things considered, is a good thing. I’ll just patiently lie here like a huge dildo.

Eventually she rides me until she cums…with the sweetest suppressed little squeal I’ve ever heard. As her body’s shudders decrease she lets off one little squeal after another in time to each tremor. A satisfied gasp followed by a deep breath in signals the end of her orgasm.

Well that was cute, but I really need to leave and soon.

The Saffa slumps down next to me and I give her a kiss on the forehead.

A set of keys starts to jingle at the front door, a lock is turned open and two women’s voices shock me to my core.

The Saffa looks at me with big eyes, then smiles before breaking out in a stifled laugh.

Shit! I’m trapped.

The people on the other side of the door can’t be allowed to see me! We’re three floors up so there’s no way I can jump out the window. I remember there being a balcony and there might be a dumpster down below it, but that’s too risky. I’m getting too old for this shit. Boldly stepping out of this bedroom will lead to The Saffa being fired which in turn will lead to her moving in with me. The only way out is through that front door, so timing my exit right is vital.

“I’ll go talk to them,” she whispers as she pushes herself up off the bed.

The Saffa corrects her clothing, quickly brushes her hair and steps out of the room into the passage on the other side of the tissue-thin door. I stand up as quietly as I can to put my slippery cock away and get my shoes back on. I need to be ready to get out of here quickly.

The old lady has returned with who I suspect is her daughter and they’ve taken up position in the lounge which is the room next door. I hear that the television has been turned on which tells me they’re going to be a while yet. The Saffa is making small-talk with them as if nothing is awry at all. She’s totally convincing. However, most importantly, there’s no sign that the daughter will be leaving or that the old lady will be going to bed any time soon either. I’m going to have to wait this out before I can sneak out the front door.

The Saffa returns to the bedroom and sits down next to me on the bed. She’s still smiling to herself; she thinks this is funny.

“Nah, they’re set to watch television for a few hours more,” she says.

“So what are we going to do?” I ask.

“I know…,” she says mysteriously.

“What?”

Has she conjured up an ingenious plan involving a distraction back in the kitchen? Is she going to somehow cause a raucous fuss in the lounge? I’ll let myself out the door if I time it right. Either might work…or not.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Lightning Strikes Thrice

I was expecting to hear from Pretty Teacher on Saturday night as it was her turn to call; she didn’t. On Sunday morning I get the feeling that we won’t be seeing each other. It was noon on Sunday when she called; I wasn’t sure what to expect. The call started out amicably enough but quickly grew serious.

“I’ve been thinking,” she starts out, takes a breath then follows with “and I’ve decided that you’re not right for me.”

It felt like I have been hit by a bolt of lightning.

I really didn’t see this coming. In my guessing about what was bugging her I hadn’t for a moment considered that she was about to dump me. I swallow hard, collect my thoughts, latch onto a notion and begin to speak.

“Do you mind telling me why?” I ask.

“Yes, you’re just too confident,” she replies.

“Sorry, what?!” I stammer.

“You’re the most naturally confident man I’ve ever met. You ooze self-assurance,” she says.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why that’s a problem,” I counter. Is this some lame excuse for something else that she doesn’t want to tell me about, I wonder to myself.

“I’m very close to my family and I don’t think that they’d take to you. You’re just not as humble and quiet like English men,” she answers.

I’m stunned.

“Are you serious?” I blurt out.

“Yes, absolutely. I’m off to have lunch with them now and the thought of taking you with to meet them makes me uncomfortable,” she says.

I know that she thinks the world of her family and there’s nothing wrong with that. I think it’s great that she’s so close to her family because I’ve never known what that’s like. I think it a major factor in a long-term relationship if your other half’s parents like you. My ex-wife’s parents didn’t like me because I wasn’t religious enough for them and it weighed on our marriage.

“Okay, I understand your concern. So are you saying that we have no future together because of a cultural difference?” I ask.

“I suppose putting that it way, well, the answer’s a yes, I guess,” she says.

I’m stunned again. Then my fledgling sense of paranoia kicks in, spiced up with a sense of guilt that probably helped it to the surface of my psyche. I have been wondering about something.

“Tell me, why did you call me so late on Wednesday afternoon?” I ask, suspicious that she might have seen someone herself that day and that’s the real reason we’re having this chat. If that’s the case then I’d feel a whole better about things.

“Well if you must know, I spent the entire time with my friends discussing you and what I should do about you,” she answers with a cold bluntness that I don’t like.

So Pretty Teacher and her friends sat decorating that Christmas tree while discussing me. Not one of them have even seen me, let alone spoken to me. All they had to go on was what Pretty Teacher chose to tell them, that committee of overly-protective friends. What fun they must have had. They took turns stabbing my character with their flaming tongues, while my cock was stabbing Krazy Girl. Now I’m glad I was doing the latter, so very glad.

I’m not going to ask what she got up to last night, there’s no point and I now really don’t care. We politely end the call by wishing each other well for the future.

I feel disappointed that things with Pretty Teacher have turned out like this. Not seeing her final move tells me that I still have much to learn. I sit pontificating all that I’ve just heard. I appreciate her honesty, as uncomfortable as it feels, but the truth apparently sets us free. Free to do what exactly? I feel bewildered by Pretty Teacher, but now for different reasons.

Less than an hour later my phone rings again. This time it is my Exgf. Time for a booty call? I could do with a bit of physical pampering right now. She does give a good blowie. After initial polite chit-chat it turns out that my Exgf has other ideas.

“Well, I’ve been thinking…” she begins.

Hang on, I’ve heard that somewhere else today.

“Our little arrangement has now come to an end. No more fuckbuddies, you and I, mister,” she says emphatically, as if chastising a child.

Again I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning. I also didn’t see this coming, well, not so soon and not like this.

“Huh?” is the best I can say. Classy, I know.

“Yes, we can only be friends from now on,” she states.

“What’s brought this on?” I ask, curious about her reasoning.

“Sally says that I’ve been a fool for letting you date other women while shagging me. I agree with her,” she answers.

Humph. Women advising each other about me never ends well. Are there voodoo dolls of me in the stores?

I know my Exgf, once her mind’s made up there’s no changing it. In the early days of our relationship I thought that a commendable trait but in the latter years it became a pain in the backside. I have to accept her decision, which I’m fine with because I knew our fuckbuddy days would come to an end one day. I was struggling to think of a way to engineer a soft landing to end it without there being any negative fallout for either of us. This outcome suits us both. We make small-talk and end the call amicably, agreeing to keep in touch, but only as friends.

I can’t believe that I’ve had these two conversations less than an hour apart. I sometimes get the feeling that I’m living life according to someone else’s script. What’s the chances of these two calls happening in such short order and having the same negative result for me?

Life wasn’t done with me there though.

About an hour later my phone rings again and I’m reluctant to even look to see who it is. Ah, it’s my female friend who introduced me to her friend that I shall forever more think of as The Bitch. Yes, I’ll take her call, chatting to her will cheer me up.

I tell her about my conversation with Pretty Teacher but mention nothing about my Exgf. I was expecting some sympathy and disparaging remarks directed at Pretty Teacher, you know, snide comments questioning her sanity. Nope, not what I got.

“Well, it’s not just that. You can be too much of a gentleman and English women can find that controlling or overbearing,” she says.

Too much of a gentleman?! Is that possible?

It feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach by a lightning fast blow from Mike Tyson.

I pride myself in my old-fashioned gentlemanly ways. I think it’s charming and respectful. I don’t get upset with my friend because I value her being so frank with me. The truth is sometimes a difficult pill to swallow. My friend and I discuss the issue at length and it becomes clear to me what Pretty Teacher was saying about a cultural difference.

After that third call I sit there thinking things over, trying to see matters from a different perspective, struggling to grasp a reality that I was blind to. Some things from my recent dating experiences start to make sense.

The Model disappeared suddenly, as did Miss Indecisive. Local Lady and I just didn’t hit it off, which surprised me after good build-up we had, but that happened several times with other dates. Diving Dame had made a comment about “too much chivalry”. Wild Child was an odd experience; it felt like there was barrier between us at times. Country Girl was a big disappointment after a promising start, which is also true of Krazy Girl. Deranged Dater was a truly strange date. Lusty Lass was another weirdo. Musician Gal was an even bigger disappointment; that weekend together still rankles. The Wild Animal Tickler will one day win prizes for her cookiness. The Bitch was the worst date of them all by far.

What do all of these women have in common?

They’re all English.

My worst dating experiences were all with English women. Slightly more than half my dates have been with English women and in the main have been disappointing. Why did I not notice this earlier?! Hell, my Exgf is English. To be fair, some of my best dates and experiences were with English women. Tech Titan and Sweet Thing are English. However, seen on balance, almost all my bad dates and only a small number of my positive dating experiences were with English women.

The vast majority of my best dating experiences were with women from Eastern Europe. Baltic Babe stole my heart. Fitness Freak was great fun. The Hirsute Russian looked good until I spotted the caterpillar on her top lip. The Pretty Pole and the Randy Russian were good experiences. On the negative side of the balance sheet there was only the Picky Pole.

Seen statistically, I shouldn’t bother with English women any more and should direct my efforts at women from behind the former Iron Curtain. But why is this? I think about this and I realize that cultural affinity involves ideas of gender roles. We all are imbued with expectations about important topics that make-up this constantly evolving jigsaw puzzle called ‘Life’. Eastern European women expect a man to behave as I do, by way of treating them like a lady. English women wanted to be treated as an equal, like one of the guys. Feminism took root in the UK in the 1960s and it has had its social impact. I’m from a culture where feminism was only whispered of. My mindset about women and accompanying behaviour is at odds with English women’s expectations.

From my travels around our great planet, I have found myself better able to make friends with men from the former English-speaking British colonies. I include the USA in that. I also provide a proviso by way of especially getting along with men from rural areas and that also applies to non-English-speaking cultures too. Now that doesn’t make me a farmboy, but rather more of an old-fashioned man, never to mistaken for a metro-sexual. It seems to me that urban men have been emasculated and that feminism has overpowered chivalry.

I say what I mean and I mean what I say. People always know where they stand with me. I’m realizing that English people find that makes them uncomfortable. They have a preference for coating everything in layers of sugar that I find sickening. I’m not brash, but I am open. I’m as tactful and diplomatic as any English person, but I have drive. That also makes some people uncomfortable. I wasn’t brought up with a post-colonial sense of guilt that holds me back. I go for what I want, but I don’t hurt anyone in the process. My English peers seem overcome with self-doubt and riven with indecision by comparison. I don’t think of myself as an alpha-male, but I have often been called as such. I think of myself as more of a go-getter. It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that I have very few male friends who are English.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I’m not bashing England. My adoptive country has been very kind to me and I am grateful for what I have experienced here. There are many commendable features about life in the UK. It’s just that it is now clear to me that English women and I have an unlikely romantic future. I might be in the wrong country to find The One. Fortunately I have London on my doorstep and it’s the most cosmopolitan city in the world. She has to be in this seething, squirming anthill of humanity.

Until I find Her, I ride alone…so fucking alone.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) By the end of the third date it’s going well, or it’s not going to go well after that. 2) English women are not for me. 3) Women are easily influenced by their female friends. 4) Eastern European women and I are a better match. 5) It’s apparently possible to be too much of a gentleman.

Lee Clayton – I ride alone

Pretty guilty date

My quickie with Krazy Girl wasn’t as satisfying as I had hoped for, that compounds my sense of nervousness and guilt as I arrive at Pretty Teacher’s place. Will she be able to sense that I’ve been a naughty boy or is she too absorbed by whatever the hell is going on in her head?

We politely kiss hello as her front door, but all I can think of is are there are bite marks or signs of kissing on my face or neck? Have I overdone it with the deodorant or isn’t there enough? Do I look guilty?

Pretty Teacher invites me inside and she leads me to the lounge. Is this the part where she sits me done and asks me what I’ve been up to? Or is this when she has a heart-to-heart with me about whatever is bugging her?

“Look at what my friends and I did today,” she says pointing at a freshly decorated Christmas tree that occupies a window bay.

It’s only mid-November, a bit early for a tree to be going up, but I say nothing. Instead I make approving sounds and Pretty Teacher beams her delight. She seems in a better mood today. I might just get away with this.

“C’mon, lets go to my favourite Thai restaurant,” she says grabbing her jacket.

I know not to quibble as we walk to her car. She always wants to drive, even though she’s a bad driver. That might take some getting used to. It isn’t a surprise to me either that we head for the same town we’ve always gone to, even though there are several others equidistant. She does like to be in control and for things to be predictable it seems.

The banter as we drive is okay, with her telling me about her morning that became an afternoon too with her friends. I consider her tone and demeanour neutral. We drive up an empty street where the restaurant is but Pretty Teacher can’t make up her mind where to park. As if it makes any difference. Eventually she chooses a spot. Memories of Miss Indecisive come flooding back. It seems I really am getting to see similar personality types on the dating scene.

The Thai restaurant is empty and we have a choice of tables. There are times when I want to be more assertive and do the choosing and this is one of those times because, driven by my sense of guilt, I let Pretty Teacher decide where we should sit. After some umming and ahhing she chooses a table, but hardly are we seated when she says another table is better and we move there.

Conversation now dries up while we inspect the menu. I try my best to get conversation flowing, hoping that it will be like our first date again, but she’s adopted her iceberg routine again. Why am I bothering? Well, I want a relationship, not a fuckbuddy thing like I have with my Exgf and Krazy Girl. I’m hoping that things between Pretty Teacher and I flourish into a wonderful romance, that becomes a life-long lasting love.

It’s important to have dreams and goals, things that make us get up every day, things that give us pleasure, things that make life worthwhile.

Right now Pretty Teacher is not giving me any kind of pleasure. She’s sitting there staring at me, scrutinising me. Has she spotted something? Is there lipstick on my collar? Have I been rumbled?

With merciful timing a waiter arrives to take our order. Pretty Teacher can’t make up her mind about what to eat, so before she does I give the waiter my order. I usually wait for the lady to order first, but the waiter starts to look bored and I’m beginning to think that Pretty Teacher is an annoying ditherer. She might be one of those people who stands in a queue in a fast-food outlet but still don’t know what they want by the time they get to the counter.

Conversation is as dry as the Sahara until our food arrives. We sit eating in stony silence. Fuck, this is hard work. I can only guess that she has spotted something incriminating on me and now she’s deciding how to broach the subject. I can see that it is tricky for her if she has. You don’t want to accuse someone you’re dating of fucking around because you could be wrong and then unnecessary damage has been done.

Dessert is eaten in silence as well. There’s still nobody else in the restaurant and the silence is echoing off the walls. It’s starting to feel like I’m a prisoner in a holding cell waiting to hear judgement, followed by sentencing. She gets out her phone and plays some online scrabble. Or is she texting a friend her suspicion, asking what to do? What if she does confront me, accuse me? Me being me I’ll probably confess to my infidelity. I’m a terrible liar; my face was not made for poker, but more for radio.

Out of guilt I pay the bill, Pretty Teacher offers to pay her half but I dismiss her offer with a shake of my head and a smile. We walk back to her car, it’s chilly tonight so I offer her my jacket, which she declines. Once at the car I open her door for her, to which she just smiles.

As we drive out of the deserted town a drunk woman staggers out of a pub. She lurches into the road a few yards in front of us. Pretty Teacher slams on her brakes and we skid to a halt. The drunk stops, turns to us, raises an upturned hand and extends her middle finger.

Pretty Teacher goes berserk! She starts screaming and swearing at the other woman who probably can’t hear her. I’ve never heard a woman swear like that before and I’m shocked. The drunk staggers off, but Pretty Teacher keeps hurling verbal abuse after her. An angry foot hits the accelerator and we speed off in to the darkness.

Hmm, maybe she’s not as classy as I would like. She seems quick to anger and her knowledge of crude swearing would impress a battle-hardened soldier. My opinion of her takes a turn for the worse, but I can’t be too hypocritical because if she knew what I was up to hours earlier…

We sit in silence as she drives. I sense that she’s fuming to herself about the drunk, which suits me fine because it takes the invisible spotlight off me for a while. I sit thinking about what happens next. Is she hoping/needing/wanting to get physical with me once we’re at her place? I’m not really in the mood, not because I’ve just shagged Krazy Girl, but more because I’m not desirous of Pretty Teacher. Her shit behaviour and uncouth outburst has put me off her somewhat. However, if she does want to fuck then I’ll oblige, but I need to down the purple helper I have in my jacket pocket first and give it half an hour to kick in.

Back at her place she makes me a coffee. Shall I take the Viagra now? I decide not to because I first want some signs that she wants whoopee. Just like last time I was here we sit side by side on her sofa, but this time we stare at the Christmas tree. Pretty Teacher seems more interested in it than she is in me. We sit with empty mugs in our laps, not talking. Any minute now she’s going to say something important.

“It’s been a long day for me and I have a stonking headache. Shall we call it a night?” she eventually says.

I’m not entirely sure what the last part means because it’s ambiguous to me. Am I sleeping over or not?

“So am I sleeping over?” I ask.

“I’m afraid not,” she says with a dead-pan look on her face.

“Okay, not a problem,” I say as I get up. A sense of deja vu creeps in. Didn’t we have this conversation the last time I was here?

Pretty Teacher stands next to me as I put my jacket on. Her arms are folded. I don’t give up easily, it’s something of a character flaw I’m starting to think.

“How about you come visit me on Sunday?” I suggest.

“Okay, we can talk about it tomorrow night,” she answers.

I drive home feeling conflicted. Yet again I’m angry and frustrated at her attitude towards me. I’m also unimpressed by her outburst at the drunk; she was exhibiting quite low-class behaviour during that incident. I feel guilty and ashamed for having fucked Krazy Girl earlier in the day. That frolic has left me feeling confused because Krazy Girl might have another guy on the go herself, that’s what I’ve deduced from her bruises.

I don’t know what to make of all this.

Looking back on it now, there was no way I could have predicted what happened next.

Another guy and paranoia

I’ve never been inside Krazy Girl’s parent’s home; I’ve always been made to hide in my car around the corner. Today I get to go inside and fuck her there. I wonder where her parents are or is she now so horny that in teenager-style she wants me to fuck her while they’re in the home? The more daring the sex, the more she likes it. As I knock on the door I’m filled with feelings of shame because I know that Pretty Teacher might be trying to call me as she has promised but I’ve now switched my phone off.

Krazy Girl comes to the door and greets me like I’m a friend returning a bowl of sugar. She leads me to the kitchen and I’m shocked at how shabby this home is. All the furnishings are from the 1970s and it smells musty, like an old-age home. It’s an end-of-terrace, double-storeyed dwelling with the bedrooms upstairs. No wonder she didn’t pull up her nose the first time she saw my place.

“So where are your folks?” I ask, concerned about the obvious.

“They’re at a funeral, then they’re going to the wake afterwards, but I don’t really know when they’ll be back, so we’ll have to be quick,” she says with a pained expression on her face.

Be quick? That suits me just fine. I want to splash and dash too.

“I’m going to have a quick shower. Why don’t you go upstairs to my room? It’s the only one on the left as you get to the top,” she gestures while heading off to what I surmise is the bathroom.

I get to the landing and notice three doorways, but none of them have doors, they only have curtains that are about four inches above the floor. Did her parents really bring up three kids in this house like this? Then I remember that Krazy Girl’s brother had hung himself in one of these rooms and that she was the one to find him first. I can’t imagine how she feels about having to move back here after losing her job earlier this year. I feel sorry for her. Her tortured, twisted heart and emotionally befuddled state has some extenuating circumstances.

Walking into her room I almost stumble over cardboard boxes that look strangely familiar. Ah, I had last seen them in her place, but now they’re all stacked up here. There’s no sign of a wardrobe for her clothes, just a series of suitcases strategically placed on top of boxes. Her prize cat is sitting imperiously on top of pillows on her bed; it blinks at me. The only free floor-space leads from the bed to the doorway; it’s so cramped in here.

Krazy Girl joins me, a towel wrapped around her. She pulls that off and starts rubbing her hair dry. I stand and watch as her breasts wobble. My eyes wonder up and down her body, as if it was the first time I’ve seen it. Ridiculous considering that we got carnal less than 48 hours ago.

She tosses the towel aside and starts undressing me. When she does know what she wants it’s a very impressive sight. I like the assertive her; I find it quite sexy. She lets my clothes fall to the floor, somewhat to my annoyance because I need to put those back on later and make my way over to Pretty Teacher’s, so they need to look fresh.

As she gets me naked, I notice a couple of bruises on her thighs, not ones which indicate an accident but several deliberate acts by someone. They weren’t there on Monday. Has she been seeing another guy? We saw each other on Monday and today is Wednesday, so what did she get up to yesterday?

“Where do those bruises come from?” I ask, expecting to hear a lie.

“Oh, that’s from my gym. I tried a bit of kick-boxing,” she says after a split second of thinking.

It was the “oh” that confirms her lie to me. Whenever I knew that she was telling a lie in the past, it also began with that nonchalant “oh”. Has she been fucking some other guy and he didn’t satisfy her, that’s why she put out a booty call to me? She knew I’d satisfy her, give her what she wanted, always have, possibly might always be able to.

My mind goes into overdrive, thoughts of deceit and incessant lies fill the vacuum between my ears. I start to doubt myself. Has all the experiences of late twisted my perception of things to such an extent that I’m becoming paranoid? Perhaps, but I need to know more to make certain.

“I thought you said you had given up your gym membership because you couldn’t afford it?” I probe. The thing about lies is that one begets another.

“Oh, I got a day pass,” she answers after another second of contemplation. Day passes at gyms don’t come with sessions to kick-boxing. The little liar, I’m going to fuck her so hard. I become angry, but try my damnedest to not let it show. I decide to transmute my feelings into actions.

I don’t say another word and don’t even bother kissing her to kick things off. I just put a hand through her hair, cup the back of her head and gently pull her face down to my cock which she instantly takes in her mouth, like a good little cock-sucking slut should.

Krazy Girl sucks away on my cock while my brain continues to ricochet around inside my skull, convulsing with negative ideas at the speed of thought. What if I’m wrong and she’s telling the truth? Am I becoming paranoid about every interaction with a woman? Am I going crazy? Is Krazy Girl making me crazy?

All that women seem to do to me is fuck me around!

Pretty Teacher is fucking me around. Krazy Girl might be fucking around. Now I’m fucking around too.

I become filled with a sense of rage that makes my blood boil. All that that serves to do is to make my cock bigger and harder. I look down to see Krazy Girl is now seated on the edge of her bed and is happily sucking away on my now fully erect cock. Her eyes are closed and she has a serene look on her face. It seems she’s in a cocknotic state.

Suddenly she stops, stands up, spins around and climbs onto her bed. She assumes doggy-style position and reaches back with one hand, pulling a buttock askance, inviting me to penetrate her. Does she want both holes drilled? My rage is such that ramming my cock into her pussy is an instinctual thing to do.

Her pussy is slippery, which surprises me considering the lack of foreplay. Ah, she’s horny, probably woke up wet this morning. Maybe the sense of urgency, the danger, is a turn-on for her? She wants it hard, fast and rough, I guess. Okay, let’s find out.

I suck on one of my thumbs and slide it gently up her arse. Krazy Girl doesn’t make a sound, nor move or offer any kind of reaction to what I just did. Yep, she’s totally turned on and anything goes now.

I wriggle my thumb around in her arse, my cock plunging into her wet pussy as she pulls the window-blind back with one hand and peers out at the street, looking for signs of her parents returning early. She is so wet that the squelching sound as I force my cock in her probably has some of her juices squirting out as my cock goes in. I don’t look down to check as I take this spectacle in. I love having my way with a woman like this, especially one as big-breasted as Krazy Girl. Her tits are swaying all over the place and I’m mesmerised by them like a puppy watching a kitten.

Her focus is entirely on the street outside, oblivious to my thumb flailing around in her arse and the tip of my cock hitting her cervix. I couldn’t be any deeper in her holes and she doesn’t mind at all. I think it’s what she wanted, to feel used, to feel degraded; it’s all in keeping with her own self-image issues.

She is just a piece of fuckmeat to meet, no longer someone to be loved or cherished. She was beyond redemption and only good for being my sex toy. She is treating me in the same way; her primary interest is my cock, plain and simple. We’re using each other and neither one cares.

The clarity of this insight makes the whole thing uncomplicated for me. It sets me free to enjoy myself, to feed my carnal needs, unencumbered by unnecessary, complicating emotions. It is pure fucking, nothing more, nothing less…and it feels good.

God, her holes feel amazing, her skin is flawless and her tits perfect. She has the face of an angel. I’m in heaven. I know that below her surface dark demons pervade, but that doesn’t matter right now.

Krazy Girl starts making sounds, so I look down and realize that she’s getting closer to cumming. With my free hand I bunch as much of her lustrous golden-blonde hair up as I can and I pull back initially gently, then forcefully. My hips go as fast as they can for as long as they can while I hold her like this, on the hook. Her shoulders start making strange movements as she cums. She lets of an unnatural sound, like an angry spirit being exorcised from her body might sound.

Her arms collapse and I have to let go of her hair. I keep fucking her pussy with my thumb up her bum while she lies slumped and panting. Shall I put my cock in her arse? I reckon she’ll let me. However, I don’t want to take too many chances with her. Again I’m in danger because I’m not wearing a condom. Anal would be going too far. Before my internal debate resolves itself I feel that I’m about to cum.

“Where do you want my cum?” I ask.

“Wherever you want. I don’t care,” she answers.

“Roll onto your back,” I instruct, pulling my appendages out of her holes.

Krazy Girl slumps over onto her side, then flattens herself out, her eyes closed and breathing heavily through her nose. I’m in an aggressive frame of mind, so I direct my cock at her face. It takes just two tugs before my cum explodes out of my cock and goes flying, most of it landing on her face. She barely flinches nor makes any kind of sound and just keeps her eyes closed. Obviously she’s used to this.

A few more tugs and I’m empty. Krazy Girl still has her eyes closed, but opens her mouth and her little tongue makes an appearance. It roams around the perimeter of her mouth, collecting whatever semen it can find before she withdraws it to swallow whatever it has found.

Only then do I notice that her cat has been sitting there watching us the whole time. I don’t think I’ll ever like or even get used to that, being watched by a pet while having sex.

“I’ll go shower again,” she says, getting up and walking off without making eye contact with me.

That was damn intense and I feel electrified. Still, this all feels so unnatural to me. Thoughts of Pretty Teacher spring up in my mind. I get dressed as quickly as I can before switching my phone on. It’s now almost four o’clock. I see that she has called, but only five minutes ago and has left a message. In a thief-like fashion while Krazy Girl showers I listen to her message in which she simply asks for me to call her back. I need to get out of here, pronto. I switch my phone off and hide it in my pocket.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t have my parents catching you here,” Krazy Girl says as she comes up the stairs.

“I understand. I’ll leave now,” I say, trying to sound as neutral as possible. This sneaking around thing doesn’t come naturally to me.

We kiss politely before I slip out the front door. As I walk to my car my inner dialogue resumes.

If she is seeing another man, then I’m ‘the bit on the side’, I’m now somebody else’s ‘other guy’. I don’t like how that makes me feel. This whole situation is all so wrong for me. If I never see Krazy Girl again it won’t bother me.

Once in my car where it is quiet I call Pretty Teacher and she apologizes for calling so much later than she had promised. I make nothing of it, largely because I’m starting to feel guilty again. We agree for me to be at hers in the next hour so that we can have an early-ish meal. I’m not too sure what to make of that. What does she have planned?

I realise that I should have showered at Krazy Girl’s to get her scent and the smell of sex off me. As a precaution, before leaving home, I had put a small can of deodorant and face wipes in my glove compartment. I get to work using them, hoping to hide my sins. I nearly gas myself in my car, such is my level of concern. Ever practical, I’ve also brought along a little purple helper, just in case I need to satisfy Pretty Teacher too. I’m not counting on that happening because everything is so uncertain with her.

One thing is for certain, I need to calm down, get my head straight and go visit Pretty Teacher. My emotions are running quite high, am I going to be able to not let anything slip about this afternoon? Will she smell it on me?

Rupert Holmes – Him