Tag Archives: Randy Russian

Date #54 – The Cultural Allsorts

I got thumbing through Tinder and one of the pretty faces that I liked was a match. I checked out her other photos now that Tinder only let’s you see their primary pic. The other photos did not inspire me at all, she’s a brunette who experiments with lighter hair colours, but she has a lengthy profile which in itself is novel for a woman on Tinder. Her words tell of someone multi-cultural, speaking numerous languages, is well travelled and interesting-sounding.

I decide to message her the next day and she responds. Over the course of the week we swap single messages at night, hers usually later than mine. We get a bit of banter going and she seems cheeky and fun. She was born in the Soviet Union and that has a curious fascination for me, always has ever since Baltic Babe. I become concerned that she’s fishing for a man with an EU passport but she tells me that has her own British passport. How did she come by that? Is she another Randy Russian who indulged in a marriage of convenience? She could be interesting to meet for a date. I suggest this and she agrees. Apparently fluent in six languages, I think of her as The Cultural Allsorts.

Could she be The One?

We meet in the concourse of a busy Tube station in the centre of London on a Sunday at noon. She asked for this location because she was having to go off somewhere else and could only spare me an hour. I’ve got to the point in my dating life when an hour is all I need to know whether I want to see someone again. A lunchtime coffee date works for me.

She is a quarter of an hour late which is never a good start considering she was impressing on me beforehand how short of time she was. At first sight I don’t like the look of her. Her photographs flatter her facially, although in a radical departure from convention, she is slimmer than in her pics. I had got there early and scouted around in the neighbourhood, finding several chain coffee shops that were relatively empty. Perfect for a quick and quiet conversation I thought.

Oh no, she had her own ideas about where she wanted to go and we ended up in the most upmarket coffee shop I’ve been to in my life. I’m open to new things so I didn’t mind. Coffee and cake, how difficult could it be? With her, very.

She was brought up in a Soviet Union republic and her family emigrated to America the first chance they got. Consequently she has retained the fussiness of Eastern European women and acquired the gastronomic moon-on-stick mentality of an American. I felt sorry for our young waiter whom she had running backwards and forwards to find out everything that she needed to know before making a decision. She reminded me of Baltic Babe; a pain to eat out with. This was not a good start.

Eventually she browbeat the hapless waiter into having the chef prepare something that wasn’t on the menu. I want and need to be with someone who is easy-going, a pleasure to be around, someone who invigorates me, not drains me. This woman will never be the wind in my sails, more like the torpedo in my hull.

“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, idly curious about her level of sexual energy.

“I love spicy food,” she replies.

Okay, good to know. I wouldn’t think her a sexual dynamo but you can’t tell from looks, but I’ve learned you can from how spicy a woman likes her food.

We start talking about travel, places we’ve liked and still want to visit. She has an affinity for Brazil and it strikes me that she could even pass for Brazilian. She has mixed colour hair and in most of her profile photos she’s a brunette. One of the reasons I wanted to come on this date is to see just how much of a difference there is with dating brunettes. My date of Friday night with Tall Gal, also a brunette, did not reveal much in that regard.

Expounding our work experiences reveals that we’ve worked for the same banks in London, just at different times. I get the impression that she’s a bit of an intellectual and academic. She works in high finance and is deliberately modest about that because she probably doesn’t want to intimidate men, who I think would be intimidated by her job. Not me though as it takes a lot to impress or scare me nowadays.

Of course Life doesn’t miss the opportunity to fuck with me. At the table next to us is sitting just the type of pretty blonde that I find irresistible. Her and I make eye contact a few times when The Cultural Allsorts is looking away. That’s the sort of girl I should be talking to. I’m still struck by how shallow I am; I want to look at the woman in front of me and go “wow” in my head periodically. I want to feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world to be with her. I am now quite aware that if the lust factor isn’t there, everything else doesn’t matter. I just have to fancy the women I’m sharing my life with. Please don’t judge me, instead feel sorry for me, because this issue has probably led to my passing over perfectly good women.

Earlier, on my train journey into London, a young couple sat in my four-seat arrangement. Her and I had made eye-contact the moment they got on the train and he led her to sit where they did. He sat next to me while she sat diagonally opposite me. They were obviously a couple but I caught her sneaking little peeks at me. She was lovely and just what I want looks-wise. It was flattering but again it reminded how important this factor is to me.

So now in the coffee shop is an even more attractive blonde. Is Life teasing me, taunting me or is it guiding me, reminding me? I see these pretty little blondes whenever I go out, but very rarely do I find them on dating sites. Where do you go to my lovely? What must I do to meet a girl like you?

Conversation with The Cultural Allsorts rolls around culture and history so it’s almost inevitable that I find myself regaling her with a bit of history that I know. In this instance it’s about Cecil John Rhodes and from the serious amount of ear-lobe playing that it results in it becomes evident that she is loving what I’m saying. Hmm, is she another sapiophile?

I don’t actually care and even if she asked me to go home with her right now, I’d decline the offer. I’m totally disinterested in her, not just because I don’t fancy her, but also because I don’t feel any kind of chemistry. Her demanding behaviour when it came to ordering food also told me all about her relationship style that I need to know.

Despite the waiter’s best efforts and kitchen staff’s willingness to please, The Cultural Allsorts has only eaten a quarter of what she asked for. The rest is going to waste. If I fancied my date I would employ impeccable table manners, but seeing as I knew that I would never ever be seeing her again, I asked if I could finish her food which looked sumptuous. My coffee and tiramisu had merely served as an appetiser.

The pretty blonde at the table next to us gets up to leave and knocks her empty coffee cup over onto the table. We all look and the blonde guffaws before saying something to me that I don’t hear properly because I’m just too damn busy making the most of the opportunity to look at her fully. If she asked me to go home with her I’d call a taxi cab and incentivise the driver to be speedy.

Although she only allocated me an hour of her day, the date has lasted more than an hour and a half. I guess she must be enjoying herself? Hard to tell really but then she says, “I’m sorry, but I really need to get going now.”

I help The Cultural Allsorts with her coat and say my usual, “My mother brought me up funny,” just in case she was a totally liberated Westernised woman who found such things as overbearing or chauvinistic.

“Your mother brought you up right. It’s good,” she says. I’m pleased to hear that my old-fashioned manners are still appreciated in some quarters.

We walk to the nearby Tube station and I decide to be naughty by standing on the escalator in front of her so that we’re of the same height. She takes a step back. Ah, she’s not attracted to me I conclude. That’s fine, I was wondering. At a second set of escalators I do it again and again she takes a step back. Inwardly I laugh to myself but continue making small talk with her.

We’re both using the same train-line but going in different directions. I politely kiss her goodbye on both cheeks and say, “It was nice to meet you,” which she parrots back to me.

On the train home I delete Tinder from my phone. No more Tinderellas for me.

The date wasn’t a total waste of time. I don’t think brunettes are any different to blondes. I liked the way that Life reminded me of my curious magnetic attraction to blondes and I shall revert to this being my primary selection filter.

A good thing too, because my date tomorrow night is with a blonde.

Peter Sarstedt ~ Where Do You Go To My Lovely

Date #24 – Randy Russian – Final part

As she chatters away, I take a good look at her and notice something. It’s a hot day and her foundation make-up is starting to disintegrate and is almost sliding off her face. It reveals a lunar-like skin, pock-marked with what looks like needle injection marks. Then I notice that her forehead doesn’t move much; she’s all botoxed up. I look closer, trying not to make it obvious. Yep, I’m pretty sure she’s had collagen injections in her lips. I look at her cleavage and it seems unnaturally perfect and symmetrical. She’s plucked her eyebrows off and painted fake ones on; how crazy is that? Her nails are fake too and she’s not a natural blonde. Any minute now she’ll tell me that she’s looking for a real man.

There’s an expression for a woman like her and it’s a ‘dirty fox’ – nice from far but far from nice.

She starts gesticulating and moves her left arm to accidentally reveal a tattoo on the top of a bicep that had been hidden by a sleeve. It’s of a barbed-wire design, the type popular with prostitutes in Eastern Europe. Is she everything she claims to be? I doubt it and I can’t be sure. My trust demon grips the bars of his cage and is screaming silent obscenities at her.

She tells me about her marketing job for a luxury goods company. As she talks it becomes obvious that image, status and money are important to her. Where other women might have a heart, she has a very expensive purse. Is this an Eastern European woman thing?

After lunch she excuses herself to go to the ladies and returns a little while later. The nose got some serious powdering as a new layer of foundation has been applied.

“I had some botox done this morning. I’m sorry if you saw something you shouldn’t have,” she says.

I just laugh and suggest that we go for a walk along the river, to which she agrees. While she was gone I decided that I should use this date as an opportunity to learn some more about women like her – Maneater. I might be encountering more like her and I need to know how to tell as quickly as possible, perhaps via a screen instead of the effort and expense of a disappointing date.

Something I realised about myself in recent dates is that when I decide that the woman I’m with isn’t The One, my behaviour changes from active interest to passive disinterest – and that the woman’s demeanour becomes the opposite of mine. In other words, when I become disinterested in a woman, she becomes more interested in me. This happens with this stunning Russian too.

We end up sitting on the patio of a wine-bar, basking in the sun next to the Thames and she’s now peppering me with questions about myself and my life history. I tell her about the countries I’ve lived in, shared some notable stories from those places, regale her with stories from my other travels, my going around China, Turkey, Japan, Italy, California and she can’t get enough. We discuss international politics, the state of the economy, alternative history and conspiracy theories.

She can’t stop playing with her earlobes while I’m talking. I know that that’s the most certain sign that a woman is liking what a man is saying. As the sun sets on our backs I come to the conclusion that she is totally into me. Besides the constant ear lobe fingering, she occasionally preens herself by playing with her bleached hair, she is leaning in towards me and her feet are pointed at me. She starts touching my arms for no reason while we talk and a knee touches mine. At one point she rests her hand on my thigh as we laugh about something, as if it was the most natural thing to do.

I realize that she’s a sapiophile – a woman who gets sexually turned on by an intelligent man – and, if I’m correct, she must be ready to slide off her seat, her pussy must be dripping wet. Her pussy is probably neatly trimmed, might have a little heart or dolphin tattoo nearby or a diamond on the tip of her clit – and it all tastes of poison. I can see that the more I caressed her brain, the more her emotions were squirting everywhere.

We finish our second bottle of wine for the afternoon when, for some stupid reason, I lean over and kiss her. She nearly falls off her seat as I pull away. She rests a hand permanently on my thigh and she starts gently gripping it, sinking her nails into my jeans. We have passed the flirting stage and she wants more.

“Where do you live?” she asks.

“I live in the countryside, about an hour away,” I answer.

“I’m just four stops away on the Tube,” she says and nods towards the entrance of a Tube station near us.

She wants me to go home with her!

Shit, this is most unexpected. I’ve never slept with a woman on a first date. I’m not comfortable with that. I’ve never had a one-night stand and have never felt the need for one. I want True Love and the passionate regular sex that comes with that. However, that’s not what is on offer tonight. Perhaps it’s time to broaden my horizons?

“Shall we?” I say as I stand up.

She smiles, collects her things and we go to the Tube station. I don’t know why, but I feel it acceptable to hold her hand as we walk. We don’t talk much, I think we’re both excited, anticipation is running high but I’m also feeling apprehensive. As we stand on a platform waiting for a train we start kissing again. She throws her arms around my neck and I can feel her breasts against my chest. She’s a lusty kisser, using lots of tongue and I can tell that’s she’s turned on by the way her body touches mine. She’s randy and I might be her first lay since her husband, who knows?

My test results from the sexual health clinic came back during the week and I’m clean. All that fretting over the anal sex incident with Krazy Girl was for nothing. That bothersome feeling I was carrying around for a few months made me resolve to be more judicious in my sexual shenanigans. This randy Russian might result in me going back to that shitty feeling. I am packing rubber, sex with her will be interesting, but is she worth it?

I hear our train clattering towards us in the tunnel and it’s decision time. I’m not comfortable with this situation. This woman’s trouble, a Taker and this isn’t what I want. Any other man would not think twice about having sex with a Russian model and then probably never seeing her again. I’m not like other men. Fucking this creature would be like screwing Satan’s little apprentice, you can’t really be sure how it’s going to turn out.

“I’m sorry, but this is too soon for me,” I say to her, uncoupling her arms from around my neck.

Her face drops and her eyes glow. In an instant my rebuff to her female ego was converted into anger within her. Without another word she gets on the train and seconds later she’s gone.

I had it on a plate and I chose instead to go home alone on a Saturday night, rather than be with a woman like her. I’m proud of that. I shall think of her forever more as the Randy Russian.

Despite this date and stereotypes about Slavic women, I’m looking forward to my next date on Monday night with…a pretty Polish girl.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Beauty on its own is meaningless; looks fade. 2) If I switch from active interest to passive disinterest, women chase me 3) There might be something to the stereotype about Slavic women.

Footnote: More than a year after this date I go looking on PoF to find her profile to jog my memory for this post. She’s still on there, but has dyed her hair pitch black and has decided that she now wants children. For the hell of it I write to her remarking about her new look. She replies with “Men have fun with blondes, but marry brunettes.”

Nelly Furtado – Maneater

Date #24 – Randy Russian

A new lovely face appeared on PoF that caught my attention. Just from her photos it was obvious to me that she was Russian. Her profile was brief, mentioning her being Russian and an ex-model, letting her photos do the talking for her. They showed a woman with an active life that involved sport, culture and travel, all with a touch of sophistication. She might be out of my league, but what the hell, I had nothing to lose, so I wrote to her and to my surprise she wrote back. I swiftly moved things along to meet for a date, to which she agreed.

Could she be The One?

As I was getting off the train at Tower Hill on Saturday, all the people in front of me were turning and looking at something. Out of curiosity I looked to see what had grabbed their attention. It was a very attractive woman with long blonde hair in a frilled 1950s skirt who moved with elegance and poise; she was quite a stunning sight.

Then it dawned on me: that’s my date! Good god, she’s hot!

She doesn’t notice me and traipses off up the stairs. I follow in hot pursuit, not because I want to start talking to her, but because I want to check her out some more. She’s not as tall as I expected, her long blonde hair in a ponytail almost touches her backside, the latter has a nice firm wiggle as she moves up the stairs. I can smell her perfume wafting towards me as I follow her and I like it. Her obvious femininity is refreshing and her sense of style is impressive. I can’t believe my luck, but what is she going to make of me? It’s a hot Summer’s day and all I’m wearing is blue jeans, a smart black shirt and dark brown ankle boots. Did I put on enough of that cologne that Baltic Babe introduced me to?

I walk up to her as she fumbles for her phone in her small Gucci handbag. She looks up and makes the expression that a woman makes when she likes the look of a man before her. Jackpot! We’re off to a good start. I say her name which I had to Google to find out how to pronounce, to which she smiles and gives a little nod. I must have said it correctly.

Giving her a kiss on each cheek is the polite thing to do in Europe, especially the further East you go, but I use it as a chance to show her that I’m not intimidated by her beauty. My cultural learnings would impress even Borat.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to say your name,” she says with the sexiest purr of a Russian accent. Something between my legs stirs. I tell her my name and she keeps repeating it, like a mantra.

A foreign accent does things for me and the Russian one is my favourite. Her being Russian I find attractive, largely because of my experience with Baltic Babe. We had such chemistry that I can’t help wonder if my destiny lies with a woman from that part of the world, hence my having been on dates with four women from Eastern Europe in the past year. Friends and colleagues have all only had negative things to say about Slavic women, accusing them of being heartless gold-diggers out to exploit men, but I’m keeping an open mind.

As we approach the stairs that lead down from the Tube station, I turn to my date and ask, “Do you like chicken?”

“Yes, why?” she says with a puzzled look in her eye, but no frown.

“Take a wing?” I say with my usual smile and extend an arm towards her to hold onto.

“Ah, thank you. You’re such a gentleman,” she purrs.

The high-heeled Jimmy Choo shoes she’s wearing make for slow going down the stairs and she puts quite a bit of weight on my arm. For a moment I wonder if she’s trying to see how strong I am. If need be I can easily pick her up and carry her down the stairs. She’s not the typical stick-insect model, but I can manage if called upon.

At the bottom of the stairs I relax my arm, expecting her to let go, but in a first, she relaxes her grip but keeps her hand holding onto the underside of my bicep. Like that we walk and it’s as if her body language is making it plain to the world that she is with me.

As we make our way through the crowds towards St Katharine Dock, I become aware that people are staring at us. I know that they’re mostly looking at her and it’s a good feeling. I feel proud having a woman as attractive as this by my side; it strokes my ego.

We get to the Dickens Inn and we’re being served by the same waiter who saw me on Thursday night with Lusty Lass. He gives me a quizzical look and a wry smile as he leads us to what is becoming my favourite table on the balcony overlooking the marina. My date tells me that she is impressed by my choice of locale.

“You’ve not been here before?” I ask.

“No, I’ve only been in London for five years and my ex-husband never wanted to go anywhere or do anything. He was always too busy working,” she says with a touch of sadness.

“What did he do that kept him so busy?” I ask out of curiosity.

“He’s French and works for one of the investment banks,” she says.

Instantly I remembered that Baltic Babe was seeing a French investment banker. There can’t be too many of them in London. Could it be the same guy? Poor bastard if it is.

“How long were you guys married?” I ask, wondering just how much of my friends’ stereotype she is.

“We’ve been married for six years,” she replies, slowly.

I think that most men wouldn’t have picked up on the semantics of her reply, her choosing to say ‘been’ instead of ‘were’, but I pay attention to little things like that. A case could be made for something being lost in translation, but her English is perfect. The way she said it also alerted me to something not being quite right.

“So when did you get divorced?” I ask, not afraid to go for the jugular. Love is too important to me to pussyfoot around.

“The paperwork is under way and should be complete in the next few months,” she replies.

With that my trust demon gets up in the corner of his cage buried deep within me and starts strutting around.

“So do you have a French passport now?” I ask, wondering about the timing of her divorce.

“Yes, I got that last year,” she answers in a way that tells me she’s trying to say that she’s legally in the UK. However, I take it to mean that she put up with him until her passport came through, then asked for a divorce. I guess my face showed displeasure and she figured out what I was thinking.

“I didn’t want to go back to Russia, didn’t have anywhere else to go and a Frenchman tells me he loves me. What would you do?”

I say nothing, smile then change the topic with, “Tell me about your days as a model. What was it like? It must have been fun.”

She enthusiastically launches into recounting her modelling career, which she tells me had come to an end a few years ago. While she talks I take stock of the situation. She married a man she didn’t love – her omitting this tells me so – so that she could have the life she wanted. She used and exploited him; just the type of woman I detest. Yes, there was a trade-off and it was probably her body. That just makes her a glorified whore. Her divorce papers haven’t been finalised and she’s already on the dating scene, with what in mind? I doubt it’s love. Underneath this carefully-crafted veneer of a beautiful woman lurks a monster.

To be continued…