Tag Archives: relationships


A two year-old girl hobbles earnestly across a stony courtyard. The scratching at her feet she ignores, such is her intent. Her faithful plush penguin she drags along the ground, his face besmirched. Arriving at an open doorway she sees a man huddled over a keyboard, his fingers pressing angrily on the plastic before him. He doesn’t notice her.

“Daddy! Mummy is owie!” she exclaims.

The man snaps out of his state and rejoins the world. He stands up as the toddler deftly steps aside from the door and she leads him. A few strides later and the frowning man is in his troubled home. The love of his life is slumped at the bottom of the stairs; she’s clutching her ankle.

That is how The Artist and I resumed communication.

A few months on from that incident and a bonfire of our collective histories is ablaze in our back yard. We’ve decided to gamble our futures on a move to her native alpine homeland. It is not without its risks and drawbacks, but we believe it to be the best of our options. I consider it an eminently better environment to raise our daughter. During this time of Brexit neither of us has had any luck on the job front. I can’t see either of us foreigners being first choice for anybody in the job market in the current climate of fear and hate. When people see our surnames or hear our accents mental doors close to us; that’s how it seems. In the twenty-two years I’ve lived on this island every day people have asked me where I am from. Several times a year I’ve been told to “F*ck off back to where I come from”. This happened again a few weeks ago and was the final straw for me. Since the Brexit vote xenophobia has become socially acceptable. I don’t want to raise my daughter in such a bigoted environment.

In two weeks’ time we cram what we can into our little car and set off on a short, one-way road-trip across Europe. Our unsold, needed possessions are going into long-term storage until we have a new home. In the meantime we’re toughing it out in a thirty square metre apartment that The Artist inherited. It has no central heating, but we hope to move on before Winter. It’s in a country town where the mayor gets drunk at the harvest festival and nobody cares. The greatest danger is from fruit falling from the trees that line the few streets as Winter approaches.

Our focus will be on getting jobs and legalizing my status in our new country. If we find a bargain property we’ll buy it, but we’re not counting on that. Her heart isn’t into this move, but her head is. Our collective motivation is not as good as it needs to be to see us through the inevitable tough times that come with emigration.

This is just a continuation of what has been an unending period of constant change in my life. Things just don’t show signs of slowing down, never mind settling down. I feel totally worn out by it all. Getting through each day feels like an achievement.

It’s usually when I have my child on my lap and I’m feeding her that my thoughts wander over to what is right for her. The crap that has filled my head all my life has culminated in a fruitless dead-end. I’m concerned about what I’m going to fill her head with. I just don’t know what is right any more. I’m tasked with building this beautiful little person up while at the same time I’m in a state of deconstruction. I feel like such a hypocrite for telling her things that I don’t believe in any more. For example, I don’t believe that always doing the right thing, the good thing, will be rewarded. Karma is a deceitful bitch. I don’t believe that sharing is caring. I don’t believe that bad people will eventually be punished. Where is the evidence that supports those notions?

Through now being a father and seeing the goodness inherent in my delightful child, I see how far I have fallen. This incessantly happy, laughing little girl shows me daily just how much of a miserable old bastard I have become.

How did this sorry state of affairs come into being?

I flip through my memory bank yearning to make sense of all that has happened to me. My days of dating and dumping loom large in my psyche. It has been pivotal in me arriving at where I am. It is also a microcosm of what has ailed me all my life. I look back on it all now with very mixed feelings.

I started out dating because I wanted to feel loved. I wanted to be in love. I wanted that giddy feeling when I thought of The One. I liked my heart skipping a beat when a new message arrived. The whole mechanism of online dating slowly sucked me into a world of easy sex and careless, disrespectful treatment of and by others. The pursuit of perfection was enabled by merely clicking away or swiping on a device. We’ve all become disposable commodities. How banal.

Yet I went along with it all. I was complicit and I’m ashamed of this. My morals eroded and my perception of women worsened. I don’t think I’m a better person for it all, just a different one. “You can stay as you are or you could go online dating” might work as edgy slogan for a dating site, especially a naughty one.

Through my online escapades I came to learn of my Avoidant Personality Disorder. Working on it is proving a lengthy process. I consider its discovery as one of the greatest benefits of my dating days. It takes time to change lifelong malformed ideas. We all act out our beliefs, often disappointed that the world didn’t play along. “What’s wrong with the world?” we lament. We are our world. Instead we should be asking, “What’s wrong with us?”.

Delving deeper within myself I now know that this unsatisfying chain of events kicked off long ago when I wore a younger man’s clothes. I told myself that the woman before me was the best I could hope for, so we married. I compromised. When we inevitably divorced I was stunned to my core. In a rookie mistake I sought to fill the agonizing void in my existence and went online dating while divorce papers were still pending. Yes, I was on the rebound. I didn’t take time out to get my shit together. I met my now ex-girlfriend and she was the polar opposite of my ex-wife. It was an exciting time…initially. It wasn’t long before every day felt like a roller coaster with her; immense high and low at least once a day. After a humdrum marriage this didn’t seem so bad.

When I gained a clearer perspective and saw just how badly I had been played, I eventually moved on, albeit with an abortive initial attempt. What I did was a repeat of before. I had barely finished collecting the last of my stuff when my first online dating profile went live. I was homeless and unemployed. I needed some feel-good factor to boost my self-confidence. Again, I was on the rebound.

The slew of women I met began well enough, but I now know that this was because they were off paid-for sites. As the pool of suitable candidates on these websites dried up I moved onto the free dating sites. That is when things took a turn for the worse. My negative time on the dating scene I attribute to restricting myself to what then was the novelty of Tinder. My nadir was The MILF of Xmas, another Tinderella. Only once I switched back to using paid-for sites – which tend to enjoy a fillip in January – did I find The Artist.

But wait, there’s more. Yes, there’s a whole other layer below all of this and I consider it the crux of my existence, my malaise. It’s my working life. It’s always been a disaster. I left high school and entered a vortex of good ideas and necessary choices. Never in my working life have I taken a job I wanted; it’s was always what I needed. My love-life has always been the gauze that soothed this festering sore. My marriage had at it core a mutual desire to travel, but that was supplanted by her desire to be a mother. This was one compromise too many for me. I worked for many years as a freelancer, enjoying the higher pay and freedom to travel; that compromise seemed worthwhile.

All that has consumed time and resources that should have been better spent on following a career more to my liking. Alas, few people earn a sustainable living as a writer, so I’ve always put off going for it. Instead I whiled my time away on the next best thing. For three years it was dating all the women I did. I kept telling myself that only once I had found “The One” would things be on the right track.

Along the way I had some wild sexual encounters and chose to pass others up. The Russian Model and Lusty Lass could have been the easiest sex I ever had, but I chose to walk away and am glad for those decisions. The only date I’m disappointed to not have got intimate with was The Model. Perhaps that’s a good thing because my journey might have stopped there. Krazy Girl was the best sex I’ve ever had and still find myself remembering some of the things we did.

My knowledge about womankind is much better but still incomplete. It is good enough to appreciate The Artist for who she is. I don’t think I could do better than her. Sadly I have also learned that the person you desire does not necessarily make for the kind of relationship you need or want. My education about relationships continues apace.

I follow several female bloggers whose writing and experiences I enjoy reading. Something they have in common is that they are afflicted by one special man whose words and actions (or inactions) reduces them to quivering lumps of jelly. I understand their feelings because Baltic Babe had a similar effect on me. I was always comparing the women I met to the feelings I felt when I was with her. Doing this wasn’t fair to everyone involved.

The women bloggers have their own motivations and in a few cases I suspect that their “daddy issues” evokes a similar feeling. They know this feeling, have learned to cope with it and they might like it in a twisted kind of way. Perhaps if they realized that the man they are fixated on would only deliver a horrible relationship once living together, then they might expunge him from their systems and move on to a better proposition?

I may have been a few women’s “special man” whom they couldn’t get out of their head. Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde come to mind. It still pains me to think of the two of them. It’s a stain on my conscience.

The greatest lesson I have learned in life (courtesy of my dating days) is that there are many types of love, but the strongest, unchanging one is that of a parent for their child. All other types of love are subject to change. Perhaps Baltic Babe was right by saying “love is for fools”?

I found “The One” but today my life is a nightmare from which I can’t wake up. Most nights falling asleep I secretly hope not to wake up. It’s the thought of my not being there for my daughter that keeps me continuing this not-so-good fight.

Of Mothers and Fathers

There is something important that I have learned in my dating adventures. If you want an instant insight as to a woman’s relationship history and how a relationship with her will be going forward, you only need to ask her, “How would you describe your relationship with your father?” Whatever she answers will tell you everything you need to know.

The nature of my working life has revolved around my ability to quickly spot trends and patterns. I can’t help but do this when listening to people telling me about themselves. It’s a professional hazard, but one I enjoy. It feeds my analytical side, the part of me that helps make sense of the world around me. Other people might not like it, but it serves me well. Don’t worry, I carefully hide it when on dates.

After sitting across the table from almost fifty women in two years, this is what I have seen. Nature’s Grand Conspiracy has dictated that daughters are more influenced by their fathers and boys by their mothers. This cross-bonding sets that little person up for life when it comes to dealing with their love-life.

It has amazed me how common and accurate my observation has been. I feel that I have helped some women I’ve met when, only after deciding that I won’t be seeing them again, I use their words in response to my question and ask if it applies to their relationship history, that they then have their own epiphany. It’s as if a light-bulb has literally gone off above their heads.

We all have a relationship style, an unthinking way of how we expect things to be at the outset and over the course of a relationship. We get this from our parents. Sometimes we strive for the opposite of what our parents inadvertently teach us; I am of that mold but more about me later.

The beginning of any relationship is the exciting fun part, we all know that, but it’s the bit afterwards that we all struggle with. Some of us never get to the afterwards because of ideas we hold in our heads, feelings that we expect and cling to, so the change to a stable, predictable, almost boring relationship is too much to take on and we withdraw. I’ve seen that several times with the women I’ve dated. They just don’t know how to let things be and they cling to the romance phase. Some baulk at the first sign of change because with that comes the unknown, something us humans are pre-programmed to fear.

I’ve also seen in my own dating experience that the less interested in a girl I was, the more interested in me she was. If my internal attitude was one of, “Hmm, yes, I suppose you’re okay.” then a woman would do all the running and I would be in the driving seat in the relationship.

If I was very taken with a woman, then I couldn’t help but let it show. She then had all the power in the relationship, I did all the running. It became hard work and usually didn’t last very long. Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl taught me this.

So if I can contain my interest when I meet somebody I want, play it cool, then it’s more likely to work out in my favour, i.e. lead to a relationship.

I now find myself wondering if the feeling that this approach gives off to a woman reminds her of her father’s attitude to her. Always there, never dominating, letting her be and being there for her, physically and emotionally. So, are women looking for a man who makes them feel like their father’s did?

I’m inclined to say “yes”. However, it’s a qualified one because there are few other factors that influence proceedings, primarily ‘power’ in a relationship. That is something I’ll be sharing my thoughts on at another time. For the time being I’ll say my behaviour provides a feeling that gets their attention, while later seizing the power in the interaction keeps their attention.

About two-thirds of the women I have met through dating have admitted to having bad or terrible relationships with their fathers. Some don’t even know who their fathers are. Of course that’s not their fault but it has left them somewhat compromised in the relationship stakes. Baltic Babe had only recently started communicating with her father. Musician Gal told me never to even mention her father the first and only time I asked about him. My Exgf’s parents divorced when she was one and she didn’t have a male role-model in her life until she was seven.

For a while I thought my “aloof but interested” approach was causing a problem but then I realized that no approach would work with some of these women. They are just too messed up permanently or temporarily confused by a past traumatic relationship experience. Lusty Lass, Cat Lady and Krazy Girl were of the latter.

Something else I have learned is that if a woman has “daddy issues” then aside from a turbulent history with men, the sex is good if not crazy. If her relationship with her father is normal and healthy then, apart from relatively few relationships, the sex is average to bland.

These women with daddy issues seem destined to ride a Carousel of Cock, an endless stream of strangers that they use sex to attract but then become fearful of or lose interest in. The attention they garner makes them feel good about themselves for a short while, but then they need another fix from another guy. With so much sexual experience they pick up skills and fetishes that make playtime phenomenal fun, but they just can’t sustain a loving relationship. They drift from lover to lover, perpetuating the same sabotaged relationship style over and over. Krazy Girl and my Exgf are classic examples of this. They don’t know how many times they’ve been had nor do they know who’ll be next. I wonder how it ends for them. A song from Rodriguez comes to mind.

So how does any of this apply to me and my situation? A lot of what I’ve discovered applies to men too. I’ll use myself as an example.

First, I know that my own relationship style is a consequence of my upbringing. My relationship with my mother was terrible and has only in recent years progressed to bad. In the endless war between my parents my mother used me as a pawn against my father. I can count on my hands and have fingers left over the number of times my mother allowed me to be alone with my father. There was no real reason for this other her conceit and spite. I resented her for this.

When I was with my father I saw a side to him that very few people did. He was gentle, thoughtful and attentive to me. When he was with other people he was proud, imposing and loud. I didn’t like who he was then and have only come to terms with that side of him in recent years. He grew up during the Great Depression and it scarred his psyche because his was a poor upbringing. He once told me of eating pumpkin every night and his trousers his mother had made from torn Hessian bags that the pumpkins came in. Children at his school made fun of him for it. All his life he craved social respectability, status and acceptance, the things he never got in his formative years.

My mother is a poorly educated, unintelligent and stubborn person. In her twenties and thirties she was a perfect ten in appearance, but Nature’s Grand Conspiracy decrees that what it gives in abundance in one area it takes from another area. So many of the nines and tens that I’ve dated and bedded were great to look at but unpleasant to be around. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of your parents, but I’m just stating the facts. I’ll illustrate by way of an example.

I’m a little boy, about eight years old and we’re out for a Sunday drive on a baking highway near our city. Suddenly smoke starts spewing out of the front of the car and my father pulls us over to the side of the road. It’s lunchtime and we haven’t seen a car for some time and none are to be seen in the distance where the unforgiving African sun is melting everything into a silvery shimmer. I sit in the back seat of our Mercedes as my father gets out and opens the bonnet. Steam covers him and my mother gets out to investigate too. My father owns a garage and a car dealership while my mother can’t park her car.

“Do you think it’s the battery?” she asks him as the steam from the broken radiator pipe abates.

“Why don’t you use your head?” he retorts.

“What?! I must use my head against the battery?! Don’t be so bloody stupid,” she snaps back. An argument commences.

That’s an humorous moment from a private war that saw nightly fights, upturned dinner tables, thrown objects, kicks, tears, bouts of drunkenness on his part and the occasional not coming home for several nights. I’d go hide in my bedroom, finding sanctuary with toy soldiers or comics. I remember many Summer nights lying on the grass in the backyard, using my dog as a pillow and staring up at the stars waiting an uneasy truce to break out. Neither of them ever came to look for me.

And so it was between the two of them, day in and day out, year after year until the stress of it all caused my father to have a fatal heart-attack a few years after that incident by the roadside.

My mother never once said or did anything that made matters better, only worse and that applies to everyone she interacts with. She couldn’t care less what anyone else feels and never for an instant stops to consider the consequences of her words. She has a serious attitude problem but will never change. I got through my teenage years not because of my mother’s efforts but despite them.

It doesn’t surprise me that I want the opposite of what they had. I want a loving relationship characterized by harmony, respect and co-operation. Those last three elements, I can see, are becoming increasingly central in my quest for love. I know now that my marriage was based on my need for this. I felt emotionally safe with my ex-wife. That is my relationship style.

My childhood has also played a role in my decision not to have children because I feel unequipped having never had good role models. Maintaining a loving relationship is hard enough, what are the odds of success by complicating it with a child or two?

Sadly The Saffa is starting to remind me of my mother. She is as stubborn and unwilling or unable to say or do anything to make things better. Hints of it came my way during the squabbles over lunch and pancakes. I can see it clearly in her handling of the dispute with her employers. I fear that she’ll soon be out of work and homeless and looking to me to help out. I don’t need or deserve that responsibility. I have money problems of my own, I have no room for charity. Besides it is also a dreadful way of coming to live with someone you’re seeing, especially someone new.

The Saffa’s parents divorced when she was little and her father moved to another country. She only saw him a few times a year when she was shipped off to him. Her mother didn’t remarry until later in her life. The Saffa has what can be best described as a turbulent relationship history. I doubt that there will be harmony with her while co-operation will be difficult to achieve at times. Each petty argument will be like an addition to death by a thousand paper cuts, eventually respect will die.

I’m also starting to suspect that she is bit of a drama queen. If there isn’t some kind of drama happening somewhere in her life, she’ll create it.

I have heard it said that a weak woman will drag a man under and a hard woman will drag a man around. I’ll add to that truism by saying that a stubborn woman or drama queen will drive a man crazy, perhaps even to an early grave.

I don’t feel emotionally safe with The Saffa. That’s what has been bothering me.

Rodriguez – I wonder

My troublesome Trust Demon awakes

I’m meeting The Saffa and it’s a sunny, tranquil Sunday morning. It’s the end of September and unseasonably warm. I’m not sure how today will play out after the petty arguments of earlier in the week. We kiss hello outside the Royal Exchange at Bank and she’s immediately her chatty self. My concerns appear misplaced; it seems as if nothing bad has ever happened between us.

We make our way down to the Docklands Light Railway where we get a front-row seat on the train so that she could experience what a train driver sees. We alight at Canary Wharf to walk around the Cathedrals of Capitalism; she has never seen anything like it. Then we get back on the DLR and travel under the Thames into Greenwich. We walk around the village area, feeling the history then wander around the Old Royal Naval College where she is captivated by the chapel which has an impressive Baroque interior.

The Maritime Museum is next and she wants to stop and look at every exhibit which is natural, but we could spend the entire day here while I have plans to show her much more. By now we are getting hungry and I lead us to a nearby indoor market where we buy and share all sorts of foreign nibbles and delicacies. The Saffa smelt somebody’s chips doused in vinegar and salt, so she craves that. We find a traditional English fish and chips shop where she gets her craving satisfied. We stroll off to Greenwich Park where we lie on the grass eating our motley lunch. When we finish eating she asks me to lie on top of her; it was a feeling that she just had to have. I oblige despite feeling very self-conscious with hundreds of people around us. She really lives without boundaries.

Next I take her up the hillock that is presided over by the Royal Greenwich Observatory, the place where time is measured from. Unknown to her it is also where I asked my ex-wife to marry me. It’s closed, so we stand outside at the vantage point taking photos of the surrounding London skyline and Canary Wharf. We walk back down the hill and along the way we are passed by an absolutely stunning Eastern European girl dressed in all white to match her hair. The Saffa spots her and remarks, “Did you see the heels she was wearing?” I pretend to not have seen her. In my head I was remarking to myself how attractive that girl was, but how I could never ever have the kind of connection with her that I have with The Saffa. There’s a lot to be said for cultural similarity. My days of being attracted to Slavic women are over.

It’s dusk and we end up at a Jamie’s Restaurant where we find a comfy sofa and share coffee with pastries. Conversation never once runs dry between us, but that would never be a problem because the Saffa is something of a chatterbox, so much so that she is prone to talking over people. It’s rare for me to finish a sentence, which I’m starting to find annoying.

The only blight on the day was that she was regularly venting about her work situation. She’s now in a dispute with her employers about her Wednesday afternoons off. From what I could see The Saffa was taking liberties with her time off and her employers were laying down the law, but she didn’t see it that way. No amount of trying to apply reason would change her outlook. Fearing becoming embroiled in yet another silly argument I have to change the topic several times before she lets go of it.

It’s getting late so we head for the trains, catching the DLR back to Canary Wharf where we change to the Jubilee Line. I have to change en route to get my train home, so I have to say goodbye to her on the train. Not the best kind of good night kiss, it’s always too rushed.

I have enjoyed the day. Is she ‘The One’? In my heart I don’t think so. There’s something about her that is bothering me and I can’t identify it. It’s stopping things from blossoming. Do I enjoy spending time with her? Very much so, but it feels more like friendship and not love. What am I going to do? I’ll give it time.

Late on Monday she tells me that some old high-school friends were wanting to meet up later that night. She loves spontaneity, so I think nothing of it, other than wondering about her employer’s opinion given the current impasse about her taking time off. The next day on Facebook she posts several pictures of her with three guys in a pub. I see no problem.

On Wednesday The Saffa comes up to my place. I make her a strong massaman curry which she loves. The spicier they like the food, the better the lover; I’m convinced of it. We watch some Californication which she is becoming addicted to. Almost predictably we started making out then fucking on my sofa.

Krazy Girl contacting me the other day made me realize that I regret not filming her and I having sex. It’s a strangely satisfying thing to see yourself in action and it helps to improve technique. Whether or not things work out between me and The Saffa, I want some memories of us together, pleasuring each other. I had recharged my camera battery the day before, so in a premeditated fashion I began filming us fucking.

We’re both naked and The Saffa is sitting on the footstool, looking at the television. I switch the camera on, position it perfectly on a table and point it towards her.

“No, what are you doing?!” she exclaims as I stride over to her.

Without saying a word I point my cock towards her face and all resistance is broken. She comes forward and latches her mouth onto my penis like a starving baby getting its bottle. The footage ends with her being on all fours on my sofa, her d-cup breasts flopping about. I’m fucking her from behind, pulling her silky blonde hair back with one hand and I’ve got a thumb up her bum.

“Ja, fuck me. Ooh, fuck me harder,” she shouts out just before she cums with that little squeal of hers.

Still on The Hook she slumps forward onto the sofa while I continue to do my thing. It isn’t long before my cock is pumping and squirting hot, sticky cum into her tight little pussy that has a slight curvature in just the right place. I pull out and she spins around and sucks my cock dry.

We cuddle up on the sofa under a throw for a while, but eventually the time nears for her to have to go back to work in London. I don’t want her situation with her employers getting any worse because of me.

“Sweetie, isn’t it time to catch a train?” I ask.

“No, I want some more of your cock,” she says, leaning over to my groin, pushing the throw away.

“Hey, you don’t want to get into trouble at work,” I counter.

“Agh, fuck them,” she says as she latches onto my cock and starts sucking away on it.

I look down at her in disbelief and she does what she does best. What is her problem? Does she have some kind of death-wish going on? I try to figure it out while she expertly brings my orgasm to fruition and savours the proceeds.

Not long afterwards we’re scampering towards my train station as her train is arriving. A hurried kiss sees her off. It’s just turned eleven o’clock, the time when she’s supposed to report back to her charge, but the trains will take another hour to get her there. I turn and saunter back home, my head full of questions about her self-destructive behaviour.

On Friday morning The Saffa tells me that she had used up all her nights off for the week. Then later in the day tells me that she’s meeting her old school friends again that night.

Hmm, my trust demon awakes and rattles his cage, yearning to break free. I haven’t felt him for a while, thinking him in an icy hibernation, his black little heart frozen. I’m wrong. He’s alive and well and trying to protect me.

I go onto The Saffa’s Facebook page and do some reconnaissance. I notice that in preceding weeks, when she was supposed to be “working”, that she was out partying with friends. She told me that she only gets Wednesday afternoons and Saturday afternoon until Sunday evening off. The date and time-stamp of photos that she and other people have posted of her tell me otherwise. My analytical eye sees that one of the guys has appeared in photos thrice in the past two weeks.

She’s lied to me, there’s a mystery man on the scene and she is deliberately courting danger with her employers.

I see trouble ahead…

Lindsey Buckingham – Trouble

Fiery lunch and angry pancakes

Monday starts with The Saffa initiating intense sex and she cums twice on The Hook with her squealing piggy sound; ever so cute. We go to The Stables Market in Camden Town to sample exotic foods and textiles where we spend the day.

At lunchtime we stand looking at all the options around us. And we stand and stand while she can’t make her mind up. This takes me back to our earliest dates where I noticed her indecision over trivial matters and rash reckless decisiveness over important matters.

Noticing lengthening queues , without a word I step over to a Chinese takeaway vendor and order what I want, thinking she could catch up. For several dates now she was expressing her discomfort at my paying for everything, so I thought here’s a chance for her to pay for herself.

By the time she had decided what she wanted – the same food as me – I was halfway through mine. I noticed a change in her body language and frequency of eye-contact. We sat and ate in silence until I coaxed it out of her what was bugging her.

“Want to tell me what’s the matter?” I ask, like many a fool before me.

“You couldn’t be bothered to buy me lunch,” she snaps back.

Oh, the drama. She was upset that I didn’t buy her lunch? A heated exchange follows until an uneasy truce breaks out. I hope that this behaviour is short-lived because I have no time for a drama queen. A little damage has been done as I don’t appreciate petulance and mixed messages.

I calm the waters and distract her with silver jewellery, her favourite trinket. She hasn’t been sleeping well at her place of work/home, so that night we decamp to my home in the countryside. It felt quite sweet to be walking through the door with her into my home. I really wasn’t comfortable with her living arrangements; not private enough.

The next morning, a Tuesday, I get up leaving her slumbering in bed and go to make us pancakes. I have a recipe that has worked just fine for many years. The mix was made and first pancake is under way when The Saffa joins me in the kitchen.

In less than minute she is telling me how to make pancakes and quizzing me on how I made the pancake mix from scratch. I told her my method and it wasn’t to her liking. She keeps going on about how I’m doing it all wrong and it won’t be edible. I ignore her and keep doing what I know works, but she keeps going on and on about how I should be doing it her way. A silly argument ensues and in a moment of utter frustration I shout out, “Why can’t you just let me do what I want?!”

The Saffa storms off into the lounge and throws herself down on the sofa, folding her arms and legs, tapping a foot against a coffee table.

Oh, good grief. What a shit way to start the day. I was wanting to surprise her with breakfast in bed but she wouldn’t let this happen for some reason.

I know that in the affairs of humans there is a process that all new relationships have to go through, irrespective of whether it’s in the workplace, sports team, military unit, friendship or romance. 1) Forming. The participants come together and commence interacting. 2) Storming. Boundaries of acceptable behaviour are established via argument and confrontation. 3) Norming. Roles are accepted and a hierarchy is clear. 4) Performing. The group gets on with the task.

In a romantic relationship the ‘Storming’ stage is where a couple find out – consciously or unconsciously – who is the senior partner. The couple hopefully learn how to deal with their inevitable differences. If they’re lucky they find out how to argue constructively. The relationship will not progress until the ‘Storming’ or ‘Shouting’ stage is completed. Many a budding relationship has wrecked itself at this stage. The sad truth is that very few of us know or are taught how to argue constructively. I certainly don’t.

Swallowing hard, I take a deep breath and go into the lounge to make peace. The tapping foot slows down as somehow I find words that soothe. The pancakes are presented and they get eaten with long teeth on her part. The day crawls by with polite platitudes and a noticeable absence of anything sexual. Eventually I see her off at the train station in the early evening with a feckless kiss.

After the blow-up over pancakes and the un-bought lunch things just aren’t the same. The magic is gone and the chemistry between us is flat. My outburst may just have lost me a good woman. My lack of self-control comes with price, just like it does with other people.

The Saffa phones me when she gets back to London and mentions that she has bought a pregnancy test kit; her period is several days overdue. That came out of nowhere, but mercifully it proves to be a false alarm, or so she tells me the next day. I really must be more careful otherwise I could find myself raising a kid with someone unsuited to me.

My mind keeps asking if she’s The One? The doubts are growing and the arguments haven’t helped. I’m starting to think that she’s not ready to put her heart in my hands and perhaps for good reason as I might just be a monster. However, is her behaviour a fucked-up defence mechanism to test my resolve and protect herself? I don’t know. I know very little about her inner workings. As voluble and volatile as she is, her true feelings are kept hidden from me. Was some of her attitude driven by the thought of being pregnant by me? Or was it good ol’ pre-menstrual syndrome? Why doesn’t she just talk to me?

Borne out of a sense of frustration I find myself thinking of swapping naughty texts with Exgf, but I decide not to. To my great surprise Krazy Girl sends me a text message, so my mind wonders over to fond memories of her and the kinky things we never got to do. Again I invoke some self-control and ignore her because I’ve been down that road and vagina enough times to know where it leads to.

The Saffa and I swap cheery, positive messages and pictures via WhatsApp for the rest of the week and she phones me at night time after work. Superficially everything is hunky dory, but to me the magic is obviously gone and not likely to return. I feel like I have fucked this up with my outburst over pancakes.

We’re stuck in the ‘Shouting’ stage. How am I going to get us out of it?

Once again what was clear, shiny black and white has become an amorphous, opaque grey.

Joan Armatrading – The Shouting Stage

I f*cked until her nipples bled

I manage to put aside the mental image of my cum splattered across The Saffa’s pretty face a couple of hours ago and start to think straight again. I realize that I have her and Busty Czech as friends on Facebook and that on Sunday The Saffa had been taking copious pictures that she is likely to post with me tagged in some. That could get awkward, so I unfriend Busty Czech. Will she notice? I don’t want her getting wind of there being someone else on the scene; awkward might become unnecessarily ugly. Instead I want to let her down as gently as possible in a time and a way of my choosing.

Having women I’m seeing as part of my social media is not a good idea. I resolve to only let The One have that access from now on and only when I’m sure that she’s The One. At the moment that day seems so far away.

For now I’ve got two women on my mind and it’s bothering me. I’m inclined to say goodbye to Busty Czech but I’m also not a hundred percent certain about The Saffa. My thoughts keep returning to something in particular that is nagging at me.

Being trapped in The Saffa’s bedroom and having risky sex was great fun, but it was juvenile. More than that, it was disturbing because it showed me that The Saffa has a reckless streak. So she’s perhaps a Good-time Girl and not a Good Girl? The former you just have fun with and the latter you settle down with. I’m looking for the latter; I have to keep that in mind.

Or am I being premature in my assessment of her? If so, then I’m probably equally guilty of being hasty in all matters with Busty Czech too, especially by agreeing to go on holiday with her during our second date. Sadly I don’t get the feeling that she’s The One. I really need to tie up that loose end because it’s preventing me from enjoying and treating The Saffa in the way that she deserves.

The Saffa comes up to see me in my town on the Wednesday as she has the afternoon off. I have no expectation or agenda for how today will turn out for us. I meet her at the train station and we go for lunch in the town, then she raids the charity shops. She only buys a few books and DVDs, being mindful of her limited living conditions. In the late afternoon at my place we watch a movie she bought.

As the movie ends I turn to her and say, “So what do you want to do next?”

The look in her eye is all the answer necessary.

We start having sex on my sofa, but after her first squealing orgasm we move proceedings to the bedroom. At one point she is riding me cowgirl-style and I am adoring her, thinking to myself for the first time that I could fall in love with her. She notices my expression and asks me what I was thinking.

“I’m thinking that I could fall in love with you,” I answer.

I can see her heart swell as she basks in the glory of my words. Her instantaneous smile masks her feelings. Not long afterwards she cums again, squealing her pretty little head off.

I still find it fascinating that a woman’s brain has to be turned on first before her body is. Is it the reverse for men, in that we have to enjoy sex with a woman before we fall in love with her? I’m inclined to say ‘no’ based on my experience with Baltic Babe. I was totally smitten with her before we got physical and still was enamoured after learning that she was a terrible lay.

The Saffa slumps down next to me, exhausted and panting. I get up and move her into position for doggy-style. My cock slides easily into her well-lubricated pussy and my head touches her cervix as she lets off a strangled sound of pain. Hers is the smallest vagina I have ever penetrated, but I think she has a pleasure/pain thing going on and enjoys my filling her up.

My hips go into overdrive and I fuck her as fast as I can for as long as I can. I stop for a few seconds to catch my breath and then go at it for even longer and even harder. All the frustration of the previous weeks was finding a physical outlet; this was angry sex. By my reckoning I was fucking like a man possessed for at least ten minutes. I’ve never fucked a woman so ferociously before.

“Jeez man, can we just take a break?” she asks, gasping for breath as she pulls free of my cock..

The Saffa rolls over onto her back and I see two red, parallel vertical lines, perfect streaks of blood about two inches long smeared onto my white duvet cover. I look at her breasts and see that the tips of her nipples are missing and blood is seeping from them.

I fucked her doggy-style for so long and so hard that her nipples have chafed on my duvet cover and started bleeding!

Yep, I have now fucked a woman so hard that I made her nipples bleed.

She notices the blood too and says, “Holy fuck!”

Without another word I go fetch a wet cloth and some plasters. We do what we can to remedy the bleeding nipples, laugh about it and take a break to get our breath back.

The Saffa seems to stay horny for long stretches at a time. Once she’s turned on, she stays turned on.

“I want to feel your cum in my pussy this time,” she says, catching me by surprise.

I smile and she resumes the doggy-style position, but this time making sure that her breasts are well clear of touching anything. What’s a guy to do but to fuck?

My erection hasn’t subsided much and it only takes a few thrusts in her surprisingly still-moist vagina for normal service to be resumed. By now I’m starting to get tired and don’t want her bleeding on everything, so I resolve to make myself cum as quickly as I know how.

I suck on a thumb and slowly slide it up her bum. The Saffa doesn’t make a sound or movement to even indicate recognition of what I’ve just done.

To help me over the line some naughty talk is required.

“Is this what you want?” I ask.

“Uh-huh,” she replies.

“Is this what you like?”

“Uh-huh,” she mutters.

“Is this what you need?”

“Jah,” she mumbles.

“Is this what you’re good for?”

“Uh, jah,” she says softly as the tip of my cock touches her cervix.

Seconds later she cums again with one of her characteristic high-pitched squeals that wouldn’t be noticed on a pig farm. Her sounds are cute and so much better than the screams of Busty Czech. Not since Krazy Girl have I encountered a cum-machine like her.

Not long afterwards the session ends with me cumming in her pussy au natural. She was asking for it and I was only too happy to oblige. She finished her period last week so I thought it safe to ejaculate in her. Her pussy and my cock are a good fit.

After some cuddling in the afterglow we’re both getting hungry, so I conjure up a quick meal. It’s getting late and she needs to return to her job. I walk her to the station to catch the 10pm train.

I don’t want her to go. Feeling this way about her tells me something; it spoke of her being who I want to be with. The way forward is now clear: I want The Saffa.

As I watch her train disappear into the darkness my post-coital negativity kicks in with the usual poignant questions. If she didn’t know about the existence of Busty Czech would any of this be happening? How different would her behaviour be? Am I seeing the real her? Is she using sex as a weapon to woo me?

For the first time since lunchtime I switch my phone on and I see that Busty Czech has called my four times and sent the following text message:

I’ve got something special planned for your birthday. 🙂 xx

Ah, yes, my birthday. It’s next Monday and I’ve agreed to see Busty Czech this Saturday before then, followed by meeting The Saffa on Sunday.

I just have to say goodbye to Busty Czech on Saturday. I have to break another heart.

How is this going to turn out? I’m dreading it.

ACDC- You shook me all night long

Trapped – Final part

“I want you to fuck me,” she says.

“Are you crazy?!” I blurt out.

“I like it dangerous,” she replies coolly.

I’ve always been in favour of naughty or exciting sex, anything that gets the heart-rate up and the juices flowing, but sex under these circumstances is simply outrageously dangerous. I make my misgivings known but The Saffa is adamant. We squabble as quietly as we can but then she starts tugging at my clothes, but I swat her away.

Undeterred she stands up and starts undressing. All I can do is watch as her knickers fall to the floor. Even in the dim light of the room I can see that hers is a body that I’d like to fuck. I wonder if she’s still turned on from her orgasm before the intruders arrived?

The Saffa drops to her knees before me, a pleading look in her eyes as she puts her hands on top of her bare thighs, an action that squeezes her lovely breasts together. Maintaining eye contact she opens her mouth. It’s a beguiling sight; what man can refuse?

I stand up, unzip my jeans, pull my cock out and drop it into her mouth. She starts sucking on it with an eagerness that impresses me. She just loves sucking my cock.

Shall I fuck her? It’s what she wants but this is crazy. What if the two women next door hear us through the paper-thin wall? What if one of them walks into this room? What if The Saffa starts making too much noise? Oh fuck, my cock is rock-hard now and my balls are aching.

Just then The Saffa stands up, climbs onto the bed and assumes doggy-style position. It’s only one of my favourite positions. She looks back at me, daring me to be a man and to fuck her.

I reposition myself and slide my cock as deep into her pussy as it can go. Her vaginal cavity isn’t as long as my cock and I must have touched her cervix. She lets off a muffled sound of discomfort, but I don’t care. This is what you want, so now you’re going to get it!

My hands slap onto her shoulders and my hips start to move how they were designed to. I speed up, hoping that The Saffa can keep it quiet as I fuck her. Mercifully she does and all that can be heard is the lapping sound of my thighs hitting her butt-cheeks.

I tilt my head to the better-lit side of her body and glimpse her breast flying freely about. I love this sight. I love watching a woman’s tits flopping about as I fuck her doggy-style. I especially love it when I have the woman on ‘The Hook’.

Hmm, what will she make of that? Will she make a noise that gets us into trouble? Or will she keep quiet and just take it? Why even do that? It’s ridiculously reckless. Fuckit, she said she likes it dangerous.

I collect her silky blonde hair into a bunch and with my right hand I grip it tight, pulling back slightly. She lets off a stifled “Umpf,” sound but stays in position. My other hand I bring up to my face and I suck on my thumb. I keep ramming my cock into her short, little pussy as I lower my hand and my thumb finds her butt-hole.

The Saffa doesn’t flinch or make a sound as I slide my thumb up her bum. Every woman I’ve done this to has liked it, even if beforehand they said that they don’t like anything anal-related. Once a woman is totally turned on, with all the nerve-endings on fire, then anything goes. I usually save it for towards the end of fucking them as it sends them over the edge and they cum soon afterwards.

And so it is with The Saffa. Less than a minute later I feel her body shiver and shake and then she lets off suppressed little squeals of delight. I think these last little sounds were too loud as almost instantly I hear voices on the other side of the door.

I freeze.

My cock is deep in her pussy, my thumb still in her arse, I’m still clutching her hair, but The Saffa hasn’t heard what I have and she starts panting.

“Mum, I think that it’s time to sort through the post,” I hear the unseen daughter say.

“Why now?” I hear an old woman ask.

The Saffa hears this too and holds her breath.

The women fiddle with opening envelopes; one of them is suspicious and she prolongs this exercise. Eventually they run out of excuse to listen for what they think they heard, well at least one of them.

Was my thighs slapping against The Saffa’s butt too loud? Or was it her strangled cries of pleasure? Either way it doesn’t matter. At least one of them is aware that something is going on and is now unlikely to want to leave.

Shit. I’m more trapped than ever now.

Mother and daughter return to the lounge and the sound on the television gets turned down low. I disconnect myself from The Saffa and we collapse next to each other on the bed.

“I think the daughter heard us,” I whisper.

“I think so too,” she replies.

“We’re going to have to wait for the daughter to leave,” I say as quietly as I can.

“Yes. Anyway, I need to recover from that orgasm. That was the best of my life,” she says softly.

It’s always nice to hear that I’ve pleased a woman to such an extent, but right now it isn’t the most important thought in my head.

The naked Saffa gets under the covers while I lie next to her, balancing myself on the edge of the small bed and still fully clothed. I lie listening to our neighbours who don’t speak much. When is that bloody woman going to leave? The Saffa falls asleep, but I’m still wired and wide awake. I don’t know how long I lay there like that before I also fell asleep.

Noise from the street below wakes me the next morning. It’s a sunny Monday and I can hear London’s rush-hour starting. Somehow I’m still balanced on the edge of the three-quarter-sized bed. I turn my stiff neck and see The Saffa’s beautiful blue eyes staring at me.

“Good morning handsome,” she says, smiling to the point of laughing at me.

I smile, realizing that this wasn’t all just a bad dream. Snoring from down the corridor tells me that we’re still not alone.

“I’ll go check what’s going on outside,” The Saffa says, getting up, tidying her hair and putting on a blue silk robe that matches her eyes.

A minute later she returns. Am I going to be set free?

“It looks like the daughter has left and someone else is snoring her head off,” she says.

“Great. I think I should go before overstaying my welcome,” I say.

“Not just yet, sunshine. You haven’t cum yet,” she says in a stern tone, like a school-teacher reprimandng a naughty boy.

“What?!” I exclaim in a hushed tone, still fearful of being heard.

“I’m not letting you out of here until I have your cum,” she says.

What…the…fuck? Is she serious? Hell, yes, she’s serious. What have I got to do to get home?! Wait, I’ve still got a raging morning glory so this could be quick. All I need is some inspiration.

“Where’s your favourite place to feel cum? It’s okay, you can tell me, I won’t be judgemental,” I say.

The Saffa thinks about it for a few seconds, I know the answer will be good so I wait and then she says, “I like having cum on my face, then on my back and then on my breasts.”

My cock hardens at the thought of squirting baby batter all over her pretty face. You just can’t predict a person’s sexual proclivities. I’m also learning that I can’t predict my own reaction to a woman’s needs and wants behind closed doors.

“Do you want to fuck me on the bed?” she asks.

“No, I want you to get on your knees, suck on my cock and then let me cum all over your face,” I answer, not knowing what kind of response to expect. Maybe she’ll let me go now?

Without a moment’s hesitation The Saffa sinks to her knees and with closed eyes takes my cock in her mouth and started her slow, sensual, cock-stiffening, rhythmic, wondrous swallowing, teasing and pleasing of the best part of me. She pulls the front of her robe open, exposing her breasts. Some of my cum is going to land on them.

It doesn’t take long for my cock to swell up totally in her mouth, ready to cum. It is the sudden swelling of my penis’ head that alerts her to my impending orgasm. She opens her eyes and looks up at me, all the while still diligently sucking on me, her fingertips delicately resting on my thighs as if she was getting ready to scratch me.

Just as I feel the cum rushing along my shaft I pull my cock out of her mouth, grip the hair at the back of her head and pull back, to which she lets out a little gasp of air and closes her eyes. She knows what is going to happen next and she opens her mouth and sticks her tongue out.

I have to make a concerted effort to keep my eyes open to watch as the fresh sperm explodes out of the tip of my cock. I watch in curious fascination as the first big blob of sperm hits her squarely between the eyes. My stomach muscles tighten as smaller loads shoot out, landing on a cheek and then just above her open mouth on the other side. Even in the haze of the early morning light I can see pleasure spreading across her face just before she makes an approving “Umm” sound. She closes her mouth and smiles.

My cock is super-sensitive and pleasurable as I put the tip of it against the big blob of cum on her forehead and slowly push my cock down the side of her face, smearing cum into her skin as it goes. It must be an involuntary movement on her part, but when my shaft is near her mouth she opens her mouth, but still keeps her eyes closed. I ignore that and manoeuvre my cock back up to where it had come from and then slide it down the other side of her face. She exhales a heavy breath of air as I slide my bell-end under her chin, now having smeared my protein-rich load all over her pretty face…and doing so feels good, damn good.

I push my cock into her gaping mouth, which she eagerly receives and enthusiastically begins sucking on again, seemingly trying to get every last drop out of me. Her attentiveness is appreciated, but I am more taken with the sight before me.

Here is an attractive, pretty blonde with hair that feels like strands of gold to touch, on her knees before me, her large breasts dangling down with hard, suckable nipples pointing the way forward, sucking my cock in a deliberate attempt at pleasing me as my cum covers her face.

It is one of the best sights of my life and I shall treasure it. I wish I had a photo of it but my memory will have to suffice.

My cock becomes over-sensitive and I have to pull it out of her mouth. Who knows for how much longer she would have sucked on it? She leans back and lets her shoulders drop as she relaxes, but for her the moment isn’t over. Closing her cum-splattered eyes, she smiles again and seems to savour the sensation of my cum all over her face. Perhaps it is the intensity of what has just happened, I can’t really tell, but her smile tells me that all is well in her world.

How many other cocks have done this to her? Did she enjoy it each time? How did it make her feel, deep down, really feel? Did it make her feel like a dirty little slut that liked being used? Why do I think these negative thoughts after sex?

She stands up, opens her eyes, gives off a little laugh, smiles at me and steps forward to hug me. I feel some cum making itself comfortable on my chest, but I don’t care; this all feels strangely good to me.

“Come, let’s go have breakfast,” she says, getting up, pulling her robe back on and then turning to disappear through the doorway. I hear her cleaning herself in the bathroom.

Minutes later we’re walking through the streets of London, The Saffa is leading me to her favourite place for a fry-up breakfast. I’m aware that people we walk past are staring at us. Are we emitting a ‘just-shagged’ vibe? Is there some of my cum on her face?

We share a breakfast at an over-priced French cafe, laughing and joking about the previous twelve hours. She thinks it’s hysterical but I’m less amused.

Her careless, cavalier streak scares me silly because it points to trouble, lots of it. It explains some of the rash decisions that she has made in her life and it reminds me of my thrill-seeking Exgf. Could The Saffa be a drama-queen? If there isn’t some drama going on then she’ll create it? A big red flag has gone up. I’m doubting that she could be The One. Have I made the right choice or have I made a mistake?

As I thankfully sit on a train taking me home, the chilli plant present at my feet, my brain going faster than the train, a text message from The Saffa arrives on my phone.

It’s raining here now and my day was so much brighter with you in it. Thanks again for showing me the sights of London and treating me to breakfast this morning… Missing you a little bit lots already xx

A few minutes later a text message from Busty Czech arrives.

How are you. Did you have good time with your friend yesterday. Im back at work. Hopefully ill be ok.

Busty Czech now seems like such a safe choice while The Saffa seems like trouble.

I’m such a shit. I’m such a fool. I feel trapped again.

What should I do?

Bruce Springsteen – Trapped

Roller-coaster starts to trundle

At the end of our date we agreed to get together the following Sunday. On Monday at 5pm Busty Czech sends me the following text message:

I know this is so not appropriate to say as I only just met you and it has taken me completely by surprise but I already miss you and Sunday suddenly seems so far away. X

And then half an hour later she sends me this text message:

…so I guess I am already swimming in the pool with the waterfalls around 🙂

She’s referring to her answers to my Magical Forest questions. I find her words incredibly sweet and deeply disturbing at the same time. What’s she going to be like once I’ve fucked her; once the oxytocin – the bonding chemical of love – kicks in? I’m starting to see elements of Deranged Dater in her, given the slightly manic behaviour.

At the end of our date I had mentioned the Bristol Balloon Festival and wondered if she would be interested in seeing that. During the day I sent Busty Czech a link to the event’s website, not really expecting her to want to go because I now know that she tires easily, but it would be a pleasant outing.

Later in the evening I get the following email from her:
Hi, I enjoyed yesterday but unfortunately even the pleasant things tire me out 🙁 So am taking it easy today. The Bristol balloon event looked good but too long for me. You will soon get fed up with me not be able doing things just as I get fed up with it. Hope you had a good day. X

Half an an hour later I phone Busty Czech, just wanting to chat, but she doesn’t answer and I end up leaving a message. Five minutes later I get the following text message:

Am sorry, I sound down today. Its just I really enjoyed time with you but I cannot expect from you being with me in this condition. As you want do more exciting things. Im upset this evening. When I calm down ill call you. X

I decide to not say or do anything, expecting only to hear from her in a few days time, probably to tell me a bunch of lies about why we can’t see each other. It’s a road I’m too familiar with, a lingering, bitter gift from the other women I’ve dated or tried to. If I were to phone her to discuss or send her any kind of text message, she would baulk and I’d probably never see her again. I get on with my evening, so I’m surprised when half an hour later she calls me. Is it time for the goodbye speech already?

We make polite and pleasant small talk, avoiding the elephant on the line; what the hell is going on in her head? I’m aware that she’s almost hyper-ventilating as she catches the end of her words when she speaks to me. I make a concerted effort to remain neutral and consistently so. Why are women such hard work? Or is it just the ones I meet?

After a while the conversation turns more serious and Busty Czech says something to me that I think is the crux of whatever she’s thinking, feeling and fearing.

“You’re such a strong personality that I’m concerned that I’m going to be dominated.”

After a moment of contemplation I say, “You know, sometimes our fears blind us to opportunity.”

I let the ensuing silence brew so that she can take that in and make of it what she wants. If she is too scared of me or a relationship, then she isn’t right for me. I am now starting to have my own doubts about her suitability for me because of all this unnecessary emotional chaos. It’s been barely twenty-four hours since we last saw each other and I’ve said or done nothing new.

Her words also reveal that she is thinking of a relationship too. More importantly it tells me that she’s harbouring a hurt that hasn’t healed yet. I don’t know that much about her previous men, but it seems at least one was the domineering type. Here we go again, I’m being punished for someone else’s insecurities and mistakes.

At the back of my head I hear a clanking and crashing of strained metal as a roller-coaster lurches forward, starting its run. Is Busty Czech about to strap me to my seat and make me her hostage as we hurtle along emotional ups and downs at breakneck speed? Is she like some of the other women I’ve met? I hope not.

My old White Knight self would have been excited at the prospect of nursing someone back to health, because it’s logical that she’ll love me. The Grey Knight me knows that this is a fool’s paradise. Everlasting love only happens between two emotionally healthy people. A relationship is only as strong as its weakest member.

We make some more small talk and the call ends far more positively than how it had started. Busty Czech was speaking and breathing normally it seemed. I had succeeded in calming and soothing her, but who knew what she would do to herself emotionally overnight.

What would she let her hurt do to her?

Christina Aguilera – Hurt