The next day, Thursday, I wake up and within seconds I feel breathless. I want her, I want The Artist. I want to be with her, look into her eyes, hear her laugh, see her smile. I want to hold her hand in mine as we walk. I want to stop, cup her face with one hand and kiss her gently. Just thinking about those things makes me tremble inside; I’ve forgotten what that feels like. In truth, I’m a little scared because it feels like I’ve lost control. This is the effect she’s had on me. A rational, logical person would say that it’s only been one date and that I shouldn’t get carried away. My instincts tell me that she’s worth getting carried away for. I wonder how she feels?
I send her a text message at 7.05am bidding her a good morning. I offer a few words of support for something she’s not looking forward to doing at work. I make fun of the fact that we’re not strangers any more so it’s okay for us to talk on the phone, suggesting that we chat later in the evening. 22 minutes later she answers with a very long message, so she must have started texting me back straight away. She thanks me for my words of encouragement and says that ‘something’ will be distracting her today. Then she says that she would ‘love to chat’ and asks if she should let me know when she’s home.
Her last sentence makes me smile; women love a man to pursue them. I don’t want to do what other men do, so I respond by suggesting that she call me when she’s comfortable once back at home. I let her know that I have an idea for our next get-together. I deliberately don’t use the word ‘date’ because it is laced with pressure in so many women’s minds. I tap into a woman’s innate desire to tie up loose ends, satisfy their curiosity, that is why I’m deliberately vague and enticing about having ‘a plan’. It works.
Nine minutes later her response arrives, again much longer than mine and it ends with “Looking forward to talking to you and hearing your plan! X”
My heart swells to bursting point. She really likes me.
I struggle to function properly the rest of the day. All I can think about is her. My thoughts and feelings of when I was with her on our date had a very limited sexual dynamic to it. Yes, I felt physically attracted to her, but my focus was solely on her as a person. Now, the next day, my thoughts regularly turn to wondering what making love to her would be like. I think it would be gentle and tender. The way she kisses tells me she is about love and not lust. She didn’t once use her tongue, even though I teased a little once at the end of the evening by sending forward a probing tongue on her lips.
So far the greatest physical negative is her being on the chubby side, but I can live with that. Having seen that she can out-eat me, perhaps I can be a helpful influence in that regard, but only if she wants to lose weight.
More than anything, I want to find out what her romantic fairytale idea is and then make it come true for her.
Later that night we chat and The Artist tells me that she is visiting friends in Cambridge for a party on Saturday and staying over. My plan involving the cablecar across the Thames, a visit to the Millennium Dome followed by a meal at a South African steak restaurant will have to wait for another day. Every ounce of my being tells me that that day is going to happen.
“I don’t suppose you fancy coming to Cambridge on Sunday?” she asks.
Teams of muscular wild horses being stung by wasps couldn’t keep me away! That’s what I say to myself.
“I’ll think about it,” is what I say to The Artist.
I call her at 8pm on Friday night on the pretence of wanting to chat with her, but deep down I know I want to find out if she’s on a date. My Trust Demon is tut-tutting at my enthusiasm and he demands that I take a moment to play safe. She answers my call but is on a bus home, so I ask her to phone me when she gets home and is okay to talk. “It’ll be about half an hour til I’m home,” she says. “That’s fine,” I say. I don’t know whether it was because she was on a bus or is having second thoughts about me, but she didn’t sound too pleased to hear from me. I assume it’s the bus.
Exactly half an hour later she calls me. I appreciate someone who does what they say they will do. She’s just arrived home and immediately phones me. I take that to show serious intent on her part. We make small talk and she sounds a bit upset or grumpy to me. I coax a little bit and she opens up. “I don’t want to bore you with this, but I’ve been having a bad time at work this week,” she starts, then launches into detail about her problems at work. I just listen and it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I guess that she has nobody to talk to this about, so I just let her vent. I’ve learned to not be the solution to whatever a woman is moaning about when it comes to her work.
Saturday 28th February 2015 I send her a text message at 8pm telling her that I hope she enjoys her party and takes embarrassing photos. I don’t expect to hear from her, the party should be well under way. Less than half an hour later she sends me a very lengthy text message that she must have started composing as soon as she read my message. She provides me with a postcode for me to find her friend’s house and suggest one-ish as a meeting time. That’s far earlier than I expected and I’m surprised and pleased.
Something I’ve learned to do is to pay attention to the length of woman’s a written response versus what I send her. If I send a lengthy message, whether it be an email or text message, and the response is short, it is an indicator that she’s not feeling particularly positively inclined towards me. If she matches the number of lines I write, then we’re in sync. If she answers with a much longer message it means she is feeling excited about me. The Artist’s very lengthy responses make me feel good. I get the impression that she’s very keen on me and struggling to hide it.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
Thoughts of The Saffa are on my mind as I listen to Busty Czech on the phone telling me how excited she is about our upcoming trip to the French Riviera. I feel torn between these two women and guilty as all hell. The former is aware of the other and trying to woo me, while the latter is blissfully ignorant.
It’s when Busty Czech starts telling me on Thursday night’s call about her guardian angels and how they look after her that I decide that she’s not The One. I don’t know if The Saffa is The One, but I know that Busty Czech isn’t. I know that I have to stop seeing her, but I also really want and need that expensive holiday that I’ve already paid in full for. I feel trapped between two sexy blondes and a beckoning blue sea.
I agonize all day Friday about what to do. Shall I dump Busty Czech tomorrow when I’m seeing her and thus walk away from the trip, kissing all that money goodbye? Will The Saffa be worth the sacrifice? Is Busty Czech better suited to me and I’m too blind to see it? I’m not a hundred percent sure about what to do.
Uncertainty in any situation does not sit well with me. I like to make a plan and then make it work. If I strip out the trip then it is obvious to me that The Saffa is the one I want to go forward with. I just have to take the monetary hit and hope for the best.
Busty Czech deserves to see me face to face as I let her down. I feel my doing this is person is the right thing to do. It’s what she deserves and will probably need. Then when I see The Saffa on Sunday I’ll feel free and a more normal unfolding of events between us can occur.
On Saturday morning I wake up to my phone showing me this text message from Busty Czech:
“Yesterday I had another relapse at work. I had bad muscle weakness in my arms etc. Fighting the virus obviously does not help. Still not good this morning. I’m sorry, we can’t get together this weekend. I need to rest. I’ll make it up to you next weekend. Xx”
At first I feel disappointed, but this is quickly followed by annoyed. Then the doubts set in. Maybe I’m being too hasty with Busty Czech? Perhaps this is Life testing me, toying with me? Am I being too hasty with The Saffa? Impatience has always been my biggest character flaw. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been too impatient with some of the other women I’ve dated. What am I going to tell The Saffa tomorrow? I start to feel trapped again.
It’s a perfect Sunday morning as I stand outside Tower Hill Tube station waiting for The Saffa. I’m still not sure what I’m going to tell her. When she arrives, smiling at me, I struggle to kiss her hello with anything that resembles passion.
As usual she’s all chatty and positive which calms me down. I lead her to the O2 centre because she had mentioned in passing that she’s never been there. We catch the cablecar across the Thames and share a beer in the sunshine on barge that’s been converted into a floating pub. I let her do the talking and like a brow-beaten long-married husband I just make approving sounds at appropriate moments. I just hope that she doesn’t ask me about Busty Czech.
A chilly wind sweeps the Thames and we move onto the O2 centre itself where I take The Saffa to a South African steakhouse just like I have done with a few other dates. In our mutual youth this chain was a staple of our leisure-time as teenagers. She’s awed by the nostalgia brought on by the restaurant and she jabbers on about her memories. She’s a pleasure to be around; her energy is infectious.
Racks of juicy ribs are quickly devoured and favourite desserts are slowly shared. For the first time in several hours there’s a silence between us. A serious look spreads across The Saffa’s pretty face and her eyebrows start to duel.
“So what have you decided about me and your other chickie?”
Shit. I suppose her asking this was always going to happen.
“Well, things are more complicated,” I begin.
“How so?” she interjects, leaning slightly forward in her seat.
“On our second date I agreed to go away on holiday with her,” I continue.
“What?!” The Saffa exclaims.
“I know, I know. Stupid, huh?”
“When’s this happening?”
“In two week’s time,” I reply.
“Have you slept with her?” she asks.
“No, not yet,” I lie.
I lie through my teeth; it’s one of the worst lies I’ve ever told and I feel like shit for it. I’ve said enough already to scare her off. I don’t want to risk saying anything more that will cause me to lose her.
“No way! You’re going to sleep with her on the holiday, guaranteed!” she blurts out.
She’s right. If I do go on this trip then there is a very good chance that, given the environment, Busty Czech and I shall make the beast with two backs…with her screaming her head off. I can hear the screams now.
“Ag, man. This is no good for me,” she laments, fidgeting in her seat.
“Hold on a sec. You haven’t heard me out,” I reproach, raising a finger in the air.
The Saffa falls silent, her face still stern, her eyes darting about. It looks like she’s ready to run out of the restaurant. Whatever I say next has to be good or she’s off, never to be seen again.
“I’ve decided that you’re the one that I want. I was planning on breaking it off with her yesterday but she called in sick. I’ll say goodbye to her when I next see her,” I explain.
A look of relief then rays of pleasure transforms The Saffa’s face into a beaming smile. She lurches forward across the table, cups my face in both her hands and plants a big kiss on my lips. I smile.
I smile because it feels good to have made a decision that became clear to me as this date progressed. I smile from an overdue sense of relief. I don’t feel trapped any more.
The Saffa is almost skipping around as we tour the O2, looking at the variety of restaurants, tourist attractions, upcoming pop concerts and the scale of the structure itself.
“Hey, why don’t we go back to my place for dessert. The old dear that I’m looking after is at her daughter’s for the day and there’s something I want to show you,” she says excitedly, her eyes beaming a bright blue.
“Okay, let’s go back to your place,” I say, not sure what is coming my way now, but I suspect it’s going to be memorable.
I woke up the next morning feeling like I was losing Busty Czech. It was a feeling that I knew well. Her frown as we said goodbye caused this feeling. Women seem to get to a point in the early days of a relationship where they have to decide whether or not they want to keep seeing a man. I call it the Crisis Point. Women usually withdraw if they’re feeling too much fear, for reasons of their own, usually involving their emotional baggage and mental health. I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter how nice or considerate I’ve been, nor how much fun I’ve provided. Instead women will choose to focus on any negatives and exaggerate them in their heads. I think it’s all part of a very primitive survival mechanism.
So many times now I’ve reached the Crisis Point with a woman and the outcome was her preferring safety instead of me. I’ve become so accustomed to how this plays out that I’m almost expecting it nowadays. I’m thinking that this is what happened with The Model, Country Girl, Musician Gal and The Brazilian. I let off a deep sigh and get on with my day.
Imagine then my surprise when at 9am I get the following text message:
“Good morning. I decided im going to go to France whatever happens as it will be good for me. Change of scenery and i love it down there. I wonder if you still be interested coming with me. I could send u the details to yr email if u text it. See if you would like it. No diving. No climbing. Just chilaxing x “
I respond with: “Definitely! I can’t wait!” to which her text message response is: “Great. It would be a big help if we would get same flights and go together to and from the airport as ill still not be 100 %. And your strong muscles will be appreciated:). Am off to work will email later.”
By the Tuesday night we have booked a 5-star hotel in Antibes and I’ve booked a flight as well as parking at Gatwick airport. It’s hellishly expensive at a time when I have no money coming in and I have to watch every penny I spend.
Over the course of the week we speak every night, never agreeing to do so, but voluntarily making it happen each taking a turn to call the other, totally un-agreed, which is nice. The chats last on average half an hour and they’re quite pleasant and free-flowing. With Busty Blonde there were times when the conversation bored me and I couldn’t wait for it to end. That’s not the case with the Busty Czech.
We make our plans to get together the coming weekend and I’m looking forward to seeing her. Things are a little foggy but I’m seeing a glimmer of a relationship with her. Or am I seeing what I want to see?
On the Friday night she sends me a text message saying that she’s not feeling well and that we won’t be seeing each other this weekend. What, the whole weekend? Why didn’t she phone to tell me this? My trust demon stirs from his slumber, gets up, wipes his eyes, scowls and heads for the bars of his cage.
Is there somebody else on the scene? Is she having second thoughts about me? Is she doubting her own feelings? Am I now so messed up from all my previous dating experiences that I’ve become paranoid?
I resolve to accept at face value her words but make an effort to call her each night at 8pm over the weekend. My trust issues run deep and the scab that covers them is easily picked open.
Over the course of the following week we take turns to call each other and this week the calls aren’t as much fun. She has two major stressors in her life: her mother and her work. Our chats invariably degenerate into her moaning about these two issues. It makes me feel uncomfortable listening to her unburdening herself. It has been a characteristic of my few serious relationships that the working day didn’t end until I had listened to my other half vent about her working day. I don’t think I’ll ever like that and have yet to find a mechanism to avoid it.
On the Saturday morning I drive down to her but traffic on the M25 is a nightmare and it takes me 3 hours. Busty Czech makes a comment or two that indicates that she doesn’t believe that it took me so long. Does she also have trust issues?
She drives us in her car to a nearby town that is quaint and has been used in several Hollywood movies, most famously in “The Holiday”. Her driving is characterised by poor observation and thinking that is slower than the speed she travels at; I didn’t feel safe with her.
Mercifully we find a cosy pub and sit outside on the patio, enjoying a good lunch and easy conversation. I suppose unavoidably the topics become serious and she starts telling me about her last relationship which lasted for three years and came to an end two years ago.
“He hit me.” she said, searching my eyes for a reaction.
“That makes me so angry,” I instantly respond, tapping into a forgotten rage, remembering a time when as a little boy I saw my father kick my mother.
A red mist descends over my vision when I see a man beating a child, woman, animal or any defenceless creature. At school I was the kid who put the bullies in their place and I liked doing so.
“I promise you that I’ll never hit you,” I continue, saying this not because it was what she wanted to hear, but because it was the truth. Her face relaxes, her shoulders sag and she nuzzles her forehead in my shoulder.
She is as sweet as the cutest kitten I have ever seen. I can feel my resolve to not fall for someone quickly again being tested. At the back of my head I know that she isn’t physically well, which can only affect her emotional state, so I wasn’t with the real “her”. I’d only see that once she was better, but how long that would take was anybody’s guess. I had to guard against falling in love with a temporary mirage.
She relaxes and we sit in the sun to share a lunch of tapas dishes and cold ciders. Our conversation revolves around our upcoming trip and it’s clear that we’re both looking forward to it. No mention is made of our sleeping arrangements; I think it’s a given that we’ll get intimate then.
As the afternoon rolls on the sun goes to hide behind a bank of clouds.
“It’s getting chilly now. Can we please go to a supermarket? I need your muscles to carry the heavy stuff if you don’t mind,” she says.
“I don’t mind at all. It would be a pleasure,” I respond. I look forward to the day a woman uses me for my brain.
Busty Czech speeds recklessly through country lanes while I nervously stamp the footwell.
At the supermarket I push a groaning trolley as Busty Czech loads it up. She’s certainly decisive about what she wants. That’s a pleasant change from all the dithering, indecisive women I’ve met in recent years.
She finishes her shop by finding the biggest cucumber the shop has. Holding it erect she looks me in the eye and gives me a naughty smile. Ah so, she has playful side. Let’s see if I can push the boundaries further.
“Are you going to give me a show with that cucumber?” I ask.
“Maybe one day if you’ve been good,” she replies with a devilish look in her eye and a smile that told me it was only a matter of time before I got to see that. I’ve never seen a woman use a cucumber as a dildo before; it should be exciting.
This sudden sexual exchange catches me by surprise. What my dating adventures have shown me is that if I don’t make any reference to sex and the woman is the first to do so, then it’s a sign that she wants to get physical with me. What’s going to happen when we get back to her place? No, I won’t spend the night, must do this properly.
Back at her place I play the role of porter which Busty Czech seems to genuinely appreciate. She makes me a strong coffee and we sit down on her sofa.
Yes, it happened again. It isn’t long before we’re petting heavily with hands exploring each other’s bodies. She makes unusually loud noises as she gets increasingly turned on. I exercise impressive self-restraint and cools matters down before they go too far too soon.
As tactfully as I know how I make my exit, proud of myself for not shagging her when it could so easily have gone in that direction. Not only do I want to show her that I have self-control but I also don’t want her thinking that sex is my highest priority.
The next week is a disappointing repeat of the previous week in that the evening chats are about her moaning about her emotionally abusive mother and the office bitch who might be fucking their psychopathic boss. Somehow through all this noise we manage to make plans for Busty Czech to come visit me. It’s time for my apartment test – will she be disappointed that I don’t have the quintessential bachelor penthouse filled with the latest must-have gadgets?
She has an innocent charm about her that I find compelling. I like it and it makes me feel safe. However, I’m not entirely convinced yet that she’s The One. Her visiting me will be a big stride forward in our blossoming relationship. I’m looking forward to her visiting me on Saturday.
On the Friday night she sends me a text message: “This week has tired me. I’ll be too exhausted to drive to you this weekend. Can we reschedule to next weekend? I’m sorry. Xx”
So we reschedule to the following weekend. My trust demon is stomping around, occasionally furiously shaking his fist at the Gods of Dating and swearing at them. I phone her each night on the weekend to keep her company for a little while.
Another week trundles by of her bitching and complaining on the phone to me each night. I make soothing, sympathetic noises in the hope that she calms down but it takes a long time. I’m starting to feel like her therapist instead of potential boyfriend.
On the Thursday night therapy call she tells me that she not feeling well again and that she’ll decide on Saturday morning as to whether or not she’ll come visit me.
I’m now getting really fed up with this. You can’t have a relationship with somebody you never get to see. Learning about someone via a phone is not my idea of a relationship. I keep my trust demon in his cage, preferring to believe her about her medical condition. However, this is not how I want things to be. I’m feeling disappointed again and somewhat angry.
I still have my phone in my hand when it burps to life. It’s a text message from The Saffa.
“Can I come visit on Friday? I’ll bring dessert. ;)”
It’s a Sunday morning at the end of May, a perfect sun is shining and I make Busty Blonde pancakes for breakfast in bed. Afterwards, following some cute banter, she cups my face with her hands and says to me, “You know I really love you, don’t you?”
I have been dreading this moment, hoping it never comes because what could I say in response. I had been thinking about it for weeks, but haven’t come to a satisfactory response in my mind. Yes, I have grown very fond of her, yes I enjoy her company, yes there have been times when I have looked forward to seeing her…but…she’s not The One.
I think quickly and say, “Aaw, that’s so sweet. I don’t know what to say. I’ve gone all soft inside.”
That seems to please her and she doesn’t say anything in response, but just smiles lovingly at me. I feel like such a cowardly shit. To my surprise she doesn’t seem disappointed that I don’t reciprocate with the same words. I think she is just pleased to have got it out of her system. She must have been storing it up for a while. I think this because I know that that’s what I did with my last girlfriend and ex-wife. I kept it in me until I couldn’t take it any more and just had to tell them.
It’s a landmark moment…I hear a heavy clock ticking louder…our demise is now approaching fast.
It’s Monday afternoon, the next day and I just can’t do this any more. Busty Blonde is in love with me, but I don’t feel anywhere near the same. I love being with her, but I’m never going to be in love with her; I know this for sure. She doesn’t deserve this and it would be criminal of me to string her along any more than I feel I have already done. I should have ended it long ago. It’s time to do the hard but right thing.
I decide to call her to end it now, so I go over my thoughts one last time, checking them, because I know that once the words have left my lips that there’s no going back. We can never ‘try again’ because any such attempt will be compromised from the outset. Her trust in me will be damaged and the foundations of any new relationship will always be quicksand. At the slightest sign of trouble we’d be starting all over again. Neither of us would deserve such a relationship.
I phone Busty Blonde and, as gently as I know how, let her know that we had come to an end. I was expecting tears and drama, but her response exceeded what I had expected. It all came as a shocking surprise to her. Towards the end of the hour-long conversation I have a lump in my throat and I’m fighting back the tears. I know I’ve hurt her.
We say goodbye one last time and a solitary tear traces my jawline before dropping into my lap. She must be crying her beautiful blue eyes out.
And so an innocent love lay mortally wounded, slowly bleeding to death at my hand, destined to never recover. Have I committed a crime against love? Probably.
Over the next few days Busty Blonde sent me the following text messages:
“I just can’t understand why you would do this. It seemed so good. What did I do? Why don’t you care?”
“I feel sick and empty. You broke my heart and took my happiness.”
“I still can’t quite believe I’m never going to see you again. It hurts.”
I slow down the speed of my responses and give her time to talk to other people as women are prone to doing. By comparison men withdraw into their man-cave, hiding from any sense of vulnerability until they feel it’s safe to come out and face the world again. By the following Monday she seems to have accepted my decision because the text messages stopped coming.
I don’t like hurting women, especially one as good and decent as Busty Blonde. She doesn’t deserve the pain that I have inflicted on her and I feel ashamed of my conduct. I should never have let matters get as far as they did.
I wrote earlier that I have two regrets in my life. The first was quarrelling with my father the night before he died and not reconciling. This is my second: not breaking it off with Busty Blonde sooner. That’s how bad I feel about this episode.
My personal weakness is gut-wrenchingly disappointing to me. I am capable of far better treatment of others and will endeavour to do so. However, I might never shake off the sense of shame that I carry with me that gets triggered whenever I think of Busty Blonde or something I see or hear that reminds me of her.
I am surprised by her not in the slightest seeing this coming. I’m not trying to blame her, but didn’t certain things strike her as being odd? Didn’t she think it strange that she had not met any of my friends? Didn’t she wonder why I was never making long-term plans with her? When I declined to go away on holiday with her, did that not make her stop and think about things? Did nothing make her think ‘Darling, are you going to leave me?’
Man in love
I think our relationship was a far better experience for her than for me. She got to fall in love and have a good time in doing so. I think it commendable that she still has the capability to do that. I’m starting to wonder if I have it in me to fall in love again.
LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Age is a complicated thing and it doesn’t become easier to resolve as we progress through life. I definitely want to be with someone younger than me. 2) I need to be in awe of the woman in my life. Never for a moment do I want to wonder if I can do better. 3) Physical attraction just has to be there for me. I’ve heard it countless times that it’s the person who matters, but for me that ‘hmm-yes, anywhere, anytime’ feeling has to exist. 4) If I have my doubts, then there is no doubt. Small imperfections at the outset of a relationship easily grow in stature and take centre-stage in proceedings. 5) Love is a matter of the heart, an irresistible response, not a logical choice of what seems perfect on paper.
For a couple of weeks after breaking up with Busty Blonde I felt pretty low about myself. There was bitter taste in my mouth that wouldn’t go away. I didn’t look at a dating profile for over a week, which is some kind of record for me. I was wrapped up in a feeling of mourning that felt like a soiled riding cape, hardened in places by mud, shabby and unsightly.
Eventually I realized that I have no choice but to shake off this feeling, to keep going, to keep looking, to keep sending off approach emails that go unanswered, to keep believing that The One is out there. Somewhere out there She’s waiting for me; it just has to be so. My quest must go on, largely because failure is not an option. I feel that a life without love is not a life worth living.
I’ve now dated 45 women in the last two years. I don’t care if I have to date another 45 before I find Her.
There was no way that I could have known then that I was about to embark on what I now think of as my time of Fire and Ice.
Four months have gone by with Busty Blonde and love has not materialized. I had high hopes that with patience and each of us being who we are that love would put in an appearance. It hasn’t and I don’t think it’s going to. The fault lies on my side.
She is everything I need, but not everything that I want. I’ve been writing about Baltic Babe and remember how I felt about her, how excited I was to be seeing her. That’s how it should be. I just don’t feel that way about Busty Blonde and I don’t think I ever will. I keep asking myself “why?” and the answer is the same: the magic, the chemistry, just isn’t there. The chemistry between us is more like being with a really good friend, not The One.
I find it sad that mundane things like making coffee for us are exactly that – mundane. If it was with Baltic Babe or Krazy Gal, the simplest of things would take on an other-worldly significance, so bewitched by them I was. I fear that I am making a fool of Busty Blonde. She seems so happy and content with me, but if she knew how little I felt for her by comparison, her legs would give way under her and she would collapse in a heap on my carpet and start sobbing.
I’m feeling very bad about this situation because I know that Busty Blonde has done nothing wrong, but I have to end it with her. Busty Blonde knows about my blog and has asked me not to write about her. I have said that I’ll keep any references to her to an absolute minimum. It’s the least I can do for her. Thus I’m only mentioning a few things that are relevant to my quest and lessons learned along this uncertain route.
Busty Blonde being made redundant has hit her hard and I’ve been hoping and waiting for her to find a new job, but this has been long in coming too. I now find myself playing the role of an emotional crutch at a time when she feels low about herself. Sitting at home alone during weekdays has slowly eroded her self-confidence. If I dump her now there’s no telling the damage I’ll do. I’m fully aware that the longer I take to leave her be, the worse it’ll be when I inevitably do so, but I’m counting on a feel-good factor from her getting a new job.
From a selfish perspective Busty Blonde has restored my faith in women significantly. Without her knowing it she halted my plummet into losing all respect for women because of what I had experienced through online dating. She is one of the most decent, honourable, respectable people I have encountered in my life. I know that I’m going to have the opposite effect on her in that she’ll be shell-shocked for a long time and might never trust another man. I fear that I might have damaged or ruined someone remarkable. I’m ashamed of that.
The dating cycle.
How did I let this happen? What was the build-up to this disastrous situation? What can I learn so that I don’t do it again? We make the same mistakes in life until we take the time to learn from them.
Friends-with-benefits was toxic for me. It addled my brain with a distorted view of reality. I was wearing pussy-vision while high on a cocktail of meaningless sex, never-ending blowjobs, frustration and revenge. The latter is supposedly a dish best served cold, but for me it was red-hot (videoing a woman masturbating with a champagne bottle is emblazoned in my psyche for life now). Anal-izing women who wanted it blew my mind. I was running the risk of becoming addicted to the sexcapades and hi-jinks that online dating effortlessly led to. Double-, triple- and quadruple-dating was remarkably easy when stringing along unsuspecting innocents, but what did it say about me? I was turning into a selfish player – a monster – and opting to commit to Busty Blonde brought me to my senses.
The feeling of permanence that came with seeing Busty Blonde, fleeting as it was, felt like an emotional exhale. I became a bit of my old self again and am able to see just how far off my path of nobility and decency I have strayed. Do I miss the adrenaline rush of discovering a new lover’s sexual preferences? Yes. Do I miss the high drama of that first date? Only a little bit. Do I have a burning desire to go internet dating again? No. Do I still want to find The One? Absolutely.
How best to proceed?
I’m wanting to keep my options open with Busty Blonde. Love might finally materialize, but on the assumption that it’s unlikely to, it’s in my interest to see if there’s anyone else who might be The One.
Yes, I’m being chicken-shit and not ending it with her immediately. Not yet at least.
I’ve given myself a deadline of 1st June at which point, if I’m not in love with her, I’ll say goodbye as best and as compassionately as I know how. Heaven knows I’ve had enough experience at letting women down. In those six weeks I dearly hope that Busty Blonde finds a job. If she does before that date then a week later I’ll do the hard but right thing.
What I can’t figure out just yet: is my heart hard or is my heart weak?
I’ve reactivated my OKCupid profile just to see who’s joined the dating circus since last year and there is a stand-out profile. I find it almost impossible to not make contact…oh, and look, there’s a cute South African on MatchAffinty who has written to me too…
LESSONS LEARNED: 1) I have to get it in my head that getting involved with the wrong person can never turn out right. 2) If the chemistry isn’t there on the first date, it’s unlikely to arrive later. 3) I have to be more selective in who I go on dates with 4) I want a relationship more than I want to fuck around.