Tag Archives: second date

Date of Destiny a.k.a. The hot date

On Sunday I drive for what seems like an eternity to get to Cambridge to see The Artist. I arrive after lunch and I get to meet her friends whom I instantly like. We get in my car which she makes approving sounds about while I’m struck by how natural it feels to be with her. It doesn’t take long for the chemistry between us to be almost touchable. I’m pretty sure that we like the look of each other, but there’s a definite meeting of minds as well.

The Artist has her hair down today and she looks lovely. I even tell her so and my words seem to lift her up. I find us parking in a multi-story car park in the centre of Cambridge and there is little drama involved. I can’t help but think how with my Exgf this mundane activity could lead to an argument. Outside we instantly hold hands and it feels good to me. I think she’s a instinctive hand-holder too.

Walking and talking with The Artist feels perfect. We feed off each other’s input and the last time I had this happen was with Baltic Babe. Through the confused streets of the academic district of Cambridge we walk, but I don’t think either of us notice a thing really; we only have eyes and ears for each other. We could be anywhere, it didn’t matter, we are engrossed in each other, lost in each other.

After a while I have a strange feeling inside me, like I’m in free-fall, but I know I’m not, it’s just a strange sensation that feels good. We can’t stop holding hands and I’m pleased that it feels like a totally natural fit the way our hands and fingers entwine. I can’t help but stop occasionally and kiss her. Each time it feels like it is our first ever kiss, it’s that good and exciting for me. Her smile tells me that she likes it too.

We wander aimlessly, just enjoying doing this together. This is what I want, this is what I have been missing, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

We stop in at a museum that The Artist visits regularly as part of her work. She needs to use the ladies and upon her return says to me the words I was hoping to hear. “Come, I want to show you my favourite things.” It tells me that she wants to share her world with me and is not afraid of rejection. It could also be her testing me, but I don’t think that that is her style of doing things.

It doesn’t take long before we’re standing in front of an exhibit and I watch in awe as The Artist comes into her own before me. She starts telling me about the technique of producing what we’re looking at, explains the variations and the history of these derivations. I listen politely as she speaks, not daring to interrupt her, but marvelling at her obvious passion for what she is talking about. It’s a beautiful moment that I will treasure forever more.

After a while we move along, making our way to the exit when I spot something that presents an opportunity to show her my cultural side, to display my knowledge of history which I think gives her some kind of brain-erection. She seems suitably impressed and interested in what I have to tell her too. We are definitely an intellectual match; that’s worth a lot in any relationship.

Dusk approaches and we become hungry, so we walk back to a pub that The Artist liked the look of. Sitting comfortably at a table for two, it’s a perfect romantic setting. Conversation is still flowing like a river of sweet nectar and we can’t get enough of each other. As the meal progresses it becomes dark outside, the restaurant dims the lights and staff put candles on the tables. She even looks beautiful by candlelight.

We hold hands across the table and I decide it’s the perfect time to find out conclusively just how compatible we are. I walk her through the Magical Forest scene and at the waterfall scene she jumps straight in. Perfect; same as me. With the wolf she stood her ground, while the house she first went in then ate what she wanted. That again is very similar to me in that she doesn’t run away from her problems (I attack) and she has a zest for life, just like me. I realize that her answers are the most similar to mine that anyone has ever given me in the almost thirty years I’ve asked these questions. Inwardly I go ice-cold while my heart goes warm; could she be The One? It looks and feels like it.

I want to tell her something nice, feeling cute, I beckon to her to come closer. She thinks I want to kiss her and she smiles. The Artist innocently leans across the table towards me. I smile to myself.

Ka-woosh!

Her hair catches alight!

There’s a football-sized yellow fireball on one side of her head and it’s about to spread to her face!

The strands from one side of her tresses has fallen onto the candle in the middle of the table. She must have used hairspray on herself for our date. Before she realizes it I’m swatting her hair with my hands as the fire is slowly spreading. Luckily I’m quick about it and douse it just as she realizes from my actions, the sound and pungent smell what is happening to her.

The Artist jumps up and runs off to the ladies. I look around the restaurant to see everyone there looking at us. The waiting staff are all rooted to their spots next to the tables they’re attending to, their jaws hanging open. The patrons all have eyes like golf balls. There’s not a sound to be heard. I think bubbles in champagne flutes stopped moving too. I look away and sounds of normal life return as voices murmur, cutlery clinks and bubbles flow again.

I think that this date will end here when The Artist returns to the table. She’ll probably ask me to take her to the train station. The embarrassment might be too much for her and I might never see her again. Damn.

When I set off this morning to fetch her, I had thought of this being a hot date; this is not what I had in mind.

The Artist returns and gives me the sweetest smile. Her hair seems fine, amazingly no trace of damage. There’s just an awful smell in the air, like that of grilled excrement but we try to ignore it as we resume our conversation. To my surprise she has regained her composure and continues like nothing has happened.

I was expecting the worst, but she is obviously intent on still being with me. I know for sure now that she wants me. Any other woman would have wanted to go home, but not The Artist, no she wants to keep going. My sense of relief is followed by a sense of comforting satisfaction. I think I’ve finally found The One.

After another hour of easy conversation I ask her opinion about Californication and she hasn’t even heard of it. I wonder what she’ll make of it? I have so many questions that I crave the answer to and I suspect that she does too.

The meal ends, but we don’t want the night to end. A moonlit stroll around the deserted historied streets of Cambridge seems a good idea – it might rid us of that awful smell from her hair – but after a while it becomes too chilly for her. I need a plan and quickly too otherwise this date will peter out and before I know it we’ll be at the nearby train station. Think, dammit, think!

“I don’t suppose I can tempt you with the first few episodes of Californication back at my place?”

“That might be fun,” she says with a coy smile.

Daniel Bedingfield – If You’re Not The One

So excited

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’m battling to not come across as too keen too.

Pointer Sisters – I’m so excited

Disastrous second date

I remembered The Finn telling me on our first date that her favourite cuisine is Turkish, so I did research on the web and found the best Turkish restaurant in North London. I make a booking for the next night and in the evening talk to The Finn about my plan. Unfortunately she had already been to that restaurant, but I wasn’t going to make another booking elsewhere.

On the day I get there very early and kill time in a nearby busy coffee shop. Two young women are at the table next to mine. One of them, a pretty brunette, keeps looking at me. I find that flattering but I do nothing about it. I don’t think I’ll ever have so-called ‘day game’ whereby I chat up a stranger whom I find attractive. In the recesses of my brain I keep telling myself that there’s a 95% probability that she will want children. I’d be wasting my time. I ignore her flirtatious glances and coy smiles. In the past two years I’ve had this happen several times and each time I rebuff the unsolicited attention. My friends think I’m crazy for ignoring these opportunities, but I know what’s good for me. Well, I like to think so. What intrigues me is how women know that I’m single.

I meet The Finn at a nearby train station and my initial reaction upon seeing her again is positive. She is the prettiest woman I’ve seen all day. The sight of her makes my blood flow faster. I kiss her hello on each cheek which makes her almost blush, then I lead us to the restaurant.

Conversation doesn’t flow easily and naturally. On second dates you find out a lot more about a person. Well I did. She never asked a single question about me again, which made me think that she isn’t taking me seriously as boyfriend material.

A far greater issue is that it’s becoming apparent to me that, besides a mutual physical attraction, we have very little in common. For example, I asked, “So what’s your favourite kind of movie?”

“I don’t watch much television or movies. I definitely don’t watch horror films.”

“Okay, so what’s the last music concert you went to?”

After much thought she answered, “My last concert was a Nordic music festival.”

“I see. I was meaning mainstream pop music.”

After more thought and an uncomfortable silence she answered, “I can’t remember.”

“Okay, not a problem.”

I’m trying to come across as making polite small-talk, but inside I’m becoming alarmed at her seemingly having little cultural pursuits and what she is into is nothing like mine. I’m trying to not make the date sound like an interrogation, but her answers or lack thereof was making it so. Nevertheless I persevere.

“What kind of books do you read?”

“I definitely don’t read horror stories.”

Silence.

What’s a guy to do?

For the rest of the evening it felt like I was pushing an elephant up a mountain. Conversation was as dry as the Atacama Desert. Her impenetrable answers give me no idea about whether she’s a Taker or a Giver, but quite honestly, I now don’t care because she’s become boring to me. What chemistry there was is fading.

I decide to stop asking questions and let her deal with the awkward silences. It’s an old dating tactic of mine to not break the silence, to let the other person speak their mind as it reveals much. She would do so every time by starting to talk about her favourite pastime of hiking. I hate hiking.

By the time the meal ends I have come to the conclusion that we have very little in common. Our interests and pursuits are worlds apart. The question is: Do I take this as an opportunity to broaden my horizons or do I decide that we have little basis for a relationship? This was to play on my mind.

Neither of us feel like dessert as the Turkish meal we had just shared was sublime. We chose to settle the bill, which I paid despite her offering to pay her half. I sometimes wish I wasn’t such an old-fashioned gentleman, but letting the woman pay even half would spoil the experience for me.

It’s a balmy Summer’s evening and a very pleasant temperature, so we decide to go for a walk along the high street where there are many boutiques, restaurants and pubs. She seemed to have eaten at every second restaurant that we passed, which surprised me because of how skinny she was. Then I remember that she confessed to having been on many dates.

As we walked past an old-fashioned butcher, she asks me, “Do you like venison?”

“Absolutely. I like all sorts of exotic meats. How about you?”

“Yes, me too. Growing up in Finland we’d have elk after the Summer hunting season.”

“Well, my town has a monthly farmer’s market where there is a butcher who sells all sorts of meats. Would you like to visit it sometime?” I asked, hoping for an enthusiastic response which would indicate to me that she was open to growing a relationship with me.

Instead I get a stony silence.

I now got the impression that she isn’t that interested in me. After all, if the person you were interested in invited you to visit their town with an implied visit to their home, you would jump at the opportunity, right? I feel down-hearted and somewhat confused by her inaction that borders on rejection.

It was now getting late so I escort her to the nearest Tube station. In that time I decide to test her by trying to kiss her. You can tell a lot from a kiss. Maybe this will be a catalyst between us and a relationship will spark into life? We approach an escalator and I stretch my strides so that I can stand in front of her. Was it going to be like the first kiss with Baltic Babe?

I turn around and face her, a naughty smile on my face. She smiles too and I think she suspects what I was up to. I lean forward to kiss her, but don’t go all the way in, choosing instead to hold back just a little bit, waiting to see if she comes in to kiss me too. After all, I don’t want to force myself on her and I was looking for an indication of interest and attraction. If she doesn’t come in for the kiss, then I would know that I was wasting my time and for sure wouldn’t be seeing her again.

The Finn puts a dainty hand deftly on my shoulder and leans forward to kiss me. Her lips are so fine that I can barely feel them. Our lips are badly mismatched and the kiss is unappetising; a big disappointment. It is my worst first kiss ever.

Instead of the date ending on a high, it was a deflated feeling. I got an answer about the level of attraction that she felt for me, i.e. minimal. I have also never encountered such a bad kisser before. I’m learning that a bad kisser gives bad blowjobs.

I wait with her on the platform until her train arrives. Conversation is stilted. She hops on board without any hint of wanting another kiss. We smile politely and I give a perfunctory wave goodbye as the train pulls off. A part of me suspects that I might never see her lovely face again.

Fuckit, I'm going home.

Fuckit, I’m going home.

By the time I get home I’ve decided that she isn’t right for me. Despite a promising first date, this second encounter was a big let down because it became obvious that we have very little in common. Our interests are too divergent and I can’t see a basis for a relationship other than what, at best, seemed like a mutual physical attraction. If all I wanted was easy sex then I’d spend more time on her, letting matters meander to the bedroom…or my sofa after watching Californication. She is beautiful and seducing her would no doubt be a sweet experience. That’s not what I want.

I’ve learned that first dates are about pleasantries and formalities; everyone is on best behaviour. On a second date you find out if you really have anything to talk about. By the end of the third date you know if you want to keep talking. With The Finn I know that I don’t want to keep talking and it’s only been date two.

The young White Knight me would have tried to see where things could lead with the Finn, but I have enough experience, knowledge and, crucially, understanding to know that I would be trying to make love out of nothing at all. That would be foolish and I’m not that fool any more. The me that I have become, this older Grey Knight, knows what needs to be done next.

The Finn was going away for the weekend to Finland for a wedding and returned on the Monday night. That night I sent her the following message:

I’ve spent a lot of time over the weekend thinking of you.

I’m sorry to say, but I have come to the conclusion that I do not believe that we are right for each other.

We just don’t have enough common interests that we can enjoy together. I have optimistically thought that we can introduce each other to new things and broaden horizons together. However, I realistically know that that is not likely to be the case. At this stage of life we are all set in our ways to a large extent and our interests are fixed.

I hope you understand, and perhaps even agree?

You are a remarkable woman and have much to offer – and deserve much in return.

I wish you all the best in your search.

Her response arrived a few hours later:

Thank you for emailing me your thoughts rather than becoming uncontactable. 

I know what you mean by perhaps not having enough similar interests. Although we didn’t really have a chance to find out if something you like could develop an interest in me or vice versa, which has left me slightly disappointed.

Anyway, meeting you has given me hope that there are decent men out there! You are a lovely guy and I really enjoyed your company and our chats.

Good luck with your future dates. 
All the best,

This experience felt cold, icy even. This was my time of Ice. Fire was next, but I didn’t know this.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) A profile’s words has to invoke a sense of “wow – I want to meet her”, not be just a few pretty pictures. 2) Don’t get your hopes up until after the first kiss. 3) Physical attraction is more common than a cerebral connection.

Air Supply – Making love out of nothing at all

Second date with The Saffa

I feel like such a treacherous bastard for having anything to do with The Saffa. Busty Blonde is blissfully ignorant of what is coming her way when I break up with her, but I find myself already going on a second date with someone else. Who and what have I become? I’m not sure any more.

I’m seeing the Saffa again because when we had our first date I had a bad cold; I wasn’t myself. People spark off each other, especially on a first date and I wasn’t on top form. I might be missing an opportunity with The Saffa. I owe it to myself and her to give it another go. There might be better chemistry the second time around.

It’s a Friday as I drive to the blot on the landscape where The Saffa is still at her friend’s stone cottage. I get a kiss hello full on the lips which makes me smile. Her eyes are on fire as she looks at me. She seems pleased to see me, but is she wanting more? That’s what strikes me as she collects her things while asking if we could go have lunch in a nearby town. I agree because I’m not keen to sit chatting in the cottage. She might be frisky, but I don’t want to lower myself into cheating physically on Busty Blonde on top of everything else. Yes, I’d like to fuck The Saffa, that physical attraction is there, but not today.

The Saffa needed to return something at a department store and after that we found a restaurant overlooking a cricket pitch. All the time over lunch conversation is flowing, but it feels a little stilted. She seems to be on her guard which I ignore for fear of wanting to exacerbate her attitude. I’m just me, not only in a hope to put her at ease, but largely because it is so much easier for me. There’s obviously something going on inside her head today. I won’t ask; I’ll let it play out.

By the time we finish dessert I realize that not once had I felt that thunderbolt moment. You might know that moment, the one in which you think and feel that the person before you is The One for you? There is a palpable lack of chemistry between us. Talking about mutual friends and identical favourite places where we hung out but never met only counts for so much. How we would work as a couple was foremost on my mind and I wasn’t seeing cause for optimism. We have strong characters each and can both be stubborn. I can foresee many splendid fights and much drama in a relationship with her. By the end of our lunch I come to the conclusion that she isn’t right for me and that I won’t be seeing her again.

Aside from the lack of chemistry there is something about her that was starting to bother me. She is tactless. I don’t mind direct, but speaking without thinking was her manner and she can easily give offence. An example of this is her saying to me as we finish dessert, “So where’s this athletic, toned body that you selected as your body type on the dating website?”

For a man of my age I’m in very good condition. I don’t look my age, with virtually no wrinkles around my eyes, not balding and I’m not sporting a beer belly. I go to the gym several times a week and think seriously about what I eat. I don’t want to end up in an early grave like my father did. Her words seem inappropriate and somewhat insulting.

My ex-girlfriend was tactless and often embarrassed me and herself in public. It was one of several negative factors that weighed heavily in that relationship and I so badly never want to be with someone like that again. I think that most men, myself included, want a woman to be the perfect lady in public, but a complete slut in private.

The Saffa’s words are laughable too because she is carrying several pounds excess weight. When last has she looked in a mirror? If I slapped her backside, it wouldn’t wobble, it would slap me back.

We walk around a market and visit some clothes shops. I like to watch a woman engaging in retail therapy because it gives me a clear idea about how she goes about making decisions. The Saffa seems given to making spontaneous, ill-considered decisions that she needs someone else’s approval for. I can just see how her and I would squabble over money. She has an irresponsible streak to her. I don’t want to live in a home littered with crap.

As we walk and talk I let her initiate the topics of conversation. I’ve learned that doing so will tell me much about what troubles and motivates a woman. What are her concerns and what she wants are clearly on show if a man just shuts up and listens carefully.

The Saffa has still not made her peace with the boyfriend who died. After bouts of banter when all other topics are exhausted, this is what she comes back to every time. I feel sad for her because of that. Could she love me, no matter what? I don’t think so. She has too much damage from her past that she either can’t shake off or won’t let go of. Her world is all about her and her broken heart.

I’m not looking for a project; someone to rehabilitate. I’m looking for the finished article, someone emotionally healthy, not someone beaten down by life’s inevitable setbacks. I also can’t decide if she’s a Giver or a Taker, so I’m learning that when undecided to not make any assumptions. However, this last point doesn’t matter because I’ve seen too many red flags.

I drive her back to the cottage where I say my goodbye after a few minutes of banter. I get the impression that she wanted me to stay longer, but I’m taking no chances. I’m not going to let myself become embroiled in a situation that would be bad for me.

It is only when I’m driving home that I revisit her insulting words: “So where’s this athletic, toned body that you selected as your body type on the dating website?” Was she hinting that she wanted to get physical with me? Yes, I think that she was. I misunderstood her, but I’m glad I did. Would I have resisted the temptation to fuck her? I’m not totally sure. I do find her attractive and smacking her backside while pulling her hair as I shag her doggy-style would be good fun.

Pull my hair!

Pull my hair!

Later that night I send The Saffa a message on Facebook. I tell her that she’s great, but not the The One for me. I lavish compliments down on her because she deserves her own happiness and, in case she was getting her hopes up about me, I tell her that we can still keep in touch but only as friends. I don’t think that the latter will happen; it’s just a platitude. She responds promptly and claims to be of the same opinion.

I feel relieved. I don’t enjoy hurting anyone and I like to think I’m getting better at removing myself from their scene.

I now need to focus on extricating myself from the doomed relationship with Busty Blonde.

I’m fully aware that she too is going to be suffering from a broken heart. I just hope that she isn’t damaged for life because of me.

A part of me wonders about the state of my own heart. After all these dates and things not working out with Busty Blonde, am I the one with the broken heart?

Rixton – Me and my broken heart

Travel Gal surprises

It’s a few days after Christmas and Travel Gal is passing my town on the way back from visiting family so she offers to visit me. At first I’m not too keen on the idea because I don’t want her seeing my place so soon. In the past other women’s opinions and behaviour has changed for the worse. As we speak about it on the phone I’m unable to think of a good enough reason to put her off so I agree to her visit. Only after we say goodbye does it dawn on me that she’ll also be arriving with her dog who is always by her side. My place is neither pet- nor child-friendly, but what can I do?

It’s a cold, dreary Sunday when Travel Gal arrives at my apartment complex. I go down to meet her in the car park where we I kiss her hello on the cheek. She seems happy to see me but has other matters on her mind.

“I don’t suppose your place has space for a dog?” she asks, gesturing towards her companion who is sitting imperiously, staring at us with impatient eyes.

“Of course there’s space. Let’s go up,” I say while hiding my reservations.

I couldn’t say that he stay in the car all day while it’s so cold. Maltreatment of animals is something that gets me angry very quickly. There’s never been an animal in my apartment so this could get interesting. Just how interesting the rest of the day will be I don’t know. I’ve not really come up with a plan or objective for this date other than to cook for her, make small talk, get to know her better, perhaps take the dog for a walk if it isn’t raining or snowing and, if it seems appropriate, introduce her to Californication.

The black lab strides into my apartment, sniffs a round for a few seconds and throws himself down under a coffee table and goes to sleep. That was easy and Travel Gal relaxes too. I take her leather coat and hat and stow them away where Krazy Girl liked to keep her stuff.

The lunch I make for her is essentially the same collection of exotic meats that I’ve made for other women, but she’s had it all before courtesy of her job. Nevertheless she enjoys it and I’ve learned that almost all women are impressed by a man who can cook. We finish off a bottle of chenin blanc over lunch and I realise that she’s not intending leaving any time soon because she’s had too much to legally drive.

After a dessert of butterscotch pudding Travel Gal suggests that we go for a walk, which I take to mean that her dog needs exercise too. We wander around my town and it’s such a grim day that we don’t see anybody. The dog does his business in the nearest park and it’s only as we’re leaving that I spot a sign saying that owners have to clean up after their pets. I say nothing and hurry us along.

As we walk and talk about her familiarisation trip of recent weeks I notice her wrinkles less and less. Her way of speaking that initially grated has bothered me less too as the day has progressed. More than anything I see her cheery smile and mesmerising blue eyes. Her jeans and thick woolly jumper hint at a good body that was hidden on our first date. Do I find her physically attractive? Yes. Can I imagine myself having sex with her? Yes.

Back at my place the pooch resumes his place and, not knowing what I should do next, I resort to putting Californication on. Pretty much like any other woman who has sat by my side watching the first two episodes Travel Gal is amused and can’t stop smiling. Okay, so she has a naughty sense of humour; that’s good.

Normally at this point I would make my move; the seduction would begin. Within minutes a woman would be naked on my sofa while I would be fully clothed. Today, however, I’m in no hurry. I want to take things a little slower with women. The fury in my loins has led me into trouble at times.

I offer to make Travel Gal a coffee, which she accepts and I go to the kitchen. After switching the kettle on I turn to talk to her, thinking her to still be in the lounge, but she’s followed me and is standing in the kitchen. She leaning back against a wall, her hands behind her back and acting as support for her backside. Her one foot is propped against the skirting board and her breasts are pushed out towards me. She’s smiling at me. Fuck, that’s a sexy pose.

Her eyes are saying “come hither” and I decide that a little kiss can’t hurt. I’ll give her one of my soft, gentle kisses and see what effect that has on her. Without a word I walk over to her, keeping my eyes on hers, I place my hands on her hips. She says nothing and just keeps smiling at me. I slide my hands behind her hips and hold her wrists. I lean slightly forward, deliberately stopping short of her mouth, wanting and waiting for her to come that little bit towards me, which she does.

Our lips touch and Travel Gal makes a sound of approval. Has she been looking forward to this? I read somewhere that most women love being forced up against a wall and then having a man lean his weight against her. I’ve never really thought about that and here’s the perfect opportunity to see if it’s true, albeit with a sample of one.

Travel Gal pushes her tongue into my mouth and in that moment I’m taken back to when I was seventeen years old and my high school sweetheart was the first girl to French kiss me. Back then it was such a shock that I lost my balance, toppled us over into a seat and I stubbed a fingernail that turned black the next day. Today I don’t have that reaction any more; it might be something of a passion-killer if I did. Now I accept it as something that almost all women like to do when kissing. They generally don’t seem to like it if a guy does it first, but if they do it first then it’s a turn-on for them. I’ve learned to not initiate and to only reciprocate once they’ve started doing that. It seems to me that a woman will only do so once she’s getting turned on.

So now Travel Gal is turned on. What do I do? Stop matters as tactfully as I can before she’s naked and spreading her legs for me on my sofa? My other dating experiences have taught me that when a woman wants a man to take her and he doesn’t do so, his chance is pretty much lost because she won’t risk being rejected a second time.

I’ve read enough profiles on OKCupid to have arrived at a conclusion about when the time is right for a couple to get physical. It appears that 90% of women want to get intimate within three to six dates with a guy. I was astonished when I realized this and went reading profiles just for the sake of verifying the answer to the question that indicates this. It’s a skewed distribution curve and there are equal outliers who expect it sooner as there are women who want to wait longer. This falls under ‘Another Myth About Women Destroyed’, in that the chaste virgin is a rarity and the truth is that women are more eager sexual beings than most men have been brought up to believe.

One kiss leads to another and I decide to let my hands do the wandering. Travel Gal maintains her pose against the wall as I glide a hand over her body. It’s a surprise to me to feel that she has large breasts, something her clothing has kept well hidden. Naughtily I slide my hand between her legs, deliberately touching her vagina and she lets off a gasp of pleasure. I think she’s ready to fuck; no turning back now.

I force my hand under her jumper and blouse, push it up towards her breasts where I grip a pleasant mound of mammary while we continue to kiss. Squeezing her breast leads to her giving off a little giggle which I take as a sign that she’s not going to resist me in any way. My hand finds her bra clasp and I loosen it with a single movement, a trick I’ve learned in the past year. I return my hand to the nearest breast and she lets off an ‘ughh’ sound as my warm hand takes hold of a cold breast. Damn, these are a nice surprise. I want to see them now.

To be continued…

Second date shenanigans

We kissed wonderfully for a few minutes outside her apartment before saying goodnight. It had been a marathon first date, almost half a day and I wasn’t expecting to be invited into her home. I think we both knew the potential for danger if that happened. Then an idea came to me, a desperate one in a critical light, a romantic one in another.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to come to my place tomorrow? There’s a farmer’s market on and we can buy stuff, then I’ll cook for you,” I ask.

I know it’s only our first date, but I had a good time and I have a good feeling about her. Every other woman I’ve suggested cooking for has jumped at the offer. If she’s not into me then she’ll make an excuse, but if she does…

“I’d love that!” she gushes.

It’s now approaching eleven o’clock in the morning and Pretty Teacher is about to arrive at my apartment complex. I’m excited like a little boy on Christmas Eve. Could this be who I’ve been waiting for?

I hear a car screech to a stop outside and from her driving yesterday, I just know that it’s Pretty Teacher. I go down to meet her and we kiss each other hello politely. Her eyes are blazing at me and I take a moment to take in the sight that is her; she’s gorgeous. I usher her towards the town centre where a street has been cordoned off and all sorts of fresh fruit, vegetables and meats are being sold by genuine farmers. It’s a convivial spectacle that can please even the most moribund of heart. I’ve learned that a positive, lively setting for a date sets a good tone for the date to progress from.

We walk around the market, taking in the sights, sounds and smells before buying fresh vegetables and meats that I cook once we get back to my place. While I’m in the kitchen I hear her phone burp and I sneak a peek of her in action, playing online scrabble with friends, no doubt. Even while we eat lunch she just has to grab her phone and with a slight tilt of my head I can see that it’s scrabble she’s playing. At some point I’m going to have to have a word with her about this because it’s just gone from a nuisance to disrespectful.

Pretty Teacher’s demeanour towards me hasn’t changed since she first saw my home, so I guess unlike some women she is not adversely affected by it. That’s a major test passed, so she must be interested in me. Then again, I haven’t seen her place yet.

I introduce her to Californication which she is enthralled by. She definitely has a naughty side to her. I’ve now lost count of the number of women who have sit by my side and watched this with me, those same first few episodes which often led to some fucking on the sofa. I have no intention of seducing Pretty Teacher today; I want us to take our time about it and for our first time to be magical.

The afternoon fades into evening while we chortle at outrageous scenes in Californication. I make us an impromptu dinner and I muse to myself that it feels like this is another marathon date. It feels like she doesn’t want to go home. After dinner we lie slouched on the sofa, her with phone in hand, playing scrabble again. I’m now a little annoyed by this behaviour, her phone addiction, but try to make it known in a nice way.

“Any chance I can see what tears you away from me so frequently?” I ask with a smile. You can get away with a lot if you smile.

Pretty Teacher doesn’t flinch, seemingly oblivious to my hint and instead just shows me her phone. I see what’s going on on the screen and I spot something, a word I can suggest from the tiles she has available, but it’s a naughty one. Should I? What the hell.

“Naked,” I blurt out.

Pretty Teacher looks at the screen, nods, then smiles at me.

“Would you like to get naked?” I ask playfully, not being serious.

The look in her eye tells me that she’s taking me seriously. Her mischievous smile tells me she’d like that.

Shit, I wasn’t expecting this. Should we? I think it’s too soon. Now I’ve opened a Pandora’s Box with this stupid suggestion. If I don’t try to seduce her now she’ll think all sorts of negative things, such as I don’t fancy her or I’m not man enough for her. I have to follow through now. The time for words is over.

I’ll give her something to be ad-dick-ted to…

I gently take the phone out of her hand and place it on a side-table. Her eyes go wide, but she isn’t alarmed. I think she wants this, that’s why she hasn’t shown any sign of wanting to leave. We start kissing, slowly and I realize that this is the first time we have kissed since last night. I take my time kissing her because I’ve learned that doing so certainly gets a woman’s sexual motor running. There’s something about kissing that turns women on, but for me it does very little. All that it does is buy me time to think about what to do next.

Piece by piece I undress her while sporadically kissing her. It isn’t long before she’s naked on my sofa while I’m still fully clothed; just the way I like it. She has a perfect skin, very little body fat, but her breasts are a little small for my liking: distinctly a-cups. You can’t have it all and it’s not a show-stopper.

I kiss around her neck and throat which causes her to let off sounds of approval. Yes, she wants this. I wonder how long it’s been since she last fucked? Is she safe to fuck or do I have to use a condom? I hate those body-bags for my cock. I have some time to decide yet.

My lips work their way down her body, arriving at her legs. Pretty Teacher’s eyes are following my every move while her mouth hangs slightly open, letting off occasional breaths of air as my lips touch somewhere sensitive. I take my time as I kiss the inside of one leg and I can hear her breathing speeding up. She’s hoping I eat her out, no doubt. I’ll make her wait; that builds anticipation.

I have definitely caught Pretty Teacher by surprise with us doing this now. She hasn’t had a chance to go to the bathroom to ‘freshen up’ , that moment in a movie that I wasn’t always sure what a woman was doing but now know involved making her genitals smell and taste clean. Pretty Teacher has the hairiest bush that I’ve seen in a long time. Most women keep their lady garden better trimmed than her. Her minge is a very light brown…and it reeks of urine. I look at it momentarily, unsure about what to do because of the bad smell, then Pretty Teacher spreads her legs as wide as she can, inviting me to go down on her.

I swallow hard and do what is required, all in the interests of fairness and wanting to avoid an unnecessary altercation. After a couple of seconds my saliva has diluted the taste of urine that coats her fur, but the smell just won’t go away. No amount of licking and spitting made that smell vanish.

In an act of optimism I start fingering her tight pussy in the hope that her own juices would lend a new aroma to proceedings. After a couple of minutes of furious fingering her lubricant is starting to overwhelm the smell of piss. I find her g-spot and that opens a little floodgate somewhere because she becomes very juicy.

I look up at her to see that she has her hands raised next to her head, wrists pointed at me, her body limp except for the waist region. Her perfect blue eyes stare at me in astonishment. It’s a look I’m becoming familiar with and it’s when a woman has her g-spot stimulated for the first time. I don’t even need to ask any more, I just know. If I make her cum with her g-spot then she’s going to be addicted to me.

To be continued…

Interesting second date with Musician Gal

It was drizzling while I stood waiting outside the building where Musician Gal worked. It was 6pm and people were scurrying home, either carrying umbrellas or being fleet-footed, all with shoulders haunched, as if that would make any difference. I was excited about seeing Musician Gal again. Over the course of the day we had swapped text messages and had agreed to play the evening by ear, wandering where we felt like and doing what we felt like as the moment took us and the soggy weather allowed. I was looking forward to seeing how well we played together, having to suggest and then agree on something.

I’m also imbued with a sense of relief that Scots Lass, whom I’d met only hours earlier, was not The One. I had been curious about her, but now that she is as good as forgotten, I can focus on tonight’s date with Musician Gal. My thoughts are plagued though by Career Girl; what am I going to do about her? One woman at a time, I keep telling myself.

Musician Gal eventually came out of her building at 6.15, smartly dressed in a grey suit with colourful scarf. She was smiling and seemed pleased to see me. Once her frilly umbrella was opened, we huddled under it and she leaned on my arm. We walked towards the National Theatre on the Southbank, slowly carving our way through the rush-hour hordes – ‘the sheeple’ – as she called them. She had a bar in mind that she wanted to show me. It was part of the National Theatre building, but it was not obvious to find as only a nondescript office-door entrance led to it. Once inside it was a pleasant, modern venue, the atmosphere happily buzzing with theatre-goers having a meal and a drink before their show. We found a booth and waiter service promptly appeared. We ordered a cocktail for her and a cider for me. We sat side by side in the booth and settled in to making small talk. Our conversation was positive and upbeat. She was quite an excitable person and that was before our drinks arrived. I guess it was her ADHD on show.

A couple of elderly men came over to us and asked if they could share the booth with us as the place was full. I was enjoying having the booth to ourselves so that we could hear each other. I wanted to keep it that way and in an instant decided to dismiss their request politely but firmly. Before I could say a word Musician Gal took charge of the situation and shooed them away with little ceremony, which they did not appreciate, given their mutterings. Musician Gal was an alpha female, but this didn’t bother me. Being with women who are timid and weak gets to be a drag very quickly if I’m having to initiate, organise, say and do every little thing.

We were both getting hungry and the drinks had gone down easily. As we were leaving, it was obvious to me what the path to the exit was and I went that way. Musician Gal was convinced it was another way and she separated from me. I knew I was right and kept going the correct route and through a dividing glass panel I could see her reach a dead-end in the restaurant. I waited for her to catch up to me, musing over her being headstrong, wondering if this was a sign of trouble ahead. I knew that she had not seen enough of me to trust my judgement, so I thought nothing of it. Musician Gal caught up to me, making a pithy excuse about what had happened. I said nothing and we made our way out on to the Southbank with her leaning heavily on my arm, hobbling more than earlier.

Intent on finding somewhere good to eat, we investigated a few of the dining options available to us. The rush-hour crowds had disappeared and the rain had abated. It was getting dark and I was getting hungry. The obvious choice of restaurants to my mind was a prominent pizzeria. Someone (probably another date) had told me that they did good pizzas in there, so I was curious to find out. Musician Gal wasn’t satisfied with this and we milled about looking at other places, which annoyed my hunger pangs a bit. Eventually she agreed that the pizzeria was the best option so we ended up back there.

She went off to the ladies, I ordered us drinks and when she returned we chose and ordered our pizzas. After some small talk about food and wine (one of her favourite topics) we got down to some serious talking. She described to me how she wanted her future to be. In great detail she told me how she wanted to be married and living in a house in the countryside somewhere, anywhere, as long as it had a good sized garden, preferably with a stream as one of it’s boundaries. There would be a dog and a cat involved.

“I would like to spend my days baking, cooking, sewing, making hats and jewellery. In the evenings we would sit in a hammock and drink wine. I wouldn’t go off to work unless I wanted to,” she says to me.

This last stipulation made me wonder if she was looking for a man with money. Musician Gal was obviously in the mood for some brutal honesty and started telling me about her previous relationships. This involved no prompting on my part and I was pleased by this unsolicited display of honesty. I took it to mean that she was taking me seriously and was wanting to lay her cards on the table.

She recounted a plethora of relationships and flings, all of which seemed very short-lived, but I made no comment on this for fear of seeming judgemental, so I just listened. Her longest relationship had lasted 5 years, which seems to be the norm nowadays. My last relationship had lasted that long too.

Of all the details she provided, the following story typifies what she told me. She met a colonel in the army. They saw each other for 6 months, but did not have sex in that time. He was posted to Afghanistan for a brief period in that time, after which he took her away on holiday twice. Once was to Australia and Singapore, with the second being South Africa. They stayed in hotels together, slept in the same bed and did not once make love. She says that towards the end of their time together, he proposed to her, but she was not inclined to say yes. This wasn’t the only story she told me that involved “seeing” someone for many months, but never actually made love.

What the fuck? Who does that?! What was she playing at? I didn’t ask her to elaborate, largely because I was mildly stunned and confused by this behaviour trait. I couldn’t help but wonder if she would do that with me.

The conversation moved on to more mundane topics and we’re having fun again. Banter flows like a wild river and we make each other laugh. Before we knew it we were the last patrons in the restaurant and staff were loudly closing up. We left and entered a darkened London, the Thames air cool and few people about. I walked her to London Bridge Station and in it’s cavernous concourse we found a quiet corner where we kissed like teenagers. She made negative comments about my light stubble giving her a rash, but I laughed this off. We bade our farewells and went to our respective platforms.

On the train home I mulled over the events, confessions rather, of the evening. Her relationship style and history didn’t sit too well with me, but given my shenanigans of the past year, I couldn’t get judgemental. I appreciated her honesty. She seemed quite headstrong and I could see us having blazing fights. Nevertheless I still wanted to see more of her and get to know her. There was a serious prospect of a relationship with her and I was excited about that. Yes, I wanted to fuck her, dodgy knee and all. So doggy-style was out of the question. No big deal, lots of positions in my repertoire. There is no way that a normal man, let alone a man like me, would want to have a relationship with a woman that he did not find attractive. That lust factor just has to be there and with Musician Gal it’s there, along with that elusive electric chemistry.

When I got home she had sent me a text message which read:

Fabulous evening, handsome man. Hope you didn’t have too much of a trek home? I would love to be lying on your chest right now xxx

During the date we had made a plan to get together on the coming weekend. It was my town’s farmer’s market on the Sunday and I wanted to do my usual cooking-for-a-woman thing. Career Girl was away for work the coming weekend so I decided to speed things up and my text message read:

The market is only on on the Sunday. Naughty idea: I come and fetch you Saturday, saving your knee for a stroll. That night I make you a risotto. I introduce you to Californication, which you will want to watch all night. When tired you slump against me, my cue to carry you to bed. I wrap my arms around you to keep you safe and warm. We do not make love. In the morning we get to the market early and then I or we prepare what we bought. The weekend ends with me driving you home in my sports car…what you reckon? How does that sound?

Her response: “Super!!!! Xxx

I was totally sincere about not making love on our first night together. I can and have done that. I did, however, want to make love to her and was thinking it would be on the Sunday at some point. On the Thursday I sent her my “converter message”, the one that ramps up the sexual tension to breaking point for a woman, the one that ends “…I reckon you taste sweeter than you realize...”

I was blown away by her response which arrived 23 minutes later.

I’m looking forward to the hugs, lying in your strong embrace and feeling the power of your body which essentially does it for me; I love the power of man. Get it right and I’ll be putty in your hands. Ps warning: I am not a morning person. Meow! X

Snow Patrol – In My Arms