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Date #55 – The Nurse

I recognize a pretty face on Plenty of Fish (PoF) that I haven’t seen for a while. It’s not unusual for me to see faces disappear and reappear on PoF because I’ve been using it for over two years and people do embark on relationships that don’t work out. I’ve been there, done that too.

This returning face and I had swapped a few brief messages more than a year ago but she seemed evasive and I didn’t pursue matters because she was undecided about having children. Now on the back of discovering a hack for PoF, I’m getting more messages than ever before and while dealing with these I notice her memorable face. She seems to have moved from a town to the north of me to a town closer to the south of me. Most importantly in the process she has also decided that she doesn’t want children. Her profile is witty and she has a homely look about her that makes her seem different to the other faces on this dating site.

On a Wednesday night I write to her, commenting on a witticism in her profile and quite honestly expecting to hear back from her. After all this time and all these messages I’ve developed a feeling for when I know that I’ll get an answer. To my surprise she doesn’t answer.

Late on Friday afternoon I get a message from her, saying that she had responded on Wednesday night using her phone but then checking her PoF email on a computer she sees that her response was never sent. I find her story plausible but am also struck by her determination to be in contact with me. A little keenness on a woman’s part is always a good thing in my burgeoning dating book.

We start swapping messages and by Saturday lunchtime we’re talking on the phone. I’ve never been a fan of the so-called ‘screening call’ on the phone because I think that so much of communication is non-verbal that even a phonecall can be ambiguous. Also accents get exaggerated on a call, which might put some people off me. However, this one goes well and we seem to connect, discovering that she works in my town and that her father used to live in my apartment complex.

It also surprises me to learn that she works as a nurse in a school a couple of blocks from me. I thus think of her as The Nurse.

She tells me that when we first swapped messages on Pof that she was also in contact with a guy whom she ended up having a relationship with for a year. I ask about her now not wanting children and she says that that was always the case, but her friends had told her to put ‘undecided’. Just how much of her profile was created by this committee of well-meaning friends?

We talk for over an hour and there’s no shortage of banter, but I realize that The Nurse seems to attach a negative slant to every topic of conversation. I end the call by suggesting that we meet up one night in my town after work. She responds affirmatively and I leave it there, slightly concerned that she’s a Misery, but my curiosity is in charge.

The previous night I had met Tall Gal and tomorrow I’m meeting Cultural Allsorts, so my dating fortunes are still favourable. I’m not allowing my hopes to venture further than mild interest in The Nurse.

On Monday morning I get a text message asking if we can meet after work, at 4.30pm, to which I agree. I’m less than ecstatic, but at least its local and shouldn’t be too expensive. I’m not expecting much, it’s just unfinished business.

Could The Nurse be the One?

I walk the mile to the pub and it’s early February, so it’s chilly out. I hope that The Nurse offers to give me lift home. She’s there before me, sitting at a table for two and from the get-go I don’t like the look of her. The Nurse is a lot older than her photos; they’re at least five years old. I now think it the norm that women use old photos on their profiles, but I’ll never like it. When will this shit end?!

She’s got many wrinkles around her eyes whilst in her photos she has none. The Nurse is also gaunt and doesn’t look healthy. Despite this she has a remarkable rack, e-cup minimum, but ignoring this latter facet I’m underwhelmed. I know enough about women’s hair habits to know that she is probably largely grey under that carefully worked on, unnaturally glossy head of uniformly dark blonde hair.

I sit down at the table she has chosen and banter flows easily. I think my being relaxed makes chit-chat easy because I know that there’s no physical attraction from my side and therefore little hope of any kind of relationship. I’m treating this as a social outing now and my demeanour must put her at ease.

Exactly as I expected The Nurse attaches a negative slant to everything. She doesn’t moan but can’t help but present the negative side to any topic of conversation. The novelty of that wears off very quickly; ho-hum. She’s also a naturally highly-strung and intense person. Nevertheless her body language is positive, open and relaxed, occasionally she leans forward when talking to me. I’m sitting back in my seat and I know that I’m passive disinterested, leading proceedings by initiating topics of conversation and suggesting drinks or something to eat.

After a couple of hours of conversation it occurs to me that The Nurse is a mixture of three women whom I have dated in the past: Wild Child in appearance with a similar face and big tits, Lusty Lass in negative outlook and Pretty Teacher in intensity.

Having been on more dates than most people go on in their lives, after listening to The Nurse’s account of her upbringing, I can conclusively say that if a little girl goes through a turbulent childhood, her relationship history in adult life will be the same.

Her father was a philanderer and her own longest relationship has only lasted three years; most seemed to last less than a year. She speaks about some of her exe’s with an acidic bitterness, especially one whom she lived with for eight months of their three year relationship.

I think there must be a particular personality type that is attracted to nursing, or nursing turns women into this type. The Nurse is intense and highly strung, while the similarity in personality to The Pretty Teacher is striking. I wonder if she is OCD too?

I’ve come to expect some nervousness or guardedness in the first hour or two before a woman lets herself relax in my company, but this woman is being herself. The vast majority of people can not put on a positive, relaxed physical posture while being emotionally uncomfortable. Tonight’s date is physically at ease, so this is how she is when emotionally comfortable. No wonder she’s single again and had so many relationships. She’s what I call a Misery – she puts a negative spin on everything, chooses to share negative stories, has a generally dark atmosphere about her, it’s as if ominous rain-clouds perpetually follow her.

There is a growing collection of metaphorical red flags draping the table between us; you can’t see any wood. There isn’t any cause for optimism with her in any sense. I’m getting bored, such is my disdain for this person and, remembering the words of The English Shrink, I feel jaded by yet another disappointing date.

I decide to turn the conversation interesting over dessert. Well, interesting for me.

“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, not sure what her answer will be.

“I love spicy food. The spicier the better!”

I’m surprised, her answer tells me that she’s exciting in bed. She has a good body and nice tits, but I still have no interest in shagging her.

Like so many women on a first date, she declines having any dessert, but I decide to be naughty. I have a mouthful of the chocolatey tiramisu, she watches me slowly put the spoon in my mouth. I scoop some more up and rest my elbow on the table, extending the spoon just over halfway across the table towards her. She smiles and shakes her head, saying “No, thank you.” I ignore her words and keep my arm steady…and make sly eyes at her. She notices this and we’re at a little standoff, a clash of wills. I don’t move and we maintain eye contact without saying a word.

After a few more seconds she slowly leans forward, still looking into my eyes and puts her mouth around the spoon, closes it and gives me the kind of look with her blue eyes that I think she would if she had just taken my cock in her mouth. Slowly pulling her head back she releases the spoon and it’s clean. We keep strong eye-contact and don’t say a word. I can see she’s running her tongue around inside her mouth, savouring the taste of all that chocolate and cream, then without blinking slowly swallows, all the while maintaining strong eye-contact with me.

I love moments like that. I’ve done it with several other women and it is a turn-on for me in so many ways. First, it says that her will is weaker than mine. Second, she is prepared to submit to me. Third, it tells me that she probably has a naughty side. Fourth, it is clearly a simulation of oral sex and her doing that tells me she doesn’t mind or perhaps even enjoys doing that. I think it also stirs something inside a woman; some might get turned on.

We’re the last people left in the pub and the staff are starting to close up. “Shall we call it a night?” I ask.

“I think we’d better. I’ve got school in the morning,” she says.

I think we’re both surprised as to how long this first date has lasted. I go to the counter and settle the bill, which was £60, a lot more than I thought this evening would cost me. I go back to The Nurse and help her put her coat on.

“Aaw, you’re trying to be a gentleman,” she says with surprise.

“I’m not trying, I am,” I retort. She’s obviously not used to this kind of consideration by a man.

I escort The Nurse to her car which is parked next to another small car. There are no other cars around in the car park.

“Which of these is yours?” I ask, wondering if she’ll realize that I walked here.

“That one,” she answers, gesturing to the smaller, older one. “Look, there’s frost on the windows,” she says and gets a scraper out her car and begins cleaning her windows.

“Would you like me to do that for you?” I ask, again being the gentleman that my mother raised me to be. I’m also feeling a little surplus to requirements.

“No, I can manage,” she says. These thoroughly modern, independent English women insist on making life hard for themselves. “You really don’t need to wait around,” she chides.

“I’m not leaving until your car is running,” I respond with a smile.

Once she finishes clearing the frost she says, “Thank you for dinner. I’ll get the next one.”

I just smile and kiss her on each cheek. I don’t have the heart to say that there won’t be a next time. She obviously enjoyed the evening and wants to see me again, why spoil things now? I’d rather she fell asleep feeling good for a little while.

The Nurse gets in her car and closes the door. I watch her drive off into the black night. It’s at least -1C and I walk home.

She is a good person but not The One.

I’ve been here before, several times in fact. She is Tech Titan. She is Sweet Thing. She is Busty Blonde and Busty Czech. She is like all these woman who seemed promising while they thought I was their One. I know now that she isn’t going to be The One and that I should not go down a familiar road that leads to that dead-end of hurt and regret.

The next morning I send her my standard ‘thanks-but-no’ text message. At lunchtime she responds with “I enjoyed the evening with you too. That’s fine. Good luck.

The thought of The Nurse and her permanent negativity makes my spine shiver. I wriggle my shoulders to shake off the feeling of yuck that threatens to enshroud me.

I disable my profile on Plenty of Fish. I now think of it as ‘Plenty of Freaks’.

Diary of Dreams – Tears of Laughter

Do you have Avoidant Personality Disorder?

This Grey Knight has a weakness in his suit of armour. It’s difficult to spot and few assailants have ever got close enough to exploit it, but those that have managed to have done great damage to me. You see, just beneath the surface of this imposing frame, not far from what seems like a normal, well-adjusted person is a crinkle in my psyche, an imperfection in my emotional make-up.

Like anyone else, I guess, all my life I’ve thought that I’m normal and that most people are just like me, except for a few oddballs and nasty people. All along I’ve lived with what I thought was just one of the negatives of human existence.

It was when I was watching a YouTube video with The Cockaholic that I learned of ‘Cluster B personalities’. My enquiring mind demanded that I know more. There are four types of these: Narcissist, Histrionic, Borderline and Anti-Social. I saw that in my dating experiences I had encountered several Narcissists and a couple of Histrionics. A friend in the know has suggested that Krazy Girl was of the Borderline Personality Disorder variety. All good to know.

What my reading on the internet then led to is ‘Cluster C personalities’ of which there are the ‘Dependent’, the ‘Obsessive Compulsive’ and the ‘Avoidant’. I am the latter.

My blood ran cold as I read a description of myself that I could never extol or describe any better.

I’ll quote Wikipedia:

Avoidant personality disorder (AvPD), also known as anxious personality disorder, is a Cluster C personality disorder recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders handbook as afflicting persons who display a pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy and inferiority, extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation, and avoidance of social interaction despite a strong desire to be close to others. Individuals with the disorder tend to describe themselves as uneasy, anxious, lonely, unwanted and isolated from others.

People with avoidant personality disorder often consider themselves to be socially inept or personally unappealing and avoid social interaction for fear of being ridiculed, humiliated, rejected, or disliked. As the name suggests, the main coping mechanism of those with avoidant personality disorder is avoidance of feared stimuli. Avoidant personality disorder is usually first noticed in early adulthood, with both childhood emotional neglect and peer group rejection being associated with an increased risk for its development.

People with avoidant personality disorder are preoccupied with their own shortcomings and form relationships with others only if they believe they will not be rejected. Childhood emotional neglect—in particular, the rejection of a child by one or both parents—has been associated with an increased risk for the development of avoidant personality disorder, as well as rejection by peers.

It goes on to list a variety of issues that afflict most people at some time, but with AvPD most of these feelings are permanent.

The ones that I’ve never felt are:
– Avoids physical contact because it has been associated with an unpleasant or painful stimulus
– Severe low self-esteem
– Emotional distancing related to intimacy
– Feeling inferior to others
– In some extreme cases, agoraphobia
– Self-loathing

What I feel on a daily basis is the following:
– Self-imposed social isolation
– Hypersensitivity to rejection/criticism
– Extreme shyness or anxiety in social situations, though the person feels a strong desire for close relationships
– Feelings of inadequacy
– Mistrust of others
– Highly self-conscious
– Self-critical about their problems relating to others
– Problems in occupational functioning
– Lonely self-perception, although others may find the relationship with them meaningful
– Uses fantasy as a form of escapism to interrupt painful thoughts

The World Health Organization’s ICD-10 lists avoidant personality disorder as anxious (avoidant) personality disorder. It is characterized by at least four of the following:
1. persistent and pervasive feelings of tension and apprehension;
2. belief that one is socially inept, personally unappealing, or inferior to others;
3. excessive preoccupation with being criticized or rejected in social situations;
4. unwillingness to become involved with people unless certain of being liked;
5. restrictions in lifestyle because of need to have physical security;
6. avoidance of social or occupational activities that involve significant interpersonal contact because of fear of criticism, disapproval, or rejection.

Every single one of the above applies to me. I’ll share how this all manifests itself in my existence.

I dread social settings. Being part of a group activity makes me go cold inside and my stomach tighten. I am at my best on a one-on-one basis. Even a third person being present makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Anything more than three people and I’m instantly in defensive mode, even if I’ve known the people present for many years.

When I’m walking around my town’s high street all the time I feel that most people are looking at me. I try not to make eye contact, so when I do I always easily see several people looking at me. This just reinforces my beliefs and feelings that I’m not like other people. I don’t see other people staring at each other, but there are always people staring at me. As a teenager I put it down to my gangly awkwardness, as an adult I ascribe it to my height, build and dark hair. I know that many women like tall and dark men, but the attention makes me feel uncomfortable.

I don’t like being the centre of attention. At school, when it was time to present anything in front of a class, I’d make sure I wasn’t there. I’m never the life-and-soul of a party (not that I’ve been to many) but am more likely to found in the kitchen or doing something useful for the group. I prefer to be in the background, orchestrating events and suggesting ideas.

I’ve developed coping mechanisms to deal with my feelings towards other people. I always walk fast because I feel that makes me less visible so people can’t stare. I never maintain eye contact with anyone, am sometimes thumbing away at my phone, thus looking downward, but my favourite escape that calms me is to be listening to music via an earpiece. That makes it all feel okay because it’s like I’m moving through my own private movie scene being accompanied by a soundtrack of my choosing. Sometimes at work I pretend to be listening to music, but it’s just a ruse to get people to leave me alone, freeing me from idle, puerile office banter.

My working life has been the biggest challenge, pain and disappointment of my life. I’ve always found myself in an office environment, a most unnatural construct for most people, but for me it’s a particular hell because I feel so visible and thus vulnerable. My coping mechanism has been to put my head down and work like a Trojan. This has had the unintended consequence of me being perceived as a good worker by my bosses. I’ve been rewarded with preferential treatment from them which has perpetuated the negativity of the setting because people now look at me with jealousy or disapproval. Yes, I’ve been relatively successful in my jobs, but I’ve always been the outsider, the lone wolf. I am now so accustomed to it that I prefer things that way, not because I like it, but because I know how to deal with it.

Better the devil you know is not my preferred way of doing things, but whenever I can I orchestrate things so that I work alone, preferably physically so. I commandeer a free space somewhere, put up a physical barrier of some kind and then I can’t see anyone’s judgemental eyes. I find it much easier to do my own thing than ask permission or seek forgiveness. I am not afraid to be unpopular in a workplace, because that just makes it easier to move on when the opportunity presents itself. Permanent employment has felt like a prison sentence to me, working on a freelance basis has proved more emotionally acceptable because I know exactly when it will be over.

This lack of fearing unpopularity has been a mixed blessing. Because I feel it almost inevitable in certain settings with people I do not know, it has lead to me being ruthless at times. I’ll even confess that it has made me a horrible person, a heartless bastard especially when in an all-male environment. I have had no compunction in resorting to bloody violence to get my way. Men really are like dogs in that we adhere to a pack mentality…and there can only be one top dog: me. I don’t fear violence, in fact, I like it because I know I will always win. There’s a certain look men give off when they realize that they can’t defeat me because I’m always willing to go one depraved step further than them. I’ve never started a fight, I’ve only ever finished them. Sadly, the few times my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend saw my vicious streak when I was provoked led to them losing some respect for me and having it replaced by a little fear. On a positive note, I feel that my days of brutality are well behind me; I’m now too old for that shit.

As I have got older these feelings of social inadequacy have grown and become more prominent in my daily existence. As I did away with my young man’s White Knight Syndrome, this avoidant mindset and accompanying behaviour pattern has grown. I can see that it’s getting worse as I experience more negative things at the hands of people.

Why am I like this? All my life I have felt like the outsider in any group setting. It all started when I was little.

My parents were badly married. My father was a raging alcoholic and often out of work. My mother was always at work during the day. They fought every dinner-time and all weekend. I was an only child, so when the fighting started I used to run away and hide in my own little world. My mother was overly protective towards me; overbearing and controlling in fact. She had me when she was almost 41 and I was her way of dealing with her shit life. I was the one thing she cherished…and could control.

When both my parents had jobs when I was under six years old, a maid would come take care of me and the apartment. She was under strict instructions to never let me outdoors. For years I would sit at the window watching the other kids play. A couple of times I sneaked out to play with them, but the maid caught me and took me back inside, fearful of losing her job. I think that’s how I developed my observant, analytical, voyeuristic streak.

Then one day my mother said to me that one of the kids had invited me to their birthday party. I was so excited. On the day of the party, I woke up early, relishing the chance to finally get to play with the other kids. My mother had bought a navy-blue trousers with harlequin waistcoat, white shirt and sky-blue bow-tie. (Yep, my mother dressed me funny.) By lunchtime I was tired and asked my mother if it was okay for me to nap for a little while and that she must wake me for the party.

She didn’t wake me and I slept the entire afternoon. I missed the party and I was upset. I convinced myself that now, for sure, the other kids would never want to play with me ever again. I resumed watching them from a distance, in my prison, overseen by the maid.

The city where we lived was a compromise choice for my parents because they had married across the cultural divide. In Apartheid-era South Africa, although both were white, my father was an Afrikaner and my mother of English descent, this was a socially inappropriate union. Their families shunned them and they moved to a city where nobody knew them, thus neither had friends or family in this neutral city. I have no recollection of us ever having visitors in the first 10 years of my life. Sadly I also have no recollection of ever being hugged or shown any kind of affection by either of my parents; they were too busy with their private war.

I can count on my one hand (and have fingers left over) the number of times I interacted with other children before I had to go to school at the age of six. On the very first day of school, my mother said to me, “I want you to be the cleverest kid in the class. I want you to get the highest marks for every subject.” I said, “Yes, mom” and I did exactly that for the next eight years.

All the other kids in my class were different to me. They also all knew each other. They went to pre-school crèche together, which my mother didn’t want me to. From day one I felt like the outsider, but it was in effect, just a continuation of what was the norm for me. I couldn’t figure out how to fit in, but I figured out how to excel and I became the class “brain”. Not the typical geek, because I was bigger than the other kids, so nobody picked on me. I just felt that collectively I was being shunned. Inadvertently I had made things worse for myself by becoming the “brain”, but I only figured that out in later years.

Because of my intellect, physique and forceful nature (courtesy of being a badly-socialised only child) I was the captain of every team in my school career. I was unknowingly a so-called “alpha male”, but largely because all the other kids were intimidated by me. It was easier to lead and browbeat kids into line, than to learn how to compromise and fit in.

My mother then decided that I should go to a different high-school than what my few primary school chums went to. So I arrived at a new school, at the age of thirteen, knowing nobody. Again they all knew each other, having been to the same primary school for the previous eight years. Again I was the outsider trying to break in. Teenagers can be nasty and very cliquey. My first year of high school was awful; nobody wanted to be friends with me. I remember a couple of break times taking myself off to the toilets and sitting in a cubicle, sometimes crying. Eventually a couple of boys warmed to me.

Then tragedy struck. My father dropped dead from a heart attack a week before my fourteenth birthday. That was 1st September 1985; it was a Sunday. On the Monday morning my mother went to the bank to tell them that my father had died. The bank manager instantly froze all the bank accounts and my mother had no cash. There were no friends or family to borrow money off of. There was no food in the house, as bad luck would have it. By the Wednesday night my dinner was a cereal with hot water. That’s how the next 10 years of hardship with my mother began.

We were literally left penniless. I stayed off school for a few weeks and when I returned all the kids ignored me. Nobody wanted to speak to me, they were all so uncomfortable around me, not knowing what to say. I became a social outcast and, as usual, it wasn’t of my making. The last few months of my first year of high school passed in splendid isolation.

My mother decided to move to another city, where her family was, who had promised to help out. So at the age of fourteen I went off to another high-school. And guess what? Yep, as usual, I was the outsider looking in. However, money was a massive problem for me and my mother. Her nephew (my cousin) owned a scrap metal yard and he gave my mother a full-time job as his book-keeper. I worked for him on weekends (occasional Sundays too) and all my school holidays. I skipped being a teenager and got thrown into the adult world. This made it harder to relate to kids my own age, teachers even; they were all so immature.

I had very few friends in high-school. My best friend was the class “brain”, but he was puny, so us two outcasts hung out together. I had very little to do with girls because I didn’t have time and I didn’t have money. I couldn’t take a girl back to my place, it was a dump and my mother was always there. I felt like no girl would be interested in me because I was so poor.

My stand-out moment in high school was the prom. I didn’t have the money to buy an outfit and one day in class several of the kids, all of whose parents were wealthy, belittled me publicly for claiming to not have the money for everything that was involved. This public grilling went on for ages. They just couldn’t understand that my mother and I didn’t have money. I didn’t go to the prom; the only kid not to go.

I would say that my teenage years were characterized by a feeling of never fitting in anywhere. I sometimes think I haven’t really outgrown that. Whenever I tried to join a group I was rejected, so I learned to reject groups. As a teenager I aspired to normality, decency and respectability. Respect is something important to me. I didn’t get much of it growing up, so I value it. It’s why I can’t love a woman that I don’t respect.

Because we didn’t have money, I couldn’t go to university. The law of the land said that I therefore had to do national service. I am a mixture of Afrikaner and English, so I was fluent in both languages and mindsets. When the other conscripts found out that I was not “pure”, I was shunned. I only had one friend during national service. I was a target for everyone else after that because nobody would side with me. I learned to really fight, physically and otherwise, then.

After that was over I had to get a job and in 1992, the world was in recession. My best friend’s father got me a job in the local municipality. At the time, Apartheid was collapsing and as a white man I was, once again, a target. Local government implemented affirmative action policies and I was told that no matter how hard I studied or what I did, I would not be promoted. My then girlfriend (now ex-wife) was facing the same limited options in her working life, although she was a qualified accountant. We decided to leave South Africa, the only environment we’ve ever known.

We arrived in England at the age of 25, never having been abroad and knowing nobody. Life was tough in the beginning. We both endured a lot of discrimination because we were immigrants. Once again, I was an outsider. We went through a lot together and it pains me that today we are not on speaking terms. I have reached out to her a couple of times asking if we could be friends, but she rejected the idea.

Of all the aspects of this Avoidant Personality Disorder I’ve been blind to, that what has sabotaged me the most, I would say emphatically is the mistrust of others. I can see that I have found comfort of being with woman such as my ex-wife, Sweet Thing, Busty Blonde and Busty Czech because I felt that I could trust them. (All of them are Cluster C – Dependent). As soon as another woman or date gave me any reason to not trust them then my Trust Demon took over and events followed an almost predictable, speedy downward spiral as I emotionally withdrew. At least I’m aware of this now.

The second greatest effect has been that of judgementalism. On the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator I’m an INTJ – Introversion, Intuition, Thinking, Judgement – one of the rarest personality types. It’s the last letter that has become exaggerated in my being. Because I fear being judged, I thus am highly judgemental of other people as a pre-emptive defence mechanism. I’ll reject them before they reject me.

When it comes to romantic relationships I need to feel I’m in control of the relationship, that makes me feel safe. Any hint of vulnerability and I fear being taken advantage of. This started at age six when the girl next to me would hold hands with me, then ask me to help her with her maths. I eventually realised that she was using me, so I stopped helping her. My only girlfriend I had in high-school cheated on me when I had to go away to do National Service. My ex-wife didn’t love me for the last five years of our relationship. My ex-girlfriend lied to me from day one and all the way through our relationship.

People have always been a source of anguish in my life, never a source of pleasure. However, aside from this and Avoidant Personality Disorder, my greatest positive emotion is that of wanting to give love. I think that my disorder has influenced this because not having received much love, there is an innate need within me to express it.

A case can be made that I’m now scared of women, but I don’t think that’s true. I just haven’t met the right one…The One. I realize now that I need to be with a submissive woman. I’ve been oblivious to this. This might have played a role in some of the experiences that I’ve had dating. Non-submissive women will have detected my wanting to be the senior partner in the relationship and that made me wrong for them. Some of the stronger-willed women and I clashed and would have continued to do so if a relationship were to have been mutually pursued. I think this is especially true of my ex-girlfriend and I who clashed daily. The Saffa (Histrionic) and Musician Gal (Narcissist) would have been a replay of that.

In the workplace I express, vent even, but in my private life I bottle my feelings up because that’s what a man’s supposed to do, don’t you know? Sup it up. Don’t show any weakness in front of the womenfolk because it rattles them. Be a man.

When my last job came to an end in August last year, I was leading a team of people who didn’t like me and ganged-up against me. It got ugly and became my worst nightmare. I felt humiliated and I walked out. I got a settlement payment from the company. I haven’t worked since then.

The thought of going back into an office environment nauseates me. I was never happy in my working life, always prostituting myself for the money. I have absolutely no interest in IT, an industry populated by ego-maniacal geeks fussing over petty things, always missing the big picture. (Ever wondered why software is like it is? Now you know.)

Since August last year my ‘working days’ have been me sitting at home by myself, happiest when writing my heart out, only going out to get food (listening to music) and the gym at lunchtimes (again with headphones on). There have been times when weeks have gone by without my talking to anyone. I can not remember another time in my life when I have been so happy. I have felt so calm and tranquil. I’ve loved it.

Don’t worry, I’m not some anti-social, rude, obnoxious, control-freak retard who wants to be a hermit. On the surface I must seem perfectly normal. I’m polite, considerate, humorous, easy-going and a whole host of other good things. I can walk into a job interview, make a positive impression, get interviewers laughing and talk myself into a job. I feel my fears and I ignore them, because my desire to succeed is greater.

It’s just that I am at my best when alone with only one person. If it’s a group setting then it is preferable to be with people whom I have known for a long time. In typical introvert fashion I feel exhausted after a lengthy social engagement, even if it is with people I’ve known for years. An extrovert feels energized by socialising, but I don’t, I need to recover and I seek out solitude and silence.

All I want is silence. That can’t hurt me, that I am comfortable with. I am at my absolute best when alone, with my thoughts. When given time, space and the tranquillity to express myself, to be creative because, like manic-depressants before lithium, it all feels bearable then.

I don’t think I’m disturbed, I just need silence and solitude more than most. My scars need time to heal.

Oh, how I crave silence, for it is then that I feel I am on the comforting edge of heaven.

Disturbed – “The Sound Of Silence”

Love revisited

In my two years on the dating scene I’ve come a long way, but I don’t feel any closer to my final destination: true love. I’ve had tremendous up and downs and not just in the bedroom. I’m older and wiser, but still don’t have what I want and, as I am discovering about myself, need. What exactly is this thing that I want and need so badly, this thing known as love?

Some time ago I wrote about love ( http://www.meanddating.com/2015/05/monday-morning-blues-why-love/ ) and since then my thoughts about love have evolved.

I think we all have our own idea of what love is. That’s part of the problem: finding someone who shares our idea of love. The love I offer is unlimited in quantity, devoid of conditions and free of boundaries. I’ve come to realize that finding someone who offers the same is incredibly rare.

There are quotes about love that resonate with me.

Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.” – Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Don’t settle for the one you can live with…wait for the one you can’t live without.

The first quote speaks of a life together, a more mature love, while the second speaks of meaning.

I’ve come to realize that what I am seeking is meaning to my life. I am not a selfish person and that is a problem in the world I find myself in because it seems to me that ninety percent of people are selfish by nature. Yes, I know that’s the way it has been and always will be, but I find it sad. Being a Giver in a world of Takers is a lonely, frustrating experience.

I’ve also realized that my need to give love is greater than my desire to receive it. It has been why I have become embroiled with women who are patently unsuitable to me. My greed for love overwhelmed my fear of hurt and failure. My greed blinded me to danger which, when love is concerned, must be eminently better than being paralysed by fear. So many of the women I’ve met have been controlled by their fears, looking backwards when they should be looking forwards, looking at the person they have before them and not punishing them for someone else’s mistakes.

The love I seek isn’t driven by fear. I don’t fear growing old alone. I don’t fear not knowing what being a father is all about. I don’t fear never loving someone again.

I just want to spend what’s left of my life feeling loved and loving that person too. Our love for each other would be so strong that, even after I’ve died, when she has lunch or dinner, she will prop up a photo of me next to her plate. I would do the same.

When I’m with her I want to feel like the luckiest man in the world because I’m with her. I want to see it in her eyes, I want to feel it in her touch, that she loves me. It would be nice to meet someone who, when she looks at me then closes her eyes, she likes what she sees.

Billy Joel put it best, “I don’t need clever conversation, I never want to work that hard”. I want and need good conversation; I offer it too. We make each other laugh, we make each other think, our words make each other feel good. With me she’ll never have wrinkles, only laughter lines.

Physical attraction is common, but a mental connection is rare.
Physical attraction is common, but a mental connection is rare.

I can’t wait to have Her sitting by my side, complaining of sore feet from all the walking we’ve done that day. I’ll go get some moisturiser, flop her onto her back, take her shoes off, rub the lotion warm in my hands and give her a foot massage that relaxes her. I want to do this not because I want anything in return, no, I’ll do this because I love her. Her pleasure is my pleasure.

However, I have unresolved issues, reservations and questions about love.

Is my idea of love sound? Is what I am looking for possible? Am I deluded in some way? Am I wasting my time? Do I really know what love is? Not for a moment do I think I have all the answers, but I certainly have a lot of questions.

And what of when it goes wrong? Where does love go to die? Does it evaporate up into the heavens, eventually falling back to earth as rain, so that the sky cries with us? If so, then when it rains, does it mean someone’s heart is breaking?

As much as I want to share my life with someone special, I know that I value my sense of freedom that I’m enjoying at the moment. Do I have to trade one for the other? Does a woman’s sense of security come at the price of a man’s sense of freedom? I’m in no hurry to want to live with someone, but do want to spend a good amount of time with her. Do we have to live together? I think not. I hope she’s of a like mind.

I wonder if I am destined to roam freely from one kind of fling to another, experiencing more than any man can hope to experience in his lifetime, getting to know in gritty detail all the sins of the flesh, learning all there is to know about womankind, but like a tormented ghost, to never succumb to the greatest thing that life has to offer: love.

Perhaps the fault all along has lain on my side in that my expectations are greater than what is possible or likely? Was I too hasty with The Brazilian? Should I have met Baltic Babe halfway and had a child with her? Should I have taken things easier and slower with Krazy Girl? Should I have stayed with Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde? The answer to all these questions is a resounding ‘no!’.

The love that was on offer with all those women just wasn’t good enough. Any relationship would not have worked in the long run. The eternal conundrum of either trying harder to make it work or walking away always had an obvious answer to me, but I took too long with Busty Blonde. Sadly it was her turn to be a victim of love.

I’m starting to think that I am capable of a greater love than anybody I have ever met. I don’t want to be anybody’s true north or the one who completes them. I don’t want that responsibility. All I want is for her to see the real me, appreciate all that she sees in me and just love me. In return I shall do the same…as a minimum.

The famous astronomer, Sir Patrick Moore, had a secret side to him. We all do, but his must have been beautiful. During World War Two he was a navigator on a British bomber, regularly flying to Germany to drop bombs on people. It was only a matter of time before he was killed; all bomber crews knew this, but they went anyway. Heroes every one of them. Because of the short life expectancy, people in those times threw themselves with gusto at life. They knew that every day could, literally, be their last. He became engaged to marry a girl that he had fallen in love with. In a German air raid over London she was killed. I wonder if the irony of him being bomber crew played on his mind. He survived the war, but was never known to show an interest in another woman. Apparently that part of him died with her. He went to his grave recently, never having loved again. Now that is true love…or true heartbreak. I think I know how he could have felt.

I watched “A Message in a Bottle” by myself last night. I had tears in my eyes at the end. The Brazilian would like that movie because it ends in disappointment, an outcome and feeling that she is comfortable with. The female protagonist in the movie is the sort of woman I want to meet. She has a big heart, attractive, and willing to do anything for love. Does such a woman exist? I guess seeing as it’s derived from a fictional book that the characters are symbolic of what men and women aspire to in the opposite gender but never find. The thing is that Kevin Costner’s character, Garret Blake, is so much like me. I too would have dived into the sea to rescue total strangers.

I guess I’m a fool for love, a love-fool and I don’t care if it makes a fool of me.

I also don’t care what price I have to pay because I’m looking for my last first kiss.

Where are you?

Raindrops on windows, my thoughts are of you
The teardrops on my pillow look like dew.
This loneliness is becoming too much to bear
I just want someone I love to equally care.

I see you when I’m out and about
Across the crowd I want to shout.
“I’m over here, all this time, right here!”
If I did their looks will be of fear.

So instead we stare with sly eyes
And we go home alone to fantasize.
We think there’s something wrong with us
Too scared to talk to that stranger on the bus.

This life with no meaning, this walking alone
Am I being punished for a deed I must atone?
I have met so many, yet wanted so few
Is every step taking me closer to you?

I look forward to us being two
Oh, where are you?

Foreigner – I Want To Know What Love Is

Something died

I was sitting alone at home on a rainy Sunday night, staring blankly at my television, my thoughts racing in circles trying to understand what had happened with Krazy Girl and all the other women I had met in the previous 10 months. I was trying to make sense of it all when an unusual chill came over me, unlike any other I had felt before. It was coming from behind me.

A giant invisible hand gripped me, picked me up with ease and dropped me into the Arctic Ocean that had appeared out of nowhere. Everything became cold and dark. Natural buoyancy and the vice-like grip of the icy water propelled me to the surface. Thunder and lightning raged overhead in the pitch-black night sky as a vicious wind swept up the waves. Pieces of jagged ice sped past me, carried by a strong current as bigger, dangerous icebergs were threatening to crash into me. I started swimming towards a flatter sheet of floating ice; I knew I only had a few minutes to survive the freezing water. My clothes were becoming heavy and were betraying me, trying to take me under, into the dark, lonely depths below where nothing and nobody mattered.

Between the booms of thunder I could hear voices, chattering voices, women’s voices. I couldn’t see where they were, but their high-pitched sounds were becoming louder.

“Help me!” I shouted out, in a pathetic attempt to be heard above the roar of the storm.

“Hahaha. Hahahaha,” the women’s voices answered, laughing at me, in a cacophony of mockery and scorn.

I tried clambering up the sharp sides of the sheet of ice, pulling myself up as forcefully as I could, but I was struggling. Hypothermia was setting in, my muscles weren’t working as they should; my clothes felt like a dead weight pulling me back into the black waters that yearned to be my grave. With the last of my strength I pulled myself up over the edge, as I did so there was a strange snapping sound. It felt like a piece of me had broken free from inside my chest, morphed out of my ribs and slipped into the eager waters so quickly that I couldn’t see what it was. It was gone forever, whatever it was.

I woke up realizing that my single glass of wine had put me to sleep. Or had it?

Something inside me had indeed snapped and then died.

Months of unrewarding, demanding dating had taken its toll and I was now angry. I was angry at women, all women. I was angry at women because of their seemingly endless messing me around. I was angry at their insatiable need for silly fucking games.

I was angry about all those many pointless nights I spent swapping messages with dozens of women on dating sites that never led to a date because they just couldn’t bring themselves to meet in person. They preferred hiding behind a screen, basking themselves in male attention without having to give or do anything in return. How women had jerked my chain and wasted my time. I was sick of it.

Why couldn’t they just be happy to be with me? Why couldn’t they just accept that I’m a good guy with a lot to offer? Why must they dwell on their past to the extent that they sabotage their present and future and embroil me in that? Why do they treat me with suspicion when there is no reason for it?

Why couldn’t they just want to hold hands as we walked? Why couldn’t they be happy to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon telling each other stories that made us laugh? Why couldn’t it be simple instead of all so complicated? Why couldn’t they be happy and just be looking to add to their happiness?! Why did they have to be so messed up? Why couldn’t they just be normal?! Why couldn’t they be more like me?

Tech Titan was unbearably clingy. Baltic Babe wanted a glorified sperm-donor. Demolition Debbie was still married. The Model was deranged. Miss Indecisive was a serial dater, a female player I suspect. Potty Mouth disgusted me. The Hirsute Russian made me cringe. The German Shrink bored me. Quiet Katie nearly left me in a coma. Sweet Thing wanted me as a slave and dog-sitter in her home. Irish Eyes had her bloody games. NutSlut was an attention-seeking, approval-craving unpaid whore. Krazy Gal, well who the hell knew what she wanted?

It was that last one who really hurt me, the one who did the most damage, because I had got my hopes up.

I had always adored women. I still think that the most amazing creature on our planet is the female human. She is designed for and capable of a multitude of roles, yet still so delicate and sensitive, despite the versatility. I had always thought that women have a far harder time in life than men do. Most men embarrass me because of their weakness. Mother Nature has even decreed a cruel irony in that women tend to spend their last years alone and struggling. Was it because they could cope with it? After my father died when I was thirteen my mother was a single mother, so I know the hardship and even today my heart (what’s left of it) still goes out to the single mothers of the world. I read somewhere that, if a man treats a woman like a queen, it shows that he was raised by one. My mother had raised me to treat every woman like a queen. I revered women, so much so that I had put every single woman up on a high pedestal. They could do no wrong in my world.

I had always thought that the sweetest thing in the world was little girls between the ages of two and four. I couldn’t agree more with Charles Aznavour: ‘Thank heaven for little girls’. To me they are all just so cute, with their big eyes, abundant enthusiasm, their sense of adventure, even their wilful ways. It always made me smile to see a little girl dressed in a chequered skirt, cream cardigan and pig-tails running along, laughing, with an ice-cream in her hand.

Sadly, somewhere along in their development these little girls all seem to fall into the clutches of a Miss Haversham; they become spiteful and mean to boys, determined to play games with them. They develop the mindset and skills that reduce men into mere playthings for them. Men are there to be toyed with, to be accommodated while it suited her, to be played off against another guy (publicly or secretly, it didn’t really matter) and then to be belittled and rejected when the time was right. Little girls grow into young women devoid of respect for men, even before they have life experience of men. Women seemed to think that men don’t have feelings.

The so-called fairer sex were anything but fair to me. The more respect I gave them, the less they appreciated me. My manners and consideration were being mistaken for weakness. Is it possible that I was “too nice”? All those nights of dates where I was the consummate gentleman, pulling back restaurant chairs, opening doors, offering my jacket, making polite conversation, paying for everything. Where did it get me? Fucking nowhere.

A sense of outrage had been accumulating and it finally came out in me. My ex-wife and ex-girlfriend had both deceived me. You don’t deceive somebody you love. Therefore they didn’t really love me; I felt like a fool because of it. Nobody likes feeling like a fool and especially not me. Years of harbouring memories of their deceit seeped to the surface. That mixed with my feelings about my previous dates and an overwhelming sense of frustration bubbled over in my psyche.

I concluded that the nice guy that I am had gotten me nowhere with women. They didn’t seem to value me. Instead, they seemed to want to take advantage of me, to use me. They didn’t want to give me anything, they only wanted to take.

The thing in me that had died was respect for women.

I decided that it was time that I changed my ways and started playing women at their own game.

I harboured out-dated, unrealistic notions about the true nature of women and these ideas were hurting me. You see, I had lived life in reverse order compared to most people. I got into a serious, committed relationship at the age of twenty that lasted until my mid-thirties. I didn’t have that crazy exploration phase that most people have in their twenties. I didn’t go bed-hopping and heart-breaking when I was young. I had skipped all that and consequently I lacked experience and skills when it came to women.

I resolved to improve my skills with women to such an extent that people who knew me would start accusing me of being a player. Yes, that much-maligned male aberration would become a velvety cape that I would slip on when it suited me and I wouldn’t give a damn. No woman would ever again outsmart me, abuse me or hurt me; I was going to make sure of that.

There’s a great line from Californication (for the aficionado it’s season 1, episode 3, minute 5:55) in which Hank says, “A girl knows within seconds whether she wants to fuck, marry or kill a guy” and I think it’s true. I had to stop assuming that the woman in front of me wanted the same things as me. Some of them, perhaps most of them, just wanted to get laid. I hadn’t bothered to find out. All along I had been leaning towards the “marry” angle, a long-term relationship, not just a quick forgettable fumble in the dark to stave off loneliness. The latter was never appealing to me, but perhaps it was time to explore that side of life. Instead of trying to direct the currents of the dating ocean, going with the flow was much easier and who knows what it might lead to?

My father’s advice about there being only two types of women, “Good Girls and Good-Time Girls”, became more poignant. If my date was the latter, I would give her what she wanted and a lot more than she bargained for.

I made a conscious decision that, if I didn’t deem the woman in front of me to be a Good Girl, to be relationship material (I call that Plan A), I would revert to Plan B – to see if she just wanted to get laid, and if she did, to see how much fun I could have with her. It would become a game to see how long it took before I could have my way with her; consequences be damned.

The night of the iceberg dream was the night the idea of all women being a ‘nice girl’ died in my mind, along with the ‘nice guy’ my parents had raised me to be. My White Knight mindset had not served me well and had in fact got me into trouble in the past and it was causing me trouble now by way of unfulfilled expectations – that of finding my queen, The One, and living happily ever after. They were proving to be unrealistic expectations given the environment I found myself in, this crazy online dating scene.

It was now time for me, a whole new me: a leaner, meaner, more selfish me. No more White Knight in shining armour only offering the best of intentions, but instead a Grey Knight, much less shiny and white. A knight still capable of being a White Knight if the reason was there, but now more intent on indulging himself in the sins of the flesh.

Yes, I was going to dive headlong into a sea of pointless pussy. Would I learn to swim or would I drown? I didn’t care.

Either way, no more Mr Fucking Nice Guy…more like Mr Nice Guy Fucking…

Sinnerman by Nina Simone

Let’s move in together! Yay! Aka “Goodbye Sweet Thing”

My “Big Weekend” plan had backfired on me. After the previous weekend of running around London together, Sweet Thing and I had bonded a little closer…too close and in the wrong direction for my liking.

On our regular evening phonecall at 8pm (omg, she liked her routine) on the Monday night, she suggested that we make some plans to go away together to a seaside resort town in the south-west of England. I appreciated the idea that seemed to come with a hint of commitment, but my gut response was a negative one. I was non-committal; I was starting to doubt that we had a long-term future together.

The next night, after some small talk about our predictable working days, Sweet Thing said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about something. How about we move in together? You can come live with me and I’ll clear out the conservatory and that can be your office. You can build your website business. We can both work from home, me upstairs, you downstairs. What do you think?”

I could feel all the blood drain from my upper body and sink down to my feet and ankles. I was shocked at her idea. Bloody hell, her previous boyfriend’s stuff was still in her garage – he hadn’t fully moved out yet! Also, we had only met little more than six weeks ago!

“Uh, I think it’s a little too soon for that,” was the best I could stammer.

“Well, you think about it and let me know when you’re ready,” she said.

Think about it is exactly what I did until the small hours of that night. I lay in my bed, electrified by her idea. I found it outrageous and even slightly disturbing. Yes, it was flattering that Sweet Thing felt that way about me; the speed of that was breath-taking. However, it was becoming clear to me just how badly on the rebound she was. She hadn’t taken any time out for herself after her last relationship had ended. She had told me that the weekend after her previous boyfriend of five years had moved out was when she opened her match.com account. Two months later I wrote to her, one of the few messages she had received, I suspect largely because of where she was located.

The thing that bothered me most was her being on the rebound. I didn’t want to be her rebound fling, who also happened to move in. If she was emotionally healthy, we had been seeing each other for at least a year, I was head-over-heels in love with her, then maybe I would have considered moving in with her. The reality was that she wasn’t emotionally healthy and when she returned to her normal self, the nature of our relationship would change and that in itself was far too risky. The fact that she lived in Nowheresville and we hadn’t even known each other two months could not be ignored even if she wasn’t on the rebound. Now add on top of that the fact that I was already bored in the relationship and her idea was a non-starter.

I resolved to not act rashly and take the time to assess the situation. Yes, I liked being with her and we laughed a lot and liked the same movies, but there were negative factors that weighed heavily. The balancing scale that was our relationship had not yet found a resting place; an equilibrium wasn’t established. The positive weight on one side of the scale held the ascendency for a little while until it became too heavy and the negative weight shot up on the other side, and so it went, week after week.

As usual, she found a reason for me to come up to her house to spend the weekend there. It was a ground-hog weekend. Pancakes for breakfast, walk the dog, watch something on television, have lunch, watch sport on the television for the afternoon, walk the dog, have dinner, watch a movie, end with McDonalds sex. Two days in a row. B-O-R-I-N-G. She really wasn’t open to trying new things; she craved the security that came with routine.

I left her place on the Monday morning (after pancake breakfast) knowing that, despite my best efforts, it just wasn’t going to work out between us. The scales had found a resting place and the negative weight was heavier. I felt deflated.

I spent the next two nights and three days wracking my brain until I had come up with the words that I felt were necessary to end it between us, but to do so as gently and respectfully as I knew how.

On the Wednesday night I did what had to be done.

I could just see her lying on her bed in the dark, anxiously clutching a pillow to her belly, tears dripping from her watery blue eyes. She would let out a wail and sob before burying her face in a pillow…and all because of me.

The thought of that call still gives me a lump in my throat. She’s a fantastic person and deserves to be happy. Our relationship style just wasn’t working for me…and I wanted to have more fun than what was on offer.

Phoning her to say ‘goodbye’ was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my life, because I know how much it would have hurt her. She didn’t deserve the pain that I forced on her. However, I deserved to be with someone that I felt so much more for, someone who lifted my spirits.

Factors that were a problem: she was on the rebound; she had bad teeth – kissing and bj’s made me cringe; sex was boring and predictable; her dog limited our ability to go anywhere; she lived in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do; all we seemed to want to do was sit and watch tv; driving to and from her was a pain; she could only focus on one thing at a time and I had to stop talking if he was doing something; her parents were unhappily married and it was a regular topic of discussion that became a burden; after 6 weeks she suggested that we live together. She loved routine: ate pancakes for breakfast every day; walked her doggy in the mornings and at night every day at the same time; watched the same tv shows week in and week out.

In a nutshell: she was on the rebound and too boring for me.

Lessons learned: 1) Be wary of profile photos without a smile 2) Ascertain as quickly as possible when her last relationship ended 3) Find out about after-work routine.

That Wednesday night, after the break-up call, a touch of frustration and disappointment met a sense of idle curiosity within me that lead me to log on to OKCupid to see who was out there. I clicked on just a few new profiles in a minute and then gave up, disillusioned and filled with a sense of defeat. Little could I know what those few clicks would result in…


The Big Weekend in London

I remembered that Sweet Thing liked the “Strictly Come Dancing” television show (hell, I had to sit and watch it with her enough times) when an email came around at work for tickets to the live show at the old Millennium Dome in London. I didn’t think twice and bought the tickets which came to almost £150 for the VIP package for the upcoming Sunday. I bought tickets to a travel show that was being held at Earl’s Court on the coming Saturday. I also bought a Groupon for a dinner and cabaret show in Knightbridge for that Saturday night. I booked us into a 4-star hotel halfway between the two venues for Saturday.

I was going to show her what my idea of fun was. I also wanted her to know that I am very comfortable with taking the lead. I didn’t want to impress her, just show her what I was capable of; the standard to which I can operate; that I am nobody’s dog-sitter.

During one of our evening phonecalls I let her know that I wasn’t exactly ecstatic about our lovemaking. I told her that a variety of positions is not a bad thing and that I would greatly appreciate more creativity to our intimacy. I did this as diplomatically as possible and, to my relief, she took it in good grace.

You may be wondering how I felt about Sweet Thing. Well, it’s complicated. I liked being with her as she was always good-natured, had a cheeky sense of humour and had a sweetness about her that charmed me. I could trust her. Trust is a very important thing for me, all brought about my experience with my ex-girlfriend – that’s a blog entry for another time.

However, on the minus side of the equation, when Sweet Thing smiled my heart sank. How do you say to someone “Don’t you think you should get your teeth fixed?” She would periodically talk about her ex-boyfriend and in anguished, angry tones. It didn’t help that he would leave her home shortly before my arrival on a Friday night. One of her favourite topics of conversation was her parent’s unhappy marriage and it quickly became tedious. I have to mention the boring McDonalds sex.

Overall, the picture was mixed and so were my feelings. Giving “us” time was not yielding quick benefits. I was struggling to decide how much time to give this relationship to blossom into what I was expecting.

As usual I arrived at Sweet Thing’s house on the Friday night, which ended in…McDonalds sex. The next morning we took doggy to the kennel for his overnight stay. As a handler led him away, he turned and looked at me. I could just see him thinking as his eyebrows duelled, “Well this sucks. I get to spend the night in this cold, concrete prison with noisy neighbours and you get to do whatever, wherever with her. There’s no justice in the world.”

We got in my red sports car and sped off to London. After checking in at the hotel we walked to the Earl’s Court exhibition centre where we spent the afternoon inspecting exhibits, attending talks and walking around the colourful stands of the tourist boards and tour operators from around the world. Sweet Thing was very taken by the whole experience. Score one point.

She was particularly interested in a camper-van that we inspected. As we got out of it she said, “Do you think we could drive in one of those down Route 66?” I said nothing and just smiled. In my heart I knew that a lot had to happen between us before that dream of hers became a reality.

Back at the hotel room Sweet Thing surprised me. She started kissing me passionately and then said, “You want something different? How about this?”

She strode over to the bed, turned her back to me, started unbuckling her jeans, looked over her shoulder at me with a naughty look in her eyes and climbed onto the bed with her knees. She pushed her jeans and panties down and fell forward, her hands submissively positioned next to her head, her platinum blonde hair covering her face.

After taking a second to get past my sense of surprise, I stepped forward, positioned myself behind her bony little backside and unzipped my jeans. I pulled my cock out and started tugging at it with one hand. My other hand I raised to my mouth and sucked on my index finger.

My lubricated finger slid easily into her pussy. She was wet already; she must have been thinking about this for some time. I knew how much she hated doggy-style because it was uncomfortable for her, so her doing this was the ultimate act of giving herself to me physically. I won’t lie to you; this pleased me and turned me on.

(I think that an inherent part of the sex act is a transference of power, usually to the man. It takes a couple in a mature relationship for the man to cede total power to the woman. Most men and women are uncomfortable for this to happen though, but for different reasons. I’ve always thought that it requires a sexually adventurous woman to always want total sexual power over a man – or just a plain man-hater.)

I slid my cock into her wet pussy and it felt tight. I heard her give off a stifled grunt but ignored it in the belief that after a few thrusts she’d loosen up. I felt my cock growing as I took in the scene before me. We’d never done it partially dressed before and never in the daytime either. Nor had we done doggy-style since our first night together. Was this a portent of better things to come? Was McDonalds sex history?

The novelty of this act got the better of me and it didn’t take me long to cum. With my full force I came inside her, my hands gripping her hips, amidst sounds of discomfort coming from her, but that couldn’t be helped.

We collapsed in a heap on the bed next to each other. Lying facing each other, with me panting, she wiped her hair away from her face to reveal a toothy grin. My cock shrivelled a little bit faster then.

“Give me a minute, then I’ll see to you,” I said.

“I’m fine, thanks. That was for you,” she said as she got up and went to the bathroom. “Besides, we’ve got to get ready for our next appointment. We’re running late as it is.”

She was right, time was against us, but dammit, the afterglow was too short. We didn’t cuddle. I wanted to give her pleasure too. Before I could say a word I heard the shower starting up.

The dinner and cabaret show in Knightsbridge was excellent. The cabaret was actually a series of burlesque performers and soft-core strippers. I wasn’t expecting that, but Sweet Thing didn’t believe me. Nevertheless she seemed to enjoy the night out. Back at the hotel we were both too tired for more whoopee.

On the Sunday morning I got to make a dream come true. We got in my red sports car and drove across Tower Bridge. Since I was sixteen years old I had dreamed of driving across that famous bridge with an attractive blonde by my side. Halfway across the bridge, cognizant of the moment, I looked at her, to savour making a dream come true…and she smiled. A big, misaligned-teeth smile. Damn, so close!

Red sports car Tower Bridge


Parking at the old Millennium Dome cost £20 for four hours; this was an expensive weekend. The private box had a great view over the arena; I’m pretty sure that her previous boyfriend had never done anything like this for her. The Strictly Come Dancing show itself was mildly entertaining for me, but I could see that Sweet Thing was absolutely mesmerised by seeing the television personas in real life. I found my eyes always moving towards Denise Van Outen; if only I had someone as attractive as her by my side.

(Denise Van Outen; my kinda girl www.sofeminine.co.uk/celebrities/album877866/strictly-come-dancing-2012-the-celebrity-line-up-21920566.html )

It was over a two hour drive to get back to her place that Sunday night…which ended in…McDonalds sex!