Tag Archives: Taker

Grenade – Final part

I get a little kick out of seeing some of my cum splatter on her chin and see my Exgf turn her face away in disapproval. “Take it bitch!” I say to myself as I give the last few tugs on the end of my cock, making sure that all my cum has landed on her. Almost all of it is on her breasts and this pearl necklace makes for quite a sight. She comes back to life and without saying a word to me she starts smearing the semen into her breasts. To me that will always be a titillating scene because on a subliminal level it speaks to me of approving of my sperm.

As I look at my Exgf my mind wanders over to something I have recently become aware of: microchimerism. In essence it is a phenomenon in which women carry in their bodies samples of the DNA of the men that they have had unprotected sex with. The material even collects in a woman’s heart and brain. Reading up on this has proven scary and disturbing, but it does explain several things.

The research so far has given credence to the practice of using a condom, but it also hints at our forefather’s belief that women should not be promiscuous. I think I am guilty of carrying that belief within me too, but science is now finally starting to provide physical evidence to what has largely been an ethical and moral debate.

Instead of something strange having come over my Exgf, can it be that too many strangers have cum in her? Has my Exgf now become so addled with the DNA of all her former lovers that she is now this dysfunctional person, incapable of a normal, meaningful relationship?

We fall asleep in my bed like two strangers forced to spend the night together. I like to cuddle and this fuckbuddy scene will never be entirely to my liking because it is a cut-down version of what I really want. However, until I find The One, then this will have to do…and I get to even the score with my Exgf.

I’m awoken the next morning by the sensation of my Exgf sucking my morning-glory. She’s only ever once before woken me up like this and it was in the early days of our relationship. As she became more secure in our relationship her initiating sex died, but today she wants something and is prepared to make an effort. She’s such a manipulative Taker; she can put on quite an act.

Her acting triggers a memory of a funny incident recently. I was on a date with The Wanderer and it was a perfect English Summer’s day. We were walking past a parade of shops along a high street when I distinctly heard my Exgf’s voice. My eyes turned to catch her greeting a guy I had never seen before. They were standing on the pavement where a coffee shop had tables and chairs. From her body language and his movements it was clear to me that this was a first date for them. They awkwardly shook hands and he fumbled an attempt to kiss her cheek. As she turned her head to present her cheek, her eyes caught mine; they went wide in surprise. We both smiled at each other and then resumed our individual conversations.

After a few minutes I told The Wanderer what I had just seen and she insisted that we walk back and pass them on the other side of the road. I guess she wanted to have a good look at my Exgf while I was curious as to what might be happening. The guy, who looked quite a few years younger than my ex, was leaning back in his seat, looking very casual and comfortable. My Exgf was sitting forward on the edge of her seat, her hands and feet together, leaning forward slightly, no doubt in a deliberate attempt to tease him with her ample cleavage. Their body language told me that she was more into him than he was interested in her. I was glad that she was out dating because it meant that soon she was going to be someone else’s problem. Hopefully though she wasn’t sleeping with anybody else. Later that day we swapped a few messages about this incident and we saw the funny side of it. The date led to nothing more between them, at least that’s what she told me.

I’m more awake now and our eyes make contact. It looks like she’s been awake for a while, her eyes are clear and bright.

“You’re not just using me for sex, are you?” she asks, then resumes sucking my cock while maintaining eye-contact.

“Oh no, I’m using you for all sorts of other things too,” I answer with a smile.

She lets off a laugh and resumes sucking away, while I muse to myself that I was being totally honest. I had revenge on my mind. You used me, now I’m using you. Suck it, bitch!

Those are her first words to me this morning? Hmm, it seems that she’s starting to realize what my game is and that there might be no hope of a reconciliation between us. Why else would she ask that question? Suddenly an invisible clock starts ticking above us. The end is approaching for our little arrangement. I have to make the most of this.

An idea comes to me and I get my phone out. I start taking photos of her giving me a blowjob. In our past such activity would have come to an abrupt halt if I did anything like this, but now the dynamic between us has changed unrecognisably. I do what I want and she goes along with it, largely because she wants something and until now thinks acquiescence will lead to reward.

I wonder how many other guys photographed or filmed her sucking them off? How many filmed themselves fucking her? Does she know? Would she even tell me? The thoughts of other guys fucking her fill me with a strange sense of rage. It’s not that I have positive feelings for her, but more her cheapening herself is what disappoints me and that coupled with her deceit that angers me because I was so taken in by her. I totally loved this person who I now think of as so unsuitable for me. I’m angry with myself for letting myself feel what I did for her, but her carefully-crafted version of herself had a lot to do with it. My judgemental streak merging with a need for revenge leads me to think and say crazy things sometimes, such as now.

“Show me how you sucked off all those other guys,” I say to her.

Her eyes close slightly and her eyebrows try to meet as she hears my words. I expect an aggressive response, but she says nothing and keeps sucking away on me.

“Show me how you swallowed so many other guy’s cum,” I add, almost goading her and riding my luck.

My Exgf looks me in the eye, trying to make sense of my utterances but all the while rhythmically moving her head around my phallus. I feel my words and feelings have an effect on my scrotum and I feel my sperm starting their stampede.

“I’m going to cum. I want you to keep going. I want you to suck me dry and swallow my cum,” I instruct.

Without flinching or blinking she keeps going, just like a good whore would. There are probably high-class whores – courtesans – who have sucked off fewer cocks than her.

My back arches as my butt-cheeks clamp tight. Fresh sperm, devoid of pollutant flavourings, shoots forth into her mouth. I can’t see what is pouring out of my cock because my Exgf is keeping her mouth firmly locked around my bell-end, still attentively sucking away on it, seemingly intent on swallowing every little drop of my cum, just like I instructed her to do. She keeps her eyes closed as she does what she does best.

If she ever decided to become a professional whore I reckon she would be popular for her blowjobs alone. She takes her time, seems to enjoy it, is happy to swallow…and she can suck the chrome off a towbar.

“Right, I need to shower and then I’m meeting Sally for brunch,” she says as my cock pops out of her mouth.

As she showers I start to remember her best friend Sally. For reasons unknown to me that bitch never liked me. I think it was because I wouldn’t kowtow to her silly whims and mood-swings. Her and my Exgf became friends in primary school and have been a feature of each other’s lives ever since. Neither of them makes a major decision about anything without consulting the other one first. As independent and strong-willed as my Exgf might be, she will consult with her best friend over anything serious, especially her love-life. I have yet to meet a woman who doesn’t. I guess I’ll be a topic of conversation at today’s get-together, but I really don’t care.

My ambivalence is quite liberating. Truth be told though, it’s largely because online dating sites are starting to feel like my own personal conveyor belt of pussy. I’m learning more about the hearts and minds of women by the week and seduction is no longer a mystery to me. I can replace my Exgf; I was always going to.

I walk my Exgf to her car, feeling hidden, inquisitive eyes in the cross-hairs on my back. I think my neighbours must consider me something of a gigolo because almost every time they see me I’m with a different women. I give my free-whore a cursory kiss goodbye on the cheek, just like I would somebody’s grandmother. As she drives off I can’t help but wonder if that was the last time that she would service me.

So on Wednesday night I fuck the Irish Cougar, then dump her the next night just before my Exgf calls to arrange booty duty. I fuck her on the Friday night and have more fun on Saturday morning. Now it’s Sunday morning and I’m getting ready to meet someone new.

Is this really my life?

Bruno Mars – Grenade

Fucking Irish Cougar

An Autumnal drizzle is trying to douse the embers of anger in my being as I arrive at The Irish Cougar’s friend’s home. I’m helping The Irish Cougar move today to her rich friend’s pad in central London. I’ve driven in motorway traffic during rush-hour for well over an hour. I’ve pre-paid the London Congestion Charge of £11, a toll-charge for driving through the centre of London on a weekday; she better not change her mind or not have the keys for her new place.

Again her friend greets me at the door and as I enter I see boxes crowding the hallway. Good, today’s move seems to be happening. Again the friend ushers me into the kitchen and makes me a coffee. After a few minutes of banter The Irish Cougar joins us and we kiss each other hello on the lips, which makes the friend smile.

Within minutes I’m carrying boxes out to my car in the rain while The Irish Cougar finishes up a few loose ends. Not once does she come out in the rain as I single-handedly pack my car to the gills. I’m a little disappointed in her lack of offering to help me. This serves to feed the seething sensation I have inside me.

We say goodbye to the friend and I squeeze The Irish Cougar into my heavily-laden car. She’s overly chatty and I guess it must be because she’s moving onto a place more private. After almost two hours of dealing with London traffic on a rainy day we arrive at the millionaire’s apartment overlooking Hyde Park. We eventually find a parking spot near the property and I begin unloading the car while The Irish Cougar goes to check the property out, to make sure it is as she expected and that no unwelcome surprises await us.

All is in order and I load as many boxes and whatnot into the lift, unloading again when we get to the upper floor where the three-bedroom apartment is. The Irish Cougar starts unpacking in the apartment while I go off to make another trip with the lift. I really am starting to feel like a hired hand being used for my body. My seething becomes simmering.

Parking in the area is by resident’s permit only so I drive a few miles to go park at a friend’s place. I’m counting on my car being there overnight, because tonight I intend to fuck this woman. Her deceit and selfishness typifies what I feel I have been enduring at the hands of women for years now. I feel justified in exacting a revenge that might just appease my overwhelming sense of outrage that I am beginning to feel towards women.

I catch a bus back to the apartment and that journey takes an hour, so by the time I see The Irish Cougar again she has pretty much finished unpacking. She gives me a tour of this apartment that is easily worth more than a million Pounds, possibly twice that. The lounge alone is bigger than my apartment and it has a raised ceiling, so there’s an impressive feeling of space. The furnishings are new, tasteful contemporary and obviously expensive. The centrepiece is the biggest television I’ve ever seen mounted into a wall and an enormous, plush tan sofa faces it. The adjoining open-plan kitchen is filled with expensive integrated mod-cons that I can only dream of having. Everything is shiny, new and white. The two large bathrooms are floor to ceiling Italian marble, each having a bath big enough for two adults as well as a large shower cubicle. A third smaller bathroom leads off from the main bedroom. The two “smaller” bedrooms are bigger than my bedroom; each has a kingsize bed with built-in wardrobes and ample space for two people to get dressed and not be able to touch each other. The main bedroom has a super-kingsize bed and enough space around it to play a game of badminton. That’s not the game that I have in mind for later though.

“I’m starving. Let’s go have an early dinner,” Irish Cougar squeaks.

Only then do I realize that it’s mid-afternoon; we’ve both been on the go all day. Must keep my energy level up for later I tell myself. The Irish Cougar and I walk along a street that runs parallel with bustling Oxford Street so as to avoid the mindless crowds. As we wait to cross a street I feel that someone is looking at me and my eyes meet a pretty face that I recognize. The woman staring at me is someone I’ve swapped messages with on a dating site but she couldn’t bring herself to actually meet face-to-face. Maybe when I’m done with The Irish Cougar I’ll contact her again. We cross the street and give each other knowing looks and suppressed smiles.

The Irish Cougar wants Italian food so we end up in a little-known side-street littered with quaint eateries and pricey clothing boutiques. It’s after the lunchtime rush and before the evening stampede, so we have the place to ourselves. As she starts telling me more about her friends who have loaned her this amazing property free of charge, it dawns on me that not once today has she said thank you for anything that I’ve done for her.

A small fire of anger sparks in me and it glows while she talks. I’m now not much in the mood for talking. She’s very talkative so she doesn’t notice that I’ve gone quiet. Anybody who truly knows me will tell you that if I go quiet, well, something’s going to happen.

Dessert ends and she asks for the bill. Ah, this must be how she’s going to say thank you, by buying me a meal. It’s the least she can do, right? After all, I laid on a vehicle, petrol, paid the congestion charge, did all the carrying, drove elsewhere to park my car for the night and caught a bus back. I could have spent my day doing other things.

The bill lay on the table, like a piece of shit that nobody wanted to acknowledge. It felt like a showdown between us as to who would blink first, like in a stand-off scene out of a spaghetti Western. The Irish Cougar’s green eyes occasionally peek at the bill from under her dusty sombrero. I chew on a piece of invisible straw, trying to keep my hand away from my wallet that is my side-arm. Shoppers scurry away and a tense silence descends. A plastic bag rolls by like a tumble-weed. A waiter raises his eyes from behind a counter to see if a card has been presented, then slowly lowers his head.

Like that we sit for several minutes, not speaking, barely making eye contact. Nothing and nobody around us is moving. The forlorn bill must feel as welcome as a fart in a space-suit.

Taker!

She’s a fucking Taker!

Why did I not spot this sooner? How did I miss this? My mind races and I realize that all along I’ve been paying for almost everything. Even if someone might have money problems, it’s just a common courtesy to at least say “thank you”.

I decide to end the stand-off, to move the day along, so I pull my wallet out and pay with a credit card. As the waiter leaves The Irish Cougar becomes chatty again. Bitch. That’s what resonates in my mind. Bitch. Shall I say something? Before I get a chance she speaks.

“Can we quickly pop into a Marks and Spencer’s to get some groceries?” she asks.

“There’s also a Tesco nearby,” I respond, testing for any budgetary issue. Tesco is almost half-price by comparison.

“Oh no. I don’t shop at places like that,” she says as we stand and leave.

Places like that? What the hell does that mean? That you’re a snob to boot?

We find the local Marks and Spencer’s and I carry the basket for her. As we go around the store not once does The Irish Cougar ask me if there is anything that I would like. It is my understanding that I’ll be spending the night, so a little breakfast might be called for? Nope, she’s only shopping for herself. As I carry the three little carrier bags that came to seventy Pounds, it occurs to me this is more than the meal I just paid for. The meal I paid for? Hang on, she didn’t say thank you for that either!

Selfish fucking bitch.

It dawns on me that I have felt exactly this way before. It was with Country Girl. I wined and dined her, took her to a concert and she didn’t say thank you either. I should have taken Country Girl back to my place and fucked her. At least then I would have got something for my efforts and money.

Hmm, I’m learning. Fucking an ungrateful bitch is exactly what I’m going to do now. The Irish Cougar has shown me scant respect, consideration and appreciation. I’m going to give her the same. I’m going to do exactly what I want with her. She deserves it.

We pack her groceries away and I start to wonder if The Irish Cougar’s now going to show me the door. After all, she’s done with me now; my purpose for today is served. It has been implied that I’d be spending the night but now I’m not so sure given that I know for certain that she’s a Taker.

“How about we have a bath together?” she says with a naughty look in her eyes.

Game on! It’s playtime!

The Irish Cougar starts running a bath but the water isn’t hot because, as I discover, the hot water cylinder had been switched off. It was going to be a while before the water heated. It’s already dark outside and nightlife in London has started. I’m tired of wasting time, it’s time for action.

I’m standing behind her in the bathroom and pull her towards me, resting her back against my stomach. I start slowly running my hands up and down her body as she tilts her head back and rests it against a shoulder. An earlobe is in easy reach so I kiss it, then lightly suck it, but I resist the urge to give it a little nibble; too early for that, she needs to be more turned on.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Date #36 – The Irish Rose

On the national newspaper’s dating site I feel like a kid in a playground. There are so many attractive and interesting women on there that I don’t really know where to start. A profile that piqued my interest is of a 39 year-old Irish woman who has recently arrived in London. She is quite attractive and her profile is witty and no-nonsense in tone. Half her narrative describes the man she is looking for and I fit it exactly, well, to my mind at least. She stipulates that her man must not have any children and that stands out for me. At this stage of life most men have children, so her pool of potential suitors is small.

There were two things on her profile that do make me pause. One was her stipulating that her ideal man had to be financially comfortable and that he had to be an atheist. I’m agnostic so that is close enough, but it was the money thing that bothered me. Is she a gold-digger?

Everything else in her profile checks out in my mind, including her being divorced. That doesn’t bother me at all, not only because I’ve also been through a divorce, but it shows that she still believes in love even after a big disappointment. Of course I’m assuming that love is what she’s after.

I send off a carefully thought-out approach email that makes mention of something specific in her profile to show that I’ve read her profile and that we have something in common. A couple of hours later she responds and we start swapping humourous messages before I suggest that we meet up. I craftily suggest the coming Wednesday evening because I’ve already arranged to meet the Cat Lady at lunchtime. She agrees to meet on the same night that we first started exchanging messages; I like her decisiveness.

Could she be The One?

It’s now that Wednesday evening and I’m standing on Oxford Street in central London waiting for the women I’m thinking of as the Irish Rose. It’s rush-hour and unfulfilled office workers are pouring out of their daytime prisons and are scurrying about like chickens released from captivity, occasionally bumping into each other, such is their frenzied haste. My thoughts are dominated by my lunchtime meeting with Cat Lady, which was a pleasant and positive encounter. As I’m learning first dates are not of much value because people are on their best behaviour. I’m now of mind that first dates are only really good for is ascertaining physical attraction. Second dates you find out if you have anything in common and can sustain a conversation. By the end of the third date you decide whether you want to keep the conversation going. I force myself to stop thinking of the previous date and focus on the next one.

Irish Rose arrives and I’m immediately struck by how tall and slender she is, bordering on too skinny for me. I like a woman’s body to have something for me to hold onto, not being so delicate that I might break her when I’m on top of her. Nevertheless she has a cheery smile and despite being in work clothes, she’s tastefully dressed in a light blue suit under a light brown raincoat. Autumn is approaching and it might get cooler later, so the raincoat tells me that she thinks ahead. This is also London after all, you can have all four seasons in one day.

We smile at each other and her eyes go wide momentarily; she fancies me. I like the look of her too; her blonde hair rests effortlessly on her shoulders. I kiss her hello on each cheek, French style and she almost blushes. We exchange pleasantries and she too has a squeaky high-pitched voice, just like Cat Lady of earlier today. That’s going to take a bit of getting used to.

There aren’t the stairs of Tower Hill tube station to use as an excuse to offer her my arm, so I don’t do so. Instead I gesture with a hand the direction in which we need to walk and she follows my lead as we engage in light-hearted conversation.

I think that women on dating sites are incredibly brave meeting a total stranger, especially a man who can overpower them. I can only guess that this aspect of modern dating puts some women off so they avoid online dating. Perhaps for some women it’s an exciting adventure, complete with a frisson of sexual adventure. Perhaps for some women it is a painful but necessary evil that they tolerate and they come into their own after a couple of hours once they feel safe in a man’s company? I don’t know but I always assume that it’s the latter so from the outset of my dating days (as I now think of these times), I’ve made a concerted effort to keep in mind a woman’s sense of personal safety. Letting a lady know at the outset of the date where we’re going and what we’ll be doing sets their mind at ease, which also allows them then to focus on me instead of being plagued by a nagging sense of personal security that needs addressing.

“Tonight we’re going to a casino, but first we’ll be having dinner there. Is that alright with you?” I say to Irish Rose.

“Yes, that sounds grand,” she says in the most Irish of accents and expressions.

What I wasn’t telling her was that this was all on a Groupon voucher and it had been a battle to get a reservation for a table for tonight. My dates don’t need to know that kind of detail, but I do wonder if any of them think how much effort I put into a date.

Casinos in Britain are not like their American counterparts. Here they are small, intimate, quieter and classier. Jeans are forbidden and being under the influence of anything results in polite expulsion. It’s the sort of place James Bond could feel comfortable in, martini in hand. The casino that Irish Rose and I are visiting has a quaint, dimly-lit almost romantically quiet restaurant on a floor away from the noise of machines and punters.

At our table I take her raincoat and hang it over the back of her chair which I slide in for her. I sneak a peak at her chest and she’s flat-chested. No matter, not the most important thing; chemistry is. She makes no mention of my taking care of her raincoat nor pushing in her chair for her. That tells me that she’s used to being treated like a lady and/or has the class not to talk about something so mundane.

We settle into polite small-talk and after a while I don’t notice her squeaky, mouse-like little voice. Conversation between us flows easily and smoothly. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at me, which is nice. However, I’ve spotted something which makes me raise an eyebrow. Her throat seems a bit too weathered for a woman her age, but I put that down to the copious amounts of sunshine she has had in her travels around the world. It could also just be the dim lighting in the restaurant.

Dinner is better than expected and the night is going well. We go to the main hall of the casino, taking in the buzz, sights and sounds of this spectacle. Irish Rose seems unimpressed or even moved by it all. I suggest we find a quiet table in a corner and I go get us drinks. I see her fiddling with her handbag as I leave; reaching for her phone to send off a safety call to a good friend I tell myself.

Over drinks we make idle chit-chat, getting to know each other better and providing entertainment for each other. Her laugh is short but hearty; she gets my sense of humour. We get carried away and only have eyes for each other; we could be anywhere in the world, we are so oblivious of our surroundings. As the evening approaches its end I realize that I can’t make up my mind about her, which is unusual for me. Yes, she’s quite attractive and I can see myself sleeping with her. Yes, we match intellectually and conversationally. Yes, we have a similar moral and religious outlook (some serious topics have been discussed).

What’s bothering me or the piece of the puzzle that is missing is whether she’s a Giver or a Taker. Normally after a couple of hours of banter I have an idea about someone, what they’re about, just how selfish they are, but Irish Rose is a closed book in this regard. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not been sitting only answering when spoken to, quite the contrary. She’s been confident and comfortable enough to raise new topics of conversation on her own and asked innocuous questions in diplomatic ways, such as about my previous marriage and its demise. I just don’t have an idea about that side of her. On the basis of that I decide that another date is required.

She’s currently living with friends in a country town outside of London whilst trying to find a place of her own in London. Irish Rose tells me at 10pm exactly that she needs to get going to catch her last train home.

“May I escort you to your preferred Tube station, ma’am?” I say in a fake Southern drawl that makes her smile, drawing on her telling me earlier about her desire to want to visit that part of America.

“I’d like that,” she says with a smile and a mock gesture of fanning herself like a Southern belle.

As we leave the casino I see my opportunity for my cheesy test.

“Do you like chicken?” I ask.

“Yes, why?” she says with a little frown.

“Take a wing then,” I say with a grin to which she guffaws and couples her arm with mine that I’ve extended her way.

As we walk along Oxford Street to Bond Street Tube station, we have to wait at a pedestrian crossing for a light to change. It’s dark and only a few people are wandering around. I turn and smile at her; she smiles back.

I don’t know why I did this but I leaned towards her for a kiss. Before I got a change to stop just short of her face to see if she would reciprocate she leans towards me and our lips lock. I put a hand on her hip and she lets off a little breath. She feels delicate and feminine; I like that.

Her lips are soft and small, her head shudders for a split second and she lets off a sound of satisfaction as we kiss. I sense that she wants to keep going, but as I’ve learned, it’s best to leave a woman wanting more. I pull away and after a couple of seconds she opens her eyes. I say nothing and just smile slightly at her.

“Well, I guess that’s the first kiss out of the way,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.

I escort her to the platform she needs in the Tube station and while we wait the few minutes for the next train we stand kissing like teenagers.

“I don’t suppose you’re free this Saturday?” I ask.

“Yes, I am,” she replies as her train approaches.

“Would you like to get together again?” I ask, pretty much knowing her answer.

“That would be grand,” she says in that innate Irish way and she boards her train.

That was an interesting date because she was enigmatic to me. Then I remember that Irish Eyes and The Wanderer are Irish too. I’ll ignore that fact for now.

So I’m seeing Irish Rose on Saturday and Cat Lady on Sunday.

I’m starting to think that there is nothing as exciting as the promise of a new relationship, but perhaps two relationships even more so…

Date #32 – The Kiwi

The day after Career Girl’s bombshell I decide to create options for myself while deciding what to do about her. A national newspaper has a dating section on their website, so I set up my usual well-tested profile which allows me to trawl through their database of eager, innocent faces. It proves to be a treasure trove of new women whom I’ve not seen on any of the other dating sites that I’ve used in the past year. There are more than a dozen women whom I’d like to meet, but I need to be a subscriber to make contact. I decide to see who contacts me first because it might be a stale database; you only see when last someone was active if you are a subscriber.

The next morning I see that I had 1200 views and 42 emails overnight! Holy shit, I’ve hit a gold mine! I don’t know where to start. A quick review of who has written to me reveals that the usual majority of messages are from chain-smoking single mothers who are recently separated, dependent on state benefits and who live nowhere near me. I have better things to do with my time than to answer their messages; if I answer one it’s only fair that I answer all, so I answer none.

I’m seeing that there’s a Rule of Fours at play when it comes to online dating. One in four emails that I send off get a response. One in four of responses leads to a date. One in four dates leads to sex. So far none have lead to love. Maybe I’ve been using the wrong dating sites and now I’ve stumbled into a Nirvana of smooth pussies and golden hearts? I subscribe so quickly that my credit card feels dizzy.

An almost 6 foot tall blonde New Zealander stands out because of her looks and words. Her witty narrative is one of a cultured, well-travelled woman who knows what she wants and has to offer. I like decisiveness in a woman; it’s a remnant of my ex-wife’s inability to decide over the smallest of things. The Kiwi’s three photos are all of an enigmatic toothless smile, but there is a mischievous sparkle to her eyes.

The only thing that grates a little is that The Kiwi is three years older than me, but that’s not a deal-breaker for me. As I’ve grown older the notion of being with a woman slightly older than me has become less of an issue. As a younger man I steadfastly believed that ‘my woman’ just has to be younger than me. It seemed the natural order, but my Exgf was a year older and the age gap – a perception more than a reality – was never a problem of any kind. What I’m not sure of is at what point does an age-gap become a problem?

The Kiwi and I quickly engage in positive email ping-pong and agree to meet up on the coming Saturday. I’ve spent too many nights swapping emails with women who never really want to meet up. If a woman wants to meet me, she’ll agree to this sooner rather than later. Any hesitation or excuses and I move on. I’m learning that there are women who enjoy the attention of men, like to feel pursued, want to feel like the centre of the dating world, but ultimately are not ready for a relationship. Well, at least not the kind of relationship that I want, i.e. long-term, loving, caring, sharing, supportive…and the best sex I’ve ever had.

Could The Kiwi be the One?

It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m making my way into London to meet The Kiwi. My blood feels electric because of all that has happened in the last few days. On Tuesday I had a pleasant date with Career Girl until she hit me with her bombshell, so I’m still not sure what to do about her. To gain a sense of perspective joining another dating site has led to a deluge of potential matches for me. I’ve been swapping messages with several women and the first date from all this is about to happen.

I get to King’s Cross Station to find that the Northern Line is closed all weekend for repairs so I have to jump in a cab to get me to Highgate where The Kiwi has suggested we meet. I hate being late and a bus would have taken forever; I don’t want to start the date badly. My eyes grow bigger as I watch the meter in the taxi rocket out of control. To make matters worse I discover that I have almost no cash on me. I pay the cabbie with a credit card and reflect on the fact that this date has not started well for me. It was about to get worse.

I’m a few minutes late as I stroll around the beer garden of a famous pub, looking for The Kiwi. It’s a beautiful sunny day, perfect for an al fresco date; I’m looking forward to this. By process of elimination I figure out that a woman sitting under an awning by herself reading a paperback must be her.

Oh fuck! Not again! Just how old were those photos?! Why do women insist on doing this?!

Her facial features and frame are her, but The Kiwi looks a lot older than her photos let on. Her wrinkles are pronounced and her salt-n-pepper hair colour – not the lustrous blonde of her pictures – is perhaps a lame attempt to camouflage her grey hairs. She is dressed smartly in new blue jeans, a silky white blouse and dark blue cardigan, so she’s made an effort there. Nevertheless I once again feel deflated because her deceit is a sour note to begin things on before a word has even been spoken.

I take a deep breath and walk up to her, secretly hoping that it isn’t her and that the woman I was expecting to meet is about to appear out of nowhere. Saying her name leads to her looking up and her eyes go wide for a split second. It is the Kiwi and at least she likes what she’s seeing. She stands and I kiss her politely on each cheek as we make the customary polite noises. Suddenly this afternoon feels like it’s going to be a long one.

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask.

“Oh, yes please. Could I have a gin and tonic please,” she answers with a smile.

I go off to the bar, letting out a deep breath that I realise I’ve been holding in all day. Even nowadays, after so many dates, a little bit of nerves creeps in. Perhaps it’s a necessary part of the dating experience? After all, I know that one day I shall meet The One and I will need to be on top form. Today is not that day; I know that already. I’m also overcome by a sense of shame and guilt because I feel that I’m cheating on Career Girl, even though we’ve only had two dates and not promised each other anything. How would I feel if I knew that she was on a date with another guy? I wouldn’t be impressed, that’s for sure.

The Kiwi is playing safe with a gin and tonic, giving me the impression that she’s a seasoned dater, but at least she’s keeping her wits about her and controlling her alcohol intake; I respect her self-control. Returning to her I take a seat in the sun opposite her while she sits in the shade; sitting next her would seem inappropriate. Is she trying to protect her skin from the sun? It’s a bit late for that.

We engage in the usual opening small-talk about our jobs. She tells me of her days working for an advertising agency, but secretly harbouring a desire to be a housewife, but without the hassle of children to look after. I start to wonder if she’s a Taker.

“So what would you do every day if you were a housewife?” I ask, fishing for incriminating evidence.

“Whatever I feel like doing that day. If it’s Summer I’d do a spot of gardening. If it’s Winter I’d read a good book all day. I can easily do that. Perhaps meet up with my girl friends once a week for a bit of gossip,” she says with a smile.

Taker!

“If you don’t mind me asking, whereabouts in London do you work at the moment?” I ask, sensing a lack of the London vibe in her, that focussed attitude tinged with stress.

“I’m a lady of leisure at the moment. I’m on gardening leave having just been made redundant by my agency,” she says with a smile that tells me not to ask any more questions about her working life.

“As it happens, I’m on gardening leave too,” I tell her, partly wanting to make her feel better if hers is more negative than she’s letting on and partly because I want to check her reaction.

“Oh, well then, you know what it’s like. This is the fourth time I’ve been made redundant. I love the gardening leave,” she says cheerily with a little snigger.

I’ve never heard of anyone being made redundant so many times. Hmm, is there an attitude problem in the workplace or is she as lazy as she’s starting to appear? She must be a masterful resume writer.

“How come you chose this pub? Does it have some kind of significance for you?” I ask, trying to sound innocent, knowing full-well it’s reputation for celebrity-spotting.

“I live down the road, over there,” she says, pointing to a row of terraced houses.

How convenient for you, I think to myself. How much did it cost me to get here? I don’t want to think about it.

“Have you lived here long?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation going. I’m getting bored of her now. She’s not The One.

“I only moved here three months ago when my boyfriend and I split up. Then I got the news at work. Change all round for me at the moment,” she answers trying to sound as positive as she can.

Oh great, she’s even on the rebound. A real prize catch. Do I fancy her? No. Do I want to have sex with her? No. Do we share any kind of chemistry? No. I make a mental note to analyse on the train home what I could have done to have averted this date. What should I have asked or thought of before suggesting that we meet?

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry,” The Kiwi suddenly says.

We order lunch and I end up paying. She makes no offer to pay for even her half and it seems that she is expecting me to pay. I don’t mind paying, but her presumptuousness rankles. She’s a Taker, a greedy, self-centred person. A primadonna.

As we sit and indulge in more mindless small-talk, after an hour it occurs to me that not once has she asked a question about me. I take that as a sign that she’s not interested in me, which actually suits me fine. I can’t help wonder if she actually looked like her photos that my behaviour and the nature of the date would be entirely different. I inclined to say so.

After lunch she suggests going for a walk and that surprises me. I think that the date is a disaster but perhaps she’s enjoying herself? I don’t care, but agree to the stroll because I don’t know the area that well and it might be useful for a future date…with someone else.

We wonder around lush Highgate Cemetery, making fun of lost tourists who are trying to find Karl Marx’s grave. As we walk and talk the conversation turns to past relationships. She’s had more than her fair share and in passing she mentions committing my sexual foible. I say nothing and my demeanour doesn’t change, but inwardly I’m seething. I’ve spent all this time and money on someone totally unsuitable. I decide to end the encounter.

“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I need to get going now,” I say politely. Yeah, I need to go change my belly-button fluff; that’s more fun than being with you.

The Kiwi stands with me waiting for a bus to take me back to King’s Cross. The bus can’t come soon enough for my liking. I start telling her about my idea for writing a blog about my dating experiences; she seems uncomfortable with the idea and conversation dies. The bus is slow in coming and eventually The Kiwi runs out of patience and makes her excuses and leaves. I’m relieved.

Later in the evening she sends me a text message that reads, “Thank you for a lovely lunch. Sorry, I should have waited with you at the bus stop. Hope the journey home wasn’t too arduous. X

The next day I respond with my standard polite brush-off text message. The Kiwi responds with a flimsy message that I instantly forget.

This date left me with a bitter taste in my mouth, but it doesn’t matter because by Sunday lunchtime I almost have another date lined up for the coming week; this time it’s with a musician…who plays a wind instrument! She has oral skills.

I still need to clarify my thoughts and feelings about Career Girl though. My Exgf is making noises about wanting to get together for my birthday.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Perhaps as woman age they are more inclined to lie about their age and photos. 2) I should be more prescriptive about where to meet 3) I should be more choosy about how much I spend on a date.

Marina and the Diamonds – Primadonna Girl

Country Girl turns Schizo

It’s noon on Saturday and Country Girl is about to arrive at my place. I’m so excited about today and seeing her, spending it with her, having good, clean fun with her, enjoying a great day together. This is what I want my life to be like. This could the start of everything I’ve been hoping for.

The Killers concert is later tonight, but I’ve got a whole day of running wild in London with Country Girl planned. At the back of my mind is the idea that we might end up spending the night together, but I’m not counting on it as I feel it’s too soon for us. That’s also balanced out by the Apartment Test, where I get to see if she’s interested in me or after a man with money, but I’m not focussing on that. A day of fun beckons!

Her town doesn’t have a train service into London, while mine has a fast service, so she agrees to drive to my town and we’ll catch a train into London. At the appointed time my doorbell goes and I’m pleased to see her. She gives me an angelic smile as I open my door for her. My heart skips a beat at the sight of her.

“Your place isn’t easy to find,” she says cursorily.

“Yes, perhaps I should have said for you to text me when you get here and I’ll come fetch you,” I say, giving her a polite kiss on the lips and gesturing for her to enter my apartment.

“I just need to put my shoes on and then we can get going,” I tell her.

I fiddle with my shoes in the hallway and watch with interest as she walks into my lounge. I see her facial complexion change, she bites down and I see her jaw clench. She’s unimpressed by what she sees. I notice her shoulders drop a little too.

She doesn’t say another word and I can see on her face that she’s not happy. I’m a little surprised and disappointed at her reaction to my home. I wonder what she was expecting? A millionaire’s penthouse?

I just smile, knowing what I’m capable of and that this place is just a temporary stepping stone. I’m used to far better and I’ll get there again, but until then it’s serving a surprise purpose of pointing out gold-diggers to me.

Is Country Girl a gold-digger? Is she a Taker?

We walk to my train station where I buy us tickets that allow us unlimited train travel around London. Country Girl doesn’t say a word, no “thank you” I note. We sit next to each other on the train and conversation is scarce. She’s more interested in looking out the window. I tell myself she’s taking in more countryside, it’s her thing after all.

Once in London we make our way to the first destination that I have lined up. It’s at a newly-opened Hilton hotel next the Thames in central London. While walking I try to make small-talk but Country girl isn’t interested. In fact, she’s starting to seem a little withdrawn.

At the reception to the restaurant where we’ll be having lunch, the manager finds the booking I had made during the week and mentions that it’s “for the Groupon deal”. I notice Country Girl clench her jaw. I really didn’t need him mentioning that but now the cat’s out the bag. Maybe he’s done me a favour?

Once seated I try to strike up conversation but Country Girl only answers with short sentences. It seems words are expensive today. As we make our way through a truly sumptuous, luxurious seafood platter and a bottle of Italian wine, I sit there thinking what I might have said or done, or not said or not done to have upset her. I cannot think of a single thing that might have caused her umbrage.

Lunch over and I say to her with a smile, “Right, now onto the next stop on our magical mystery tour.”

Her response? Silence.

As I lead her along the South Bank to our next experience, it occurs to me that she didn’t say thank you for lunch either. We walk in silence and I tell myself that she’s just taking it all in. Maybe she’s forgotten what London’s like, she’s spending so much time with the birds, bees and trees. I make excuses for her behaviour.

We sit down a while later in a quaint, quirky, brightly-coloured coffee and tea shop hidden away on the South Bank. We didn’t have dessert in the Hilton and I thought this a nice way of killing time until the Killers concert at Wembley Stadium. In my mind’s eye earlier in the week when I was planning all this, I envisaged us sitting and chatting away merrily, getting to know one another, having a good time.

Instead we sit in stony silence, hardly making eye contact, pretending to be people-watching. I’m racking my brain, trying to figure out what to do here. Should I politely ask if something is the matter? Should I tackle the crisis head-on or should I uncharacteristically be patient and wait for her to warm up, to become the person I was so excited about meeting that first night? I decide to play it cool and be patient.

Perhaps something bad has happened and she’s still processing it? Perhaps I have indeed said or done something wrong and eventually she’ll talk to me about it? Perhaps she’s on her period and this is how she is when it’s that time of the month? My ex-girlfriend became a total bitch for three days a month, so much so that I would make a concerted effort to keep out of her way. On and on I go, making excuses for her.

The time arrives when we have to start making our way to Wembley Stadium. We leave the coffee and tea shop and again I notice that Country Girl doesn’t say thank you for my having bought everything there. She seems to have left her manners at home today.

On the train to Wembley we hardly say a word. She’s in her trench and I’m in no-man’s land, feeling slightly shell-shocked at her behaviour. Who is this person? I’m not feeling angry, just confused. What the hell is going on here?

Inside the stadium she says that she’s feeling cold, so I buy her a coffee…and she doesn’t say thank you.

My father was a great one for sayings. One of his favourites was, “The more you do for people, the less they appreciate it.” I had always disliked that saying of his, finding it rather cynical and distasteful. However, today I’m starting to agree with him.

We find our seats and the opening act is already under way. There’s a great atmosphere in the stadium and it’s an impressive sight, all those people thronging together, looking at an elaborate stage. Ever the optimist I try to make more small talk with Country Girl but still her answers comprise single words.

Now I’m starting to get fed up. I don’t know what her problem is, but I don’t like it. I don’t deserve this. I should be here with someone who is crazy about me and not silently crazy at me. Then I remember that I had bought these tickets in the belief that I would be here with Krazy Girl. I would so much more have preferred to be here with her, instead of with this sulky cow.

Another couple take up their seats next to us and the woman is sitting next to Country Girl. The opening act leaves the stage and an expectant hush fills the massive venue; everyone is ready to see The Killers. Country Girl turns to the woman next to her and starts a conversation with her. She’s animated and friendly towards this stranger, her normal self again, totally ignoring me.

The Killers come on stage in a blaze of lights, fireworks and special effects…Country Girl and the other woman continue with their excited little conversation. I can’t believe it. What have I done wrong to be experiencing this? As the concert gets going, their chat continues and I’m overcome by a strange feeling. I’m all alone and now feeling lonely, surrounded by 80 000 people…and a weirdo next to me.

All attraction I had felt for her is now gone. All the good feelings I had been feeling are now stone cold dead. All the things I have been hoping for from the future feel further away than ever before. Halfway through the concert and they’re still chatting, pausing occasionally to listen to a popular tune. Still she ignores me. I make up my mind that I won’t be seeing her again after tonight.

I look down amongst the crowd, looking to see if there’s anything to lift my now deflated mood. All I can see is happy couples, holding hands or bopping along together. I want to be like them. I want to be with someone that wants to do that with me, someone who wants to be with me. I don’t want to be with this horror-show by my side. Despite my best efforts, despite my plans, bookings and money spent, I feel like a failure because it was all for nothing.

The Killers start playing ‘Smile Like You Mean It’ and for some reason Country Girl turns to me and gives me a smile, a fake smile. Her eyes weren’t smiling. She turns away and strikes up a conversation with her new friend again. What the fuck was that about? Am I seeing the real her now? Am I finding out why she’s single? Is she schizo? Is this why she works in nature conservation, because she can’t get along with people? Is this why she was an accountant, she’s more comfortable with numbers?

After the concert we’re queuing to get on the train that would take us back to my town. We stand side by side and we don’t say a word to each other. She only speaks to complain about how long it’s all taking. There’s ample time and opportunity for her to thank me for taking her to the concert, but it isn’t forthcoming. I’ve had enough of her and I never want to see her again.

We sit in silence on the train back to my town. I can’t wait to get the hell away from her. I have no interest in even speaking to her. Her behaviour has been disgusting and appalling. I’m starting to feel angry. I can do much better than her; I deserve better than her. She’s a Taker and possibly a gold-digger too. Her attitude changed once she had seen my apartment, that’s the only thing I can say for sure.

Eventually we’re standing next to her car parked outside my place. She just stares at me blankly. I guess she must be all talked-out from the concert and her throat must be sore.

“Tell me, do you think we’re right for each other?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” she says.

“I don’t think we are. Goodbye,” I say and walk off.

She seems to think that cold, aloof behaviour is acceptable, so how does she like it now?

What I really wanted to say is, “Fuck off, you ungrateful fucking little bitch!” but I have more class than that.

The next day I’m telling my best friend of my bitter disappointment. He laughs and trots out his mantra, “These bitches be crazy. Give it time. They’ll show you the crazy.” I’m starting to think he’s right.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Don’t get my hopes up until she’s passed the Apartment Test 2) Find a way of figuring out quickly if she’s a Giver or a Taker 3) By a third date the real person starts to come through.

The Killers – Smile Like You Mean It