Tag Archives: The Cockaholic

Date #56 – The Artist

I was browsing my Happy Humping Ground dating website in the middle of 2014 having just ended it with Busty Blonde when I spotted a face that equalled perfection in my mind. It was desire of all kinds at first sight. Her profile was short but enticing, I just knew that I’d be seeing her one day…I just knew. However, always the pragmatist I told myself that the likelihood of her writing back to me was small because she’s new on the site and probably swamped with emails from guys. I’ll give it a little time and then make more of an impact once she’s dealt with the clowns that descend on a new profile like piranhas to a swimming tapir.

I then become embroiled with The Brazilian, The Saffa, The Busty Czech and The Cockaholic and go on other dates. Time flies by and I still think of her every time I think of that dating site. Over Xmas 2014 the site gives me a free weekend of messaging and I decide to make contact with her. I was disappointed to see that her profile had disappeared. I make contact with a few other prospects but nothing comes of it.

It doesn’t matter because I’m still bewildered by my experience with The MILF of Xmas and all my raunchy but soul-sapping dating experiences before that. I drunkenly step up to verge of suicide and in splendid isolation fight my own demons for a while.

I forget about her and the site until one night at the end of January 2015 I spot her on Tinder, but we didn’t match. I’m surprised to see her on there, but I guess Tinder is mainstream now.

It’s now late February 2015 and I’m disenchanted with online dating, especially the free sites. Looking at my spreadsheet of my dating history, I can clearly see that 80% of my dates off free sites were bad ones and 80% off paid-for sites were good dates. I hide my free dating site profiles and unhide my profiles on Happy Humping Ground and the national newspaper’s dating site.

On the Happy Humping Ground I’m pleased to see that the profile that captured my attention is back online. I notice too that the website has introduced an innovation whereby users can ‘like’ each other’s photos. I ‘like’ her main photo, the one I find mesmerising, add her profile to my ‘favourites’ and leave it at that. There’s no guarantee she’ll notice my attention nor even act on it. I go exploring other profiles on the website, not expecting to hear anything from her.

A couple of hours later my blood turns cold and my face drops when I see that she’s sent me a message, but I can’t read it because I’m not a subscriber. I instantly decide to subscribe, but first I do a search to find a discount code because this site is getting pricey. I can’t let this opportunity pass me by. I’ll always wonder what could have been.

Her message simply reads, “Thank you for liking my photo.

I find it underwhelming, but I haven’t subscribed for nothing. I want to at least meet her, I’m that taken with her. I do a Google Images search and find out her name, her job and her Facebook account. She’s almost five years younger than me. A photo on Facebook hints that she has enormous breasts, g-cup minimum. All her photos of herself are of her with a tight-lipped smile. Does she have bad teeth, I wonder? Something that bothers me a little is that her eyes are almost lifeless and sad if I really study them. I think they suggest a history of hurt, so I know to proceed slowly with her. Is she another Misery?

I find out what kind of art she specializes in and it’s not too far removed from my own passing interest in that genre. She even lectures on the subject in London. So, she’s a teacher of kinds; that means she’ll be a bit intense if my other experiences with teachers are anything to go by. I decide to message her and ask what art she is into and tell her of my passing interest in something similar.

I think of her as The Artist.

My ruse works, she’s intrigued and a flurry of messages ping-pong across the internet all Sunday afternoon. Every time one of her messages comes in, my heart skips a beat. It feels almost like I’m starting dating again and it feels good. I suggest meeting up and she agrees, so we fix a day and swap phone numbers. I send her a text message and she quickly responds. We’re set to meet on Wednesday, which feels like an eternity away. Conversing with her feels good. I can’t wait to meet her.

On Monday morning I get the idea in my head to talk to her on the phone. I’m aware that I might be getting carried away here so I want a reality check. I send her a text message suggesting that we talk in the evening. I’ve never been a fan of a so-called ‘screening call’. In my dating experience nothing good has ever come from it, yet I feel the need to do so with The Artist.

An hour later she responds with a firm “I’m not a fan of phone-calls with strangers.” Her response surprises me and reminds me of Baltic Babe in its directness and frankness. Not necessarily a bad thing in my book as it shows some strength of character. I back-peddle, make a joke about wanting to see if she had a deeper voice than me and press on with fixing a place to meet on Wednesday. Have I blown it?

No, she’s still interested and asks me to suggest where to meet. I take the lead and suggest my tried and tested spot outside Tower Hill Tube station. I’ve taken so many other dates to St Katharine Docks, why not her too? It’ll help my performance if it’s on familiar ground. I respond with, “I’m going to take you to my favourite place in the world…

Her response starts with “That sounds exciting…

Is she as sweet as she seems or is she bored and just using dating as a social outlet, pampering her ego by having men buy her meals and drinks, like many women on the dating scene seem to do? Time will tell.

Am I seeing what’s there, or am I projecting what I want? In recent dates I’ve paid more attention to the build-up to the first date. I’ve tried to make it feel more like a romance that is is unfolding, trying to make a fairytale come true, just in case whoever I’m interacting with is The One.

I keep telling myself that she’s highly unlikely to be The One, that she’s too artsy-fartsy for me. That she’s too high-brow for me and I’m just a bit of rough in her world. However, the heart wants what the heart wants. The last time I was this excited about meeting someone was Krazy Girl, almost two years ago to this day.

It feels like I’ve come full circle, going to the dating website where it all began 32 months ago. I’m concerned that I’m becoming desperate to find love. I know I’m in the danger zone where it’s easy to make a mistake, a mistake to get involved with somebody all wrong for me or a mistake while pursuing someone so right for me. I know that tomorrow I’ll need to draw on all my skills and experience to deliver the correct image of a polished man. I must at all costs avoid coming across as desperate.

For some reason this feels like a date with destiny. It’s possibly desperation on my part kicking in, but I like to think that I know a good thing when I see it.

Could she be The One?

To be continued…

Psychopath love

I’ve been seeing someone I haven’t told you about, someone I used to know. Over the course of just over a year my ex-girlfriend (Exgf) and I have met for coffee and a chat; that’s all. It has always occurred at her request and I’ve always gone along with it because I still have a lot of money tied up in the house we used to call home. I’ve given of my time because it has been in my interest to do so, in a vain, almost desperate hope that one day that money will be returned to me. I’d rather have nothing to do with her, but our catch-ups (as I think of them) has turned out to serve the purpose of furthering my education about women, relationships and myself.

Ever since the date with the English Shrink and the resulting epiphany that my ex-girlfriend is the archetypical psychopath I have seen her as something of an experiment, an opportunity to learn more about the inner workings of a psychopath by being able to go behind the scenes. I have been careful to not let her unpredictable appearances influence me in any way. My seeing her as a stone-cold manipulator makes it easier to feel nothing for her and believe very little that she says. I’ve been pleased by how little sway she has had with me, especially when I was having serious doubts about Busty Blonde or absolutely single.

I was seeing Busty Blonde until June 2014, then a plethora of short-term flings that you have read about in detail afterwards. Not once did I initiate contact with Exgf.

Here’s what transpired in that year.

17th February 2014
Just had my Exgf on phone telling me that a boyfriend from when she was 21 has made a reappearance and wants to see where things lead. I offered to check him out online for her, but I find very little. I feel she deserves happiness like anyone else. I happen to know what happened when they were a young couple; it all unravelled because of her. My concern is that the leopard has not changed its spots. She tells me that he has just come out of a long-term marriage. To my mind he’s on the rebound and regressing emotionally, hence seeking her out. Nothing can come of it in the long run because both their motivations are bad and not the same.

20th March
My Exgf called me up at lunchtime, just like she did the day before. The previous day’s call had no real point to it other than to chat it seemed. Today’s call was to suggest meeting up in my town for a quick coffee. Out of curiosity I oblige and we meet outside my apartment and go to the local Costa. She is chatty about her new job and the training she has just started. I’m paying close attention to what questions she asks, and unsurprisingly, it is about Busty Blonde. I can’t believe my bad luck when my nosey ex-neighbour walks into the coffee-shop. The neighbour’s face when she sees with my Exgf is priceless.

The discussion turns at my Exgf’s insistence towards women and their sexuality. She asks me how I reconcile myself to the fact that I want to do nasty things, like have a woman use a bottle as a dildo on herself, but am disapproving of a woman who has done such things with another guy. It’s a fair question and one that I do not answer because I am more curious about why she is asking this. I don’t ask about her motivations nor did I give the answer to her question. The unspoken answer to her question is thus: I feel no desire for a defiled woman, but I do feel attraction for a woman that I can defile and defiling her is an exquisite sensation. Why? Simple, just like so many sexual encounters, there is a transfer of power, from the one allowing herself to be defiled to the one in control of what is happening. It’s a glorious ego-trip, plain and simple. That good ol’ male ego is alive and well within me still.

My Exgf told me that she had two platonic male friends, both of whom have recently tried their luck with her, but she swatted them off. She tells me that she is still holding out for an encounter with her ex-boyfriend from over 20 years ago. I feel nothing emotionally upon hearing that, whereas I think she was checking me for a reaction. My Exgf and I went for a walk around the high street and then go our separate ways, neither of us making noises about meeting again.

14th May
My Exgf phones me, telling me that she started her new job as a flight attendant and then drops by innuendo the fact she has started seeing a guy – an Irish hotelier – and it involves sex. I feel absolutely nothing. I think all the negative feelings that I harboured for her are gone. She is truly nobody to me now. If she was hoping to hear a jealous or shocked response from me she must have been bitterly disappointed.

1st June 2014
My Exgf phones me out of the blue; her usual work situation had come about. After only two weeks as an air stewardess she was at odds with everybody and going to senior management about it. She’s a very slow learner; this happens wherever she works. It’s all part of her psychopathic being in that everything is always someone else’s fault.

She tells me that she hadn’t seen her new boyfriend in over a week. They had been on five dates and slept together on one of them. The most recent date was a breakfast meeting only because she was summoned to work at short notice after having invited him over. Less than an hour after arriving at her place she had to go to work. She hasn’t heard from him since and can’t figure out why.

He mentioned to her that he was going to a jazz club in London that week, but that he only had one ticket which he was grateful to have got. Exgf didn’t believe him and phoned the club, asking about the ticket sales for the event that he was attending. The club confirmed that ticket sales had been brisk and sold out quickly. She’ll never change, her own tricky nature causes her to see the same in other people.

17th June 2014
Just had Exgf sitting on my sofa telling me about her new shitty job and how good her new boyfriend is in bed but how ugly he is. Listening to this shit I wondered to myself, “What the hell did I ever see in you? What was the massive attraction? Why did I feel the things that I did for you?”

If I were to come across her profile today I wouldn’t even read it. I really can’t remember why I felt that she was The One; the person I would spend the rest of my life with. Tonight I couldn’t wait for her to leave, so much has my disdain for her grown.

I think that with time we all move on emotionally, imperceptibly, but we do. I now seriously doubt that it is normal for a couple to have a permanent relationship that lasts all their lives. It’s just not natural.

11th August 2014
Whenever I interact with Exgf via my phone, to me it feels like I’m dealing with a prostitute. I was curious to hear what she had been up to, a form of cheap thrills for me and more lessons in my never-ending education about women, love and relationships.

2nd September 2014
I get a call at ten in the morning from my Exgf as she woke up. She has a hair appointment in my town and wants to catch up. I’m suspicious about her motives but wonder if she is bringing me a birthday present. She comes to my place and uses the toilet, making mention of all the long blonde hairs that are on the bathroom wall. I made a mental note to wash those walls down before another woman comes to visit me.

We go to a Costa Coffee and I’m happy to let her buy me the biggest coffee I can order. It is nice to get some money back off her. Exgf sat and ate while I regale her with my shenanigans with the Busty Czech and The Saffa. I do this to tease her, toy with her, like she used to with me, except I was too blind to see it when we were a couple. Then it was her turn to tell me of her dating exploits. The Irish hotelier was still on the scene, but she knows it’s never going to amount to anything. After a bit of badgering by me she agreed that, in effect, he was just a friend with benefits.

When Exgf arrived, it was obvious to me from how she was dressed that she was on her way to a date. So I chide her about it. She tells me it was indeed a date, happening in a few hour’s time. It’s with a guy she has seen twice before. She likes him as a person but wouldn’t have sex with him. I pointed out that her boobs were noticeably on display, to which she responded, “Well, that’s just to show him what he won’t be getting”.

Even now I find her breasts very attractive. I’ve forgotten how they felt in my hands; it’s been almost a year. When I’m feeling horny, instead of watching porn, I watch the two videos I made with her. I still find them incredibly arousing.

Exgf tells me more about her date, speaking glowingly about their common interests, how loaded he was, how he had rich family in my town, how we was a prize catch for someone who fancied him. It was interesting to see her speaking of this guy in terms of being a material prize. She was more about the money than I had realized. Exgf claimed that her issue with him was that he was somewhat low-class and not very intelligent, but she enjoyed his company nevertheless. She says that, but I could see her letting him fuck her anyway; a pity-fuck. Perhaps she’d let him finger her; she always liked that. In a reciprocal gesture she’d probably suck him off because she wouldn’t think twice about doing that. I know her better now.

We parted ways and to my surprise she hugs and kisses me. A couple of times earlier, walking from my place and in the shop, she had made unnecessary physical contact. My hours in the gym are having an effect; she likes my muscles, but they’re not meant for her.

Back home I later started baiting her with suggestive text messages. I suggested that she was very welcome to come back to avail herself of the champagne bottle that she had used as a dildo the previous year. Her responses were one of indignation, but I know that they had an effect, not that she liked them, but that she would be thinking about it for days to come. After our years together I know how to turn her on and it involves days of planting naughty ideas in her head that she eventually had to fulfil. Turn a woman’s mind on and her body will follow.

I asked her what show she would be giving me this year for my birthday. Would I want to watch her doing something sexual with an object or another man – and film it? Yes, such is my disregard for her and showing just how much I see her as merely a sexual object in my world.

21st September
Exgf and her Irish boyfriend had met the Queen at Windsor castle at a soiree there. Exgf told me a few months earlier that once this event was over that she would dump him. I reminded her of this and she replied that things were getting interesting and that “he knew many, many people”. I chided her with, “So you’re using him for contacts and he’s using you for sex?” She replied with “what makes you think I’m not using him for sex too?” So, she doesn’t fancy him and knows that there is no long-term future, but she’s still shagging him and looking to exploit his contacts. Charming.

After that conversation I sat thinking of my experience with The Brazilian and how disappointed I was with that outcome. I wondered if she was just using me for a quick roll in the hay; probably. Is The Saffa doing the same with me?

2nd October
As usual she comes to my town for a plausible reason which I suspect is one of her endless lies. She can not get through a day without telling a lie, whereas I go years without lying. We go to a local pub where I buy us pizzas and beers. We sit on a sofa and chat like a normal couple would. She tells me about her money troubles and problems with colleagues at work; some things will never change with her. She has always chewed the skin on her thumbs to pieces when stressed so I try to take a thumb in my hand. I was expecting her to pull away or look shocked, but instead she turns and looks at me with tenderness in her eyes and grips my hand affectionately with hers. She quickly lets go when she realizes what she had done. “I just want to look at the state of your thumb,” I said. She still wants me, but I don’t feel the same way. She’s just a source of amusement to me now.

Later in the encounter she proudly tells me that she is seeing four guys, but only sleeping with the Irishman. One guy she fancies, one she likes as a person and the other gets no mention. She asks me if she still gives the best blowjob in my opinion. I find that question strange.

23rd October
She phones me to say that she’s down in the dumps and can do with some cheering up. We meet outside my block and walk to a nearby coffee shop. She’s tense, but I know she’s stressed, as usual, so I decide to be polite and civil. I have no agenda for the encounter. We talk about nothing in particular, I think she badly wanted to be distracted; she gets bored very easily. I think it’s a contributing factor to her promiscuous past. She tells me that she finally dumped the Irishman.

We end up back at my place where I make us lunch because she had mentioned not having any food in her house. I feel sorry for her, for a variety of reasons. She wolfs the curry down and I can see that she’s intent on just wasting time with me, while I have work that I’d rather be getting on with. I orchestrate movements such that she feels compelled to leave. If she wanted to suck me off, I would have let her, but she’s made it very plain that that’s “never going to happen again”. The way I know her, the fact she keeps saying it, means she’s thinking about it.

Later in the day she sends me two text messages, “Thank you for cheering me up. I do appreciate it,” followed by, “But you’re still not getting in my knickers”. I respond with, “You need to get yourself tested and ask me for it before you get that privilege,” which I know will focus her mind. I know it also gives me the upper hand.

The next night, a Friday night, she phones to ask if I’d like to go away to Sharm el Sheikh with her. She can get very cheap flights and knows how to get cheap hotels there. If I wasn’t keen on The Cockaholic or seeing anyone else, I’d be tempted. I know we’d end up fucking but that would complicate life between us. So I decline her offer, citing a lack of money, but I can hear that she’s disappointed. She retorts by saying that she’ll ask the guy she dumped a few days ago if he’d like to go.

4th January 2015
The past few months have seen little interaction with the Exgf, which has suited me. I’m finding each encounter with her increasingly pointless other than to remind me of how wrong about someone I can be. She comes around randomly when she has time off and probably bored. She kept seeing the Irishman with connections, using him, not ever feeling anything for him. They were just friends with benefits. She valued the fact that he used a condom when fucking her, but moaned about the fact that he refused to manscape and would often just lie there and she had to do the work.

She stayed on several dating sites, notably Plenty of Fish (PoF), which she claimed just kept options open and gave her something of a social life. I can see the similarities with her early adult years in that she loved the attention. She kept dating a guy who was a keen gardener, something that she appreciated, but wasn’t attracted to him. She dated several other guys at the same time, but was just being fucked by the Irishman and enjoyed the company of the gardener.

Eventually she tired of both of them, citing incompatible work schedules with the Irishman and lack of desire with the other. She said that she did get off with the gardener a few times and would feel his cock, but it was too small for her liking. She claimed only to have felt it, never more than that. I don’t believe her; she’ll have sucked it, especially if he fingered her. Apparently he was quite upset when she ended it as it came as a total surprise to him. What drove matters to a head was him suggesting that they go away together.

Then she came across a guy on PoF who seemed to tick all her boxes. Let’s call him ‘Dick’. She was quite taken with him and told me that he was the first guy that she ever felt anything for since me. It occurred to me that it is in my interest to see her happy and matched, perhaps her new beau will buy me out of the house. I encouraged her to see where things led with her new flame.

They had been on only a couple of dates before Dick suggested that they go away together. She was coming up to the busy time of the year doing demo work in shops now that her air stewardess days were over. She wanted to know if they were sexually compatible; time was a factor in whether or not she wanted to keep seeing him. So a few weeks later they went to a hotel in Stratford-upon-avon where they shagged the night away. Apparently as first times go it was good.

A few weeks later she starts telling me of her reservations about Dick. He doesn’t like holding hands, something that she expects to do and it really bothers her. He is quite selfish in that he always expects her to fall in line with whatever suits him. The thing that bothers her most is that Dick doesn’t lavish her with attention. She likes and wants a man to pursue her, to send her text messages and emails every day. She tells me that she doesn’t want this because its romantic, it’s because it tells her that he wants her more than she wants him, a feeling that gives her a sense of power. I find her honesty refreshing and I also pause to remember that that was exactly how our early days together were.

She says that she’ll give it time, something I encourage her to do because it’s in my interest that she finds someone as foolish as me. Apparently Dick’s a fitness fanatic and fucks her for hours on end. He can cum once an hour, which I find impressive as does she. He must be enjoying fucking her and sucking on her big fat tits; I would if I were him.

Monday 5th January 2015
At 9pm she phones me; her car’s has broken down. She’s sitting in the car park of a pub waiting for a tow-truck. She starts telling me as usual how shit her life is and the topic wonders over to Xmas and New Year’s. She tells me that she’s “met somebody”. A Spaniard off Tinder who, on the third date, came to her place and cooked Xmas lunch. I ask if Dick is history and she says ‘no’. She’s keeping him around because the sex is great. I ask if she’s slept with the Spaniard and she says not. I ask why and she says it’s because he hasn’t made a move on her and she’s on her period. She doesn’t find him physically attractive either and says that he’s a little pudgy. She did spend a night in bed with him on New Year’s, but nothing happened. She’s concerned that he has sexual hangups and won’t be any good in that department. So, just like the MILF of Xmas, she wants it both ways.

Tuesday 11th January 2015
She phones me during the day, just before noon, asking for advice about a software problem. Then she gets choked up and starts crying on the phone, telling me she’s struggling with life before ending the call. She calls back later at 3pm asking if I could come around and help her move her desk and computer to another room of the house. Out of kindness, feeling sorry for her and with no agenda whatsoever, I go around after 6pm. As I go about moving everything and fixing her myriad of problems she tells me that after she rang off she sent a booty call to her stud. He came around, they fucked and she swallowed his load. After he left is when she phoned me. Charming.

She tells me that she has felt so guilty about stringing along the Spaniard that she is avoiding interacting with him. I find that rather prescient because that’s probably what has happened with me and the MILF of Xmas. She’s hoping that this Spaniard will stop sending her flowers and messaging her. I remember her saying that that is what she wants, but seemingly only from a guy that she wants. I ask if the turn-off is that he is too keen, to which she agrees. She’s hoping that he just gets the message and goes away.

Exgf is still intent on keeping Dick around, but only for the sexual benefits as he can shag for hours she says. She knows that they have no long-term future together because she finds him totally selfish.

The conversation gets heavily sentimental and we reminisce about us. She tells me that she has come to realize that I’m the only man she has ever loved, but has resolved that she’ll never allow herself to feel that way again because the pain afterwards is just too much for her. A back-handed compliment that I find tinged with sadness.

More than anything else, what I got from this interaction, is a stark demonstration of how she uses men. It also shows that a man can be too nice to a woman and can get kicked in the teeth for it. I include myself still in that category; I won’t be helping her with anything again.

End of January 2015
Exgf tells me that she has no trust or respect for the guy she thought could be her One. She does enjoy sex with him because it’s raw. He also does as she asks and uses a condom every time. Then she tells me that she’s seeing the Spaniard on the weekend.

After the weekend she phones me up to pick my brain about something to do with psychometric tests for a job application. Then she tells me that she saw the Spaniard on the weekend, but didn’t sleep with him and has no desire to do so. He seems unwilling, unable or too inept to make that happen. She says that she’s happy to keep seeing him as a social outlet. The user keeps on using.

I loved her intensely. Every day my heart pounded from my feelings for her. It was an illusion and the illusion was all mine, but carefully crafted and delivered by her. The reality, a hard, cold reality of what was really going on was all hers. The person I loved became, when the illusion was shattered, somebody that I used to know. Of course that person didn’t really exist.

If I were to meet my Exgf today, not that I would ever even approach her on a dating site, I would not think her anything special, nor would I find her that unique.

My Exgf is living proof of my now-lost naivety.

Gotye – Somebody That I Used To Know

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”

Date #51 – The MILF of Xmas

I swore to myself that there would be no more dates this year. The experiences with The Cockaholic and The Saffa has left me uneasy with dating. Worse still I’m starting to give up on the fanciful notion of love. In a fit of boredom one night before switching the light out, now a week after ending things with The Cockaholic, I go onto Tinder and within minutes match with someone who is five years younger and ever so cute. I think about it and decide to do nothing. Why bother? I think I know how this will end: either being ghosted or disappointed. The next morning, I realize that I’m in no position to let opportunities pass me by.

I fire off a message and not long afterwards she responds. She seems to want to discuss things, which indicates a cautious nature, but could also indicate a combative style of relationship, constant adversity is what she gets her kicks from. How do I tell? I can’t, this mindset is brought on by my recent encounters, I know this but I can’t help it.

On Friday she suggests a place to meet the next day and asks me what time suits me. I respond within minutes and I don’t hear from her for almost a day. It could be Tinder’s shit notification system not working again. It is also a busy time of year, less than a week before Xmas.

I send her my phone number and half an hour later she puts in an appearance on Tinder and sends me the same message on WhatsApp. We agree to meet on Saturday after lunch in a town halfway between each of us. Christmas is on Wednesday, but maybe it’s come earlier for me.

Could she be The One?

She suggested that we meet at a cake and coffee shop and I get there first. It’s busy and there’s a queue, but no sign of her. I send her a message on WhatsApp saying it’s busy and she responds saying that she’s parking. I go wait outside in the cold for her. There are too many noisy children in there for my liking. It’s one of the reasons I don’t want children i.e. the noise factor. I like peace and tranquillity. This isn’t a great setting for a quiet getting-to-know-you chat.

I like the look of her from the moment I see her. She’s prettier than I expected and despite wearing very high heels I could see that she’s quite short. She tells me that she’s five foot three inches tall. A nice height; I like petite. Surprisingly a table becomes free as we go inside the coffee shop. She takes her Winter coat off and I sneak a peek at her body which is slim and trim. I like what I see so far. I develop an almost instant appreciation for her hair; it’s in the 80s Farah Fawcett wavy tresses style that I love. She’s not a blonde, but fair enough for my liking.

We’re sitting at a cosy table for two and instantly hit it off. She tells me that she’s a speech and language therapist at her local primary school. I find that endearing as it hints at what kind of person she is i.e. caring and supportive. Conversation is easy and I sense that she likes the look of me too; her naughty smile and sly eyes tell me so. She orders a lemon meringue sundae and I have a chocolate cherry waffle. We tease each other by sharing spoonfuls of each other’s choice. I can see that she’s enjoying feeding me. I sense a naughty side to her. It isn’t long before the conversation turns sexual at her instigation, with her starting to talk about 50 Shades of Grey. Yip, she’s thought of sex with me, but so have I. I fancy her and it’s a good feeling.

It doesn’t take long before I get a long-forgotten feeling: she feels right. There’s chemistry, there’s witty banter, there’s physical attraction. I like everything about her so far. I haven’t felt this way since Baltic Babe.

Have I finally found The One?

After about an hour things are going just swimmingly when she lands the bombshell on me: she has a kid. A little boy who is eight years old. I feel so deflated but I try to not let it show. I decide to soldier on and keep being interested and interesting. I think of her as ‘The MILF (Mother I’d Like to Fuck) of Xmas’.

Until now I have deliberately avoided meeting women with children. That kind of relationship isn’t for me; it’s too complicated. The child’s needs will always come first, which is natural, but I fear the times when it puts a brake on proceedings. Another man will always be on the scene and there’s no telling what effect he’ll have on her, especially if she sees him on a regular basis, not matter how fleeting. Making time to see each other will always be a challenge, so the planned nature of things is counter to my free-wheeling idea of romance.

As the afternoon wears on we engage in serious topics of conversation, something that few dates have had the guts and honesty to do with me. We talk about our respective divorces, lessons learned, outlooks on relationships, hopes and fears for the future.

I start to get the impression that she likes intense emotions, it makes her feel alive, perhaps even turns her on. I notice when I become serious and intellectual that she starts playing with her hair, an age-old indicator that she’s liking what she’s hearing. I suspect that she’s a sapiophile, a woman who becomes physically turned on by an intelligent man.

The table next to us is a birthday party for a toddler and it’s a rowdy scene. She’s used to the noise but it’s bothering me, so I suggest that we go sit in a quieter part of the restaurant. Luckily there’s a sofa for two free and I make a beeline for it. We sit side by side but turned askance to look at each other, our knees are touching.

The MILF of Xmas says, “Well, this is cosy,” and gives off a nervous little laugh. I feel myself becoming more attracted to her by the minute. She has a feminine way about her that I can’t resist; in fact, it’s what I want.

If it wasn’t for the kid, I’d consider her perfect so far. We can talk to each other about anything. She gets my sense of humour. I fancy her and am imagining myself making love to her. I can almost hear the sounds she’ll make when I kiss the inside of her thighs. I want her, not just for her body, but because I’m getting the feeling that I crave, that feeling of oneness, of rightness that I’ve only felt a few times in my life, such as with Baltic Babe.

We chat away happily and she tells me that in the Summer she came out of a three-year relationship. I immediately do the maths and, yes, it’s about six months – she’s gagging for it. By now our interaction has taken on a flirtatious nature, largely because of the way that we look at each other. I decide to up the stakes. I start telling her about my being colour-blind. She asks the usual questions about it, then I make my move.

“I can’t tell what colour your eyes are. Could you come closer?” I say.

Without thinking about it The MILF of Xmas complies. Her instant obedience tells me that she is very comfortable with me and might have a submissive streak in her.

“I still can’t see, the lighting’s bad. Come closer.” I coax.

She does, seemingly suspecting nothing. The MILF of Xmas is a bit of an innocent. If so, I can provide her with a lot of fun.

Her face is now very close to mine, so I lean slightly forward and our lips touch. She doesn’t pull away and just closes her eyes. We kiss and it feels good.

Her lips are quite thin, so I don’t feel them so well, but I know that she can feel mine. We kiss slowly and I sense her stiffening her spine.

I pull away and she is rooted to the spot, sitting upright, her eyes still closed. After a couple of seconds she opens her eyes, smiles at me and sits back in her seat. As first kisses go, that wasn’t too bad.

We make some small-talk, as if the kiss never happened. I let her get her composure back, for her breathing to return to normal, then I lean over and we kiss again. This time she’s more active and opens her mouth wide, inviting my tongue in, but I resist the invitation. I move my head to the opposite angle and we remain locked in our kiss. Neither of us give a damn about anyone else in the restaurant.

I sense that her tongue wants to play, so I touch it with mine and that brings her body to life a little more. Our tongues slowly, gently twist and turn, like two otters entwined, spiralling in water. I remember my mouth-pussy test and let my tongue roam in her mouth, something she’s happy to have happen. Her mouth is a little on the small side, so her pussy might be too small for me. However, she’s had a kid and if the delivery was natural then she might be able to accommodate my cock.

I withdraw again and we smile approvingly at each other. This feels so good. I’ve forgotten how this should feel. All the other girls I’ve kissed in the past year or so didn’t give me this feeling. This feels right, so very right. My blood is warm and racing around my body; I can feel an erection coming on.

The MILF of Xmas tells me that she’s flying out on Boxing Day with her son to go visit her parents who have retired to Spain. They return New Year’s Day. The sense of family is a good sign in my book. I feel that I missed out on that in my life, so it’s nice to see in someone else’s.

We talk, laugh and kiss for hours more. We talk about movies and music and watch YouTube videos on my phone. I’m having a good time and it seems she is too. It’s now after 8pm and I decide it’s time to end the date, otherwise we’ll end up spending the night together. She stands up and I grab her coat and hold it so that she can put her arms in. Once it’s on I pull her hair our from under the coat and fan it out.

“Ooh, I could get used to this,” she says.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say.

“You don’t have to,” The MILF of Xmas says.

“I know that I don’t have to, but I want to,” I respond and we leave it at that.

Outside in the cold air I turn to her and say, “Tell me something, do you like chicken?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Take a wing,” I respond, offering her my arm.

She lets off a little laugh and couples her arm with mine. Like that we walk a few blocks to where she has parked her car.

As I walk The MILF of Xmas her car which is a few blocks away, I’m struck by just how tiny and petite she is. That appeals to my protective nature. At her car we stand and kiss some more in the cold Winter’s air. I close her car door for her, she reverses out, stops to give me a cheery wave and smile, then she drives off.

We made no concrete plans about when we’ll see each other again, we don’t need to, we know that we will. I drive home with a lovely warm, electric feeling shimmering all over my brain. I haven’t felt that in a long time.

The thing that surprises me is how proud I feel to be with her. That’s another feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. That pride is driven by a variety of feelings, such as sensing that I might just have found the type of person I’ve been looking for. I know already that she’s a remarkable person, her goodness shines through and that makes her special to me. I feel like a victor showing off his prize. She is a prize worthy of the best of me.

Bad Company – Feel like making love

Feel

Sunday morning we’re both awake before sunrise and the banter is light and easy. The Cockaholic’s eyes sparkle and she says, “I’m sorry, but please forgive me for doing this,” and pushes the covers off of me and starts sucking on my morning glory. Not a bad way to be woken, for sure, but I would much prefer it to be with a women who is crazy about me and not crazy at me.

I feel it’s too risky to cum in her pussy; I don’t want to get her pregnant, so I cum in her mouth. As always The Cockaholic happily swallows my load without a break in her rhythm. She is the happiest cock-sucking, cum-swallower I’ve ever encountered. I think there are men who would put up with her for just the phenomenal blowjobs.

A little later I’m licking her clit and fingering her g-spot. Suddenly The Cockaholic lifts her head, looks at me and says, “You have a fucking gorgeous body.” Yes, it’s nice to hear, but I’m surprised at her timing of this declaration of undying lust. Where did that come from? What is she thinking about as she lies there? I don’t think I’ll ever understand the workings of any one woman’s mind, especially after this one’s cold, aloof behaviour of last night.

After breakfast we speed off in her sports car to a nearby town to visit the Christmas market around the cathedral. She’s a speed-freak and takes unnecessary risks, swearing at any other motorist who dares hoot at us. In this moment she reminds me of Pretty Teacher. On the drive over she starts snapping at anything I say. After a while I’m reluctant to say anything. The Cockaholic has become hard work again. Sitting at traffic lights I decide to tell her how I’m feeling, that she’s changed and I don’t know why. She responds angrily with, “Do you want me to drop you off here?”

That killed my feelings for her – stone dead. The fact that she was willing to discard me like a bag of unwanted rubbish at the side of the road is a gross insult, laced with disrespect and contempt. We see out the rest of the day in muted hostility. I can’t figure out what has brought on this attitude. I’ve said and done nothing to deserve it.

We silently walk around the Christmas market, there’s the smell of warm, mulled wine and sweet frying onions in the air, children’s laughter serenades us as a contented buzz envelopes us, but it all feels like a straight-jacket to me. My stomach is clenched tight and my brain is racing, my heart is filled with familiar bitter feelings.

I’m going off The Cockaholic and find my thoughts wandering over to finding a way to say goodbye to her. Instead of staying over like I do every Sunday night, I make polite excuses and go home. Although I can’t wait to get the hell away from her, I make a point of leaving in a civil fashion, to keep my options open. I now have enough experience to not make any rash decisions, but to take a moment or two to think things over before taking irreversible action.

Monday night I phone her, hoping to have a civil chat, but she starts fretting over trivial things and making mountains out of molehills. I become exasperated and simply say her name in an attempt to calm her down, to which she becomes indignant and we essentially put the phone down on each other. I don’t understand why she’s pushing me away, constantly being at odds with anything I say, quick to take offence, constantly feeding back negatively. Until recently she was so positive, letting nothing phase her. Whatever her reasons, I frankly don’t care. I don’t need this. I just don’t feel enough for her to take on board and work through this shit.

I’ll say goodbye to The Cockaholic this week.

As far as I’m concerned I’m totally single again, so out of curiosity more than anything I re-install Tinder on my phone and start flicking through faces. My search area is narrow so it doesn’t take me long to spot a profile that I’m convinced is The Cockaholic putting on a disguise. She’s wearing a broad beach-hat, has a large scarf draped around her neck and the photo is taken from a distance in low light. Nevertheless I recognize The Cockaholic from her distinctive body shape and hint of a smile. The distance is two miles further than her home, but that would place her at naughty best friend’s place. Has this friend been influencing her, given that she’s an expert at sneaking around? I don’t actually care any more.

The Cockaholic mentioned on Monday night that she was having dinner with someone on Tuesday night. The way she said it made me suspicious. I suspect that it’s a date and, quite frankly, I couldn’t care less. Neither of us make any attempt to communicate with the other on Tuesday. I phone her at 9.30pm on Wednesday night, knowing that she’s always home by then, but my call goes to her voicemail. At lunchtime on Thursday she sends me a text message saying that she only got my message then. I suspect that she was out again, perhaps sleeping over at some guys place. She was very quick to jump into bed with me, so why not someone else?

The Cockaholic promises to call me tonight; I’ll say goodbye to her then.

11th December – Thursday
I’m expecting this break-up to result in one of three responses: 1) She’s shocked and disappointed 2) She’s not shocked nor disappointed 3) Tells me that she’s met someone anyway. My instincts tell me that’s it’s most likely the latter.

I’ve just got off the phone from The Cockaholic. I said to her, “I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re not right for each other”. Her initial reaction was a curt, emotionless “Okay”. That was it. I pry for further words, but she didn’t want to discuss it or say anything else. It was option 2 – she wasn’t shocked or disappointed. The Cockaholic didn’t seem upset at all, more blasé and indifferent. I said a few nice words to be civil and soften the blow in case she was upset in some way. My words seemed to have zero impact. Less than a minute later we said goodbye.

Despite everything I think she’s a good, decent person, but just devoid of the appeal and magic that I want, expect and need from a relationship. I think her insecurities will wreck any relationship. I know that I have my own trust issues, but I’m aware of them and I try to keep them in check. Experiences like this are not helping soothe them though.

The more I think about what happened between us and her sudden change in behaviour, the more I think she had started seeing someone else. It would be churlish of me to be indignant, after all I wasn’t exactly honest with her in the beginning. It seems almost fair that she wasn’t honest with me towards the end. There’s an irony there that amuses me somewhat. Easy come, easy go – Tinder hey-ho and heave-ho.

The very next night, a Friday, The Cockaholic sends me a text message just after 10pm that simply says, “Hahahaha.

At first I thought that she sent this to me by mistake, but then I see another angle. The way I know The Cockaholic, it’s her saying that she’s having the last laugh. I take that as final confirmation that she has been seeing someone else or has just met someone interesting for a date or a shag. Good luck to her…and him.

This encounter has left me a hollow feeling inside. I know that my intent was bad, that The Cockaholic was supposed to just be a one-night stand, but I liked her, well, the initial her. I guess I got literally sucked into a so-called ‘situationship’ with her. Then it quickly turned sour and I think it’s because she developed suspicions about my whereabouts which led to her choosing to pursue a course of action which was not warranted. Perhaps it was for the best.

I’m surprised by how little I feel about this, it scares me.

Is it because I wasn’t that taken by her to start with? Is it because I’m starting to expect all encounters to end in failure? Is my heart hardening? More importantly, am I capable of love any more? I don’t know.

All that coupled with the recent revelation of The Saffa’s duplicitous actions while I was still interested in her has reinforced this hollow feeling. I understand now that the source of her self-induced drama was exaggerated by guilt from her sneaking around too.

I find myself sitting listening to Robbie Williams’ ‘Feel’ over and over again. The words are about me and I don’t know what to do about that.

Who or what am I going to meet next? I’m developing a sense of trepidation…

Lessons learned: 1) Beware a jealous, insecure woman because she’ll make your life hell and ruin the relationship. Don’t make excuses for her behaviour, they don’t change, don’t be a diaper for her issues, just move on. 2) A mutual lack or erosion of trust kills a romance quicker than acid. 3) No matter how good the sex, it’s only a matter of time before it all ends. 4) Some women are ‘anacondas’ in their relationship style. At first they’re all sweetness and light, but slowly they tighten the noose and try to control their man. 5) When a woman’s behaviour suddenly changes for the worse, then something serious is going on, perhaps another man. Passive-aggressive behaviour might be driven by guilt.

Robbie Williams- Feel

Forgotten cocks

It’s now early December and it’s funny how, with enough time, things make more sense. I take myself on a training course in London for four days and it includes a Saturday and a Sunday. The Cockaholic is unimpressed that I won’t be seeing her for that weekend, but it can’t be helped. My financial situation is becoming a problem and I need to keep my skills fresh to be marketable. I also decide to meet The Saffa for dinner on the Sunday night as she has asked to meet, wanting to give me a Christmas present. I decide not to tell The Cockaholic about this innocent rendezvous, her previous reaction to my meeting Busty Blonde taught me not to even mention the existence of a previous woman.

Each night after the surprisingly intensive course I get home and phone the Cockaholic for a chat. It’s my way of soothing her insecurities. On the Sunday I even call her at lunchtime during the break, but my phone battery is running low so I curtail the call, leaving just enough battery for a short call if needed.

After my course I meet with The Saffa to swap Christmas presents. We meet outside Tower Hill Tube station and The Saffa seems happy to see me. We go to The Dickens Inn to have pizza and a drink. It’s a surprisingly pleasant interaction. She tells me that she’s started seeing a guy and she tells me his name. I instantly realize it’s one of the guys that I was suspicious of when we were seeing each other; his name was tagged in several photos on Facebook with her. I feel that I was right in my assessment of what was going on, what was causing all the unnecessary drama in her head and heart. She was probably seeing me on weekends and him on weekdays. This was causing conflicted emotions in her, tinged with guilt and leading to her abhorrent behaviour.

I like to think that my reading of women’s games has improved considerably. I fall silent, imbued with a sense of disappointment in her, but after a few drinks The Saffa is overly chatty and she doesn’t notice.

“We haven’t slept together yet,” she says in a typical moment of brutal tactlessness.

“And?…” I coax.

“Well, the thing is, I have managed to glimpse his cock and it’s small,” she says.

I just laugh and then we fall silent.

“I miss your cock,” she says.

A stranger sitting at the table nearest us turns his head slightly, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s been little more than a month,” I say with a chuckle.

“Ja, but I miss it. It’s the best cock” she says.

The stranger’s ears are on fire and he has to take a sip from his drink. I just smile, wondering why she’s telling me this. What’s she up to now? My silence spurs her on.

“You know that I was crazy about you, don’t you?” she blurts out.

“We weren’t meant for each other, “ I shoot back, intent on killing any hopes for a reconciliation that she might have.

“Ag, it doesn’t matter, man. We’re already talking about moving in together after Christmas,” she says.

A matter of weeks ago she was crazy about me, is missing my cock while being on the verge of moving in with another guy? What would he think and feel if he knew that barely a month ago she was asking me to fuck her in the arse, asking me to pump cum into her arse? That in a restaurant she said to me that she misses my cock? That she was concerned that he has a small cock?

What I’m learning of women is that I’ve been him, this new guy who is equally unwitting, equally naïve and innocent, just another soon-to-be forgotten cock that was in her holes when it suited her. I think I’ve been that guy with a few women now, the last to know and just another forgotten cock.

The evening flies by with her talking at me and over me. How I don’t miss that…or her. I give her a small present, she reciprocates and we wish each other a merry Xmas, then we head off to our divergent lives…and lies.

I’m standing on a train platform waiting for my train home and I decide to use up the rest of my phone’s battery on a call to The Cockaholic. After the evening’s revelations I feel the need to hear her voice, perhaps in the hope that there’s reassuring signs that she’s somehow The One for me. She answers swiftly, seems pleased and surprised to hear from me, we chat briefly before my phone dies.

First thing on the Monday morning after recharging my phone overnight I send The Cockaholic a text message apologizing for the rude interruption to our chat, but I get no response. In the evening I call her, intent on having a friendly chat, but she’s anxious about something, I can tell. Eventually it comes out after a few frosty minutes.

“Why were you able to call me on Sunday night when at lunchtime you said your battery was dying?” she says.

“I kept some battery for emergency purposes. Waiting for my train home I thought I’d give you a call because I wanted to hear your voice,” I reply.

“Hmph,” is all she says.

The road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions…and half-truths.

The next week with The Cockaholic is difficult. She seems quite hyper on the phone mixed with a bit of passive-aggressive behaviour and at times I just didn’t want to talk to her. I think she’s showing her true colours now, that of being a stressed-out adrenaline junkie who likes to have a night out once a week and get drunk. Every week since I’ve known her it seems she has after-work drinks one night of the week. Today I’m wondering who those drinks are with.

I arrive at her place on Saturday afternoon and from the get-go the atmosphere between us is strained. I notice that The Cockaholic is reluctant to make eye-contact with me. Something’s going on, but instead of confronting her, I choose to follow a smoother route and just let things play out.

A classic example of the sort of thing that was happening is the following. A few weeks earlier she had bought a coffee machine for me; she doesn’t drink coffee. I was touched by her generosity. The machine uses capsules and I have the same machine at my home. Today my favourite coffee capsule ran out at her place, to which she says to me, “From now on you can bring your own bloody coffee.” I was astounded. The tone and choice of words was uncalled for and not in keeping with what was said or had happened beforehand. What the hell is going on in her head?!

After a testy evening with a frozen atmosphere between us, we wind up in bed and the sex doesn’t take long to kick off. I initiate it to test her emotive state and, to my surprise, The Cockaholic goes along, as if nothing has happened between us. It starts to feel like angry sex and maybe that’s a turn-on for her. At one point I’m fucking her doggy-style, her favourite position (and mine too) when she suddenly shouts out, “Fuck me, you bastard!”

I laugh to myself, but can’t help but wonder where that comes from. I make her cum and it seems to pacify her. I choose not to cum; I’m slipping into self-preservation mode. We fell asleep with me holding her in my arms. As The Cockaholic falls asleep with little twitches of her body and inaudible murmurs, I lie there wondering what the hell is going on…or who is going on…and am I the last to know?

Del Amitri – Always the last to know

Head games

On Saturday I go around to The Cockaholic’s place at 4pm and she’s happy to see me. We spend the evening chatting, watching a movie, sharing a pizza and ciders. We go to her bedroom and she immediately sinks to her knees, undresses me and starts happily sucking away on my cock, making sounds of approval. The Cockaholic totally enjoys sucking my cock. I ask her about this and she answers, “well, it’s so smooth and it fills my mouth perfectly.”

A few days later we’re chatting on the phone and she tells me that her contraceptive injection is wearing off and that she had started spotting and felt bloated. We didn’t speak more of this other than her saying “if you now don’t want to come around on the weekend, I’ll understand”. It is, of course, a test of my intent with her, but I genuinely want to see her. We don’t have to have sex, I enjoy being with her.

“I’m not spending my time with you just for the great sex,” I tell her and I hear her smile on the other side of the line.

I’m pretty pleased with myself for having so deftly deflected this so-called ‘shit-test’ but then she hits me with something new.

“Umm, if you don’t mind, can you only come around after lunchtimes on Saturdays?” she asks.

This instantly strikes me as odd. What’s going on here? My Trust Demon snaps out of his sleep and jumps to his feet, fists clenched and eyes glowing.

“Sure, no problem. Is there a particular reason?” I counter as calmly as I can.

“Umm, yes, this is a bit awkward…but my best friend stays over on Friday nights,” she says.

Best friend, huh? My silence speaks for me.

“Okay, the whole story is that she’s married and having an affair with a guy she works with who is also married. The only time they can get together is Friday nights and the safest place for them is my place,” she says with a pained tone in her voice.

This is too ludicrous not to be true, I decide. A part of me is impressed that she’s as good a friend as to allow her place to be used as an illicit love-nest, but at the same time I’m unimpressed that she has a best friend like that. Again I say nothing.

As instructed I arrive after lunchtime on Saturday. The Cockaholic seems pleased to see me. As we walk to her lounge I take a quick look into her spare bedroom, the one the illicit lovers are supposed to be using. It only has a single bed in it. So are they using the same bed that we sleep in? Or is her story total lies? I don’t know what to think.

We spend the afternoon and evening watching funny videos on YouTube. The following one stood out because it told me of something I didn’t know about myself, but I’ll tell you more about that another time.

Hitler, dating & Cluster B personality disorder

As is becoming our routine we end up in her bedroom with her lustfully going down on me. We agree not to indulge in full intercourse because her contraceptive is wearing off. I’m also keen to not impregnate a woman I’m not sure about. She sucks on my cock for well over an hour before I cum in her mouth, something she clearly enjoys given the sounds she makes. The Cockaholic takes her time after I’ve cum to keep lovingly, tenderly sucking on me. I’ve never experienced anything like this.

I let my fingers do the walking in her lady-garden and she has a shuddering orgasm. We lie in the afterglow, chatting amiably when she tells me that she has a sister whom she hasn’t spoken to in over ten years. The details indicate petty sibling rivalry and it shows me that she has a steely side to her personality in which she can be quite nasty. I’m not sure what to make of this revelation, so I just keep quiet.

4th November – Tuesday
I call The Cockaholic at 9.30pm but I get her voicemail. She calls me back at 11pm, but I struggle to make out what she is saying; she’d been drinking again. One night last week she went out for drinks with colleagues after work and called me from the train, but she was tipsy. I don’t like talking to drunk people. It brings back awful feelings from when I was a little boy and my father was drunk and, although he made no sense, he forced me to sit and listen to his gibberish. I hated that as a kid and I refuse to put up with that as an adult. This seems to be a weekly thing in her working life. Nevertheless I’ve just lost a bit of respect for her.

I text her, offering to collect her at her station if she had too much to drink, but if she didn’t want that then she should please text me when she got home safely. I get no response, but the next morning at 8.30 she sent me a text message saying that her battery had died and she went straight to sleep once home. Plausible, but it doesn’t sit well with me. It reminds me of Krazy Girl and her lies about her phone and her movements. My Trust Demon has been stirred.

5th November – Wednesday
I go into London with The Cockaholic and at a train station we walk past my ex-wife whom I’ve not laid eyes on since September 2006. It was a surreal moment; she blanked me while I had a good look. She’s put on weight, wearing contact lenses, had heavy make-up on, was walking with a stoop and, to my mind, made for a very sad figure. I wonder what she thought when she saw me and especially with another woman, a vivacious one at that. It couldn’t have been pleasant for her, especially the surprise factor. I know that she is now remarried and trying to have a child. It’s a strange feeling seeing her suddenly like that.

The Cockaholic and I have dinner at a Thai restaurant that I have chosen, which we both enjoy. Then we walk around Soho gawking at gaudy sex shops and step into one that had an eclectic mix of posters and memorabilia. After a few giggles in there we join the queue to get into the venue for the night which is hosting a burlesque show. I’d got the tickets a week ago, thinking this might be a test of her moral fabric. She seemed very comfortable with it all and was excellent company all night. All things considered, I think that she’s a lovely person.

Could I fall in love with The Cockaholic? I think that if I let myself go that I could. She’s not the best-looking girl that I’ve dated, but we have good fun together. Looks fade after all, it’s what is left that matters in the long run.

Back at my place she spends the night and almost dutifully sucks me off in the morning. In turn I played with her clit until she came. Sometime this week she’s getting another contraceptive injection, then normal play-time can resume.

I think that we both like giving our partner pleasure. When it was time for her to go, I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted her to stay so that we could just enjoy travelling through time together.

I’m going to an industry trade-show in London on Saturday, so I make arrangements to meet Busty Blonde. Earlier in the year I had promised to go with her to an exhibition at the Imperial War Museum commemorating the outbreak of World War One. I also wanted to check that she was alright, that our break-up hasn’t destroyed her. I guess I wanted a sense of closure and to appease a burdensome sense of guilt. I naively tell The Cockaholic about this and she listens in silence.

After my work-like appointment I go off to meet the woman whom I should consider an ex-girlfriend, but for some reason I don’t think of her like that. I feel it’s because I never fell in love with her. Busty Blonde is her normal, cheery self which makes me feel better about myself and after a couple of hours we head our separate ways. At dusk I head home to collect my car and go around to The Cockaholic’s where she initially seems relieved to see me. I guess she was feeling a little insecure and jealous; women can be very territorial and suspicious of other women. I say nothing about her feelings and am my normal self.

It’s now another week on and my instincts tell me that The Cockaholic isn’t being totally honest with me about something. This weekend she has gone away to Brussels on a Hen Party which I am fine with, but it’s her change in behaviour on the phone at night since the previous weekend that has rankled me. On the Saturday that I saw Busty Blonde, I eventually later got the impression that The Cockaholic wasn’t happy about this; her demeanour was cold. She is definitely the jealous, insecure type. I’m also starting to see that she has control freak tendencies in her.

The following Saturday I arrive at her place at lunchtime, The Cockaholic seems a little off towards me. She tells me that her two naughty friends (who are having an affair) and her went to a local pub the previous night. She makes a point of mentioning an incident with another guy in the pub, by way of accidentally insulting him. The whole story doesn’t make sense and it strikes me as odd. I get the feeling that she didn’t tell me everything.

She’s unavailable on Friday nights and Saturday mornings, she goes out drinking at least once a week, her phone has battery issues and her best friend has dubious morals. This all doesn’t feel right and that feeling is growing.

My Trust Demon is running around in his cage, he’s in a rage and I don’t know what to do about it at this stage.

Foreigner – Head Games