It’s an October Monday morning and I text message The Cockaholic, suggesting that she come over for a spicy risotto and Californication in the evening. She jumps at it. I think she’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie and loves the rush of excitement, something I think I can provide in spades. I’m looking forward to seeing her.
I find myself wondering if I’m addicted to the spike of adrenaline of first dates, of the getting-to-know-you phase. I’m inclined to say ‘no’ because I spent six months with Busty Blonde and it was such an easy relationship with her. I kind of miss that now after not even two months of The Saffa who is increasingly becoming hard work. I’m starting to think of her as a Drama Queen; she just has to have drama in her life.
The Cockaholic arrives early, which I take as a good sign: she’s keen. We have the spicy risotto I made, then sit side-by-side on my sofa to watch another two episodes of Californication which, I suspect, has the effect of making her frisky. Little more than two hours after arriving she is sucking on my cock and loving it. I have never seen such a happy, enthusiastic cock-sucker before.
I ask her, “have you been looking forward to doing this?”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she says, momentarily taking my cock out of her mouth, but then adds, “I’ve been thinking about something else all day too.”
“Oh, what other people call fantasies you call plans?”
The Cockaholic bursts into laughter, keeping my cock in her mouth as she does so. It’s a strangely pleasant sensation having a woman laughing onto and all around my cock.
“So do you want to tell me what it is you want, or do you just want to show me?” I coax.
She stops fellatio and gets up to straddle me cowgirl style. It feels good to me; she’s not overweight and thus crushing my cock, so my erection can last forever. Within minutes she has made herself cum by riding my cock. I enjoy watching her face convulse in pleasure.
I give it a few minutes, then I start kissing her all over, ending up between her legs, softly licking her clit. After a couple of minutes of this she’s totally relaxed, so I slide an index finger into her pussy, first pulling down, then turning it upward to stroke her g-spot. After a few more minutes I slide my middle finger in too and both fingers are rubbing her g-spot as she moans in pleasure. She keeps her hands above her head on my sofa cushions and it seems as if she is in ecstasy as I lick her clit and finger her g-spot. My tongue tires and I sit upright to rub her clit with my other hand’s thumb. Her pussy starts squelching and occasionally squirting juices into my hand. Not since Krazy Girl a year ago have I felt a woman do that. Eventually she cums, arching her back while hiding her face into a cushion as she screams.
I find it amazing to have such an experience with a woman. The sights, sounds and smells overpower me. The naked honesty of the moment entrances me.
She lies panting, I let go of her bits and climb on top of her to cuddle and warm her. I can feel her body shaking under me. Eventually she speaks.
“I think I just had an all-over body orgasm,” she says, swallowing hard.
After a few minutes of blissful silence conversation turns at my behest to the unpleasantly practical issue of contraception. Something has been niggling at the back of my brain.
The Cockaholic now tells me that she’s on the injection contraceptive, the one where she has no periods and needs a recharge every three months. I also remember her telling me on Friday night that she hasn’t had sex in two years, but had herself tested at a STD clinic four weeks earlier. Why would someone who hasn’t had sex in 2 years be on the injection and have herself tested? Hmmm…I smell bullshit. My ever-alert Trust Demon opens an eye and raises a suspicious eyebrow. He snorts in contempt at her story.
Is my initial supposition correct in that she was on Tinder intending to go on a sexual rampage, part of exorcising her own demons, making her feel like a powerful, desirable woman? I see this as part of my attraction to her, this trying to decipher her motives, learning more about womankind through her.
Without me saying a word The Cockaholic starts kissing me all over. She’s obviously an unselfish lover, a Giver even and this pleases me.
Her kisses feel like a butterfly landing on my skin as she works her way down my body. I’ve been looking forward to experiencing her sucking my cock, hoping it’s as good as I remember.
The Cockaholic’s tongue slides up and down the shaft of my penis, then she glides it down onto my balls, using the smooth underside of her tongue to elicit pleasure in them. Jeezus, she really knows what she’s doing!
She keeps her tongue moving and down to my perineum she goes, twirling and swirling her tongue over it. No woman has done that before. Where did she learn these moves? Cosmo, porn movies or a really instructive ex-lover? Or is she a natural? Just how many ice-creams has she practised on?
I look down at her and see that she’s in a trance-like state. Anything can happen now.
Her tongue is flailing about like that of a possessed demonic goat.
Suddenly her tongue drops lower and she starts drawing circles around my anus. Only my Exgf has given me a rim-job before and that was long ago, so it feels good. The circles become smaller…
Hang on, she’s not going to do what I think she’s going to do?…
She’s licking my arse!
Holy shit! That’s so unhygienic!
Yet it feels so good…
Oh my god!
She’s just stuck the tip of her tongue into my arse!
Emotionally I’m horrified, but physically not so much. In fact, I like it, so I relax.
The Cockaholic pushes her tongue deeper into my arse and she starts making snorting sounds of satisfaction, akin to a pig.
Wow! Should I rename her The Ass-licker?
She continues pushing and pulling her tongue in and out of my arse for about a minute. I think she’s enjoys doing it more than I enjoy receiving it. I lie in stunned fascination, my brain is racing.
Is this some kind of emotional release coming to the surface in her? A high-pressured job demands an extreme release of energy for her to unwind?
“Do you like doing that?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid and obvious question, but it’s the answer that matters.
“Uh-huh. I love it,” she answers, momentarily leave my arse alone before resuming her pig-finding-a-truffle-in-my-arse routine.
My, my, my, what a kinky little thing you are. I wonder what delicious naughtiness we can get up to together? I wish I had filmed this; I could watch it repeatedly.
Without any hint of a change to come The Cockaholic pulls away from my anus and almost instantly latches on my cock which is losing its erection because of the shock of what she has been doing. Most of the blood in there has rushed to my brain and botty.
Ugh, her mouth must be coated in faecal bacteria and now she’s spreading it on my precious manhood!
This cannot be! I don’t want to spend my nights in the shower scrubbing my phallus raw like I did after the anal sex episodes with Krazy Girl and Tech Titan. This Grey Knight must arise and put matters right by mounting this damsel with the dirty mouth!
I get up off the sofa, leaving her on all fours on the trusty footstool. She doesn’t move, I think she knows what I’m about to do. She knows to stay in position for doggy-style. Such a well-trained ass-licking cock-sucker.
My semi-flaccid cock easily slides into her slippery pussy. Some women in their early forties start experiencing lubrication problems, but not this one. After several mighty thrusts of my lance blood floods its chambers and turgidity returns.
“Oh, yes, that’s it, fuck me!” she mutters.
I love it when women tell me things like that, but it’s starting to amuse and puzzle me that they generally say the same things, like she did right now. Ho-hum, mustn’t tarry or quibble, there’s fucking to be done.
Earlier I had turned the lights down low as we got comfy on my sofa. Soft lighting usually leads to hard fucking. I knew this even back when there was that close call with Baltic Babe, that time when she turned the lights down low. A dormant sense of anger is evoked by the memories of her and my hips speed up. I’ll be cumming soon.
“Where do you want my cum?” I ask. It’s only polite to ask.
“In my pussy,” she wheezes back.
I reckon it’s safe to do so, I believe her contraception claims, but a little impetus to get me over the line is needed.
My thumb finds its way to my mouth and I suck on it for a few seconds. How will she react to being on The Hook this time? Will she rear up and lurch away like Busty Czech did? Or will she enjoy it like every other woman has?
Slowly and smoothly my thumb slides up her bum. She doesn’t make a sound nor does she move as my hips keep ramming my fat cock into her. Yes, she likes this. I’m now thinking that she has an anal fetish thing going on given what she did to my arse with her tongue.
Oh yes, the bum bacteria that she slobbered onto my cock is now coating her vagina. This high-flying, yuppie career woman with the expensive sports car likes it dirty!
I lean my head over to one side, hoping to catch a glimpse of her tits bouncing around as I fuck her, but they’re barely moving, just the slight shake of a mound of jelly. Now I’m sure her boobies are fake. Right now that doesn’t matter because my balls have just tightened.
With a back-arching spasm I blast a day’s worth of sperm into her, but the build-up has been so good that it feels like several day’s worth. I wonder if a woman can tell from the sensation of the cum in her pussy just how many days worth the load is? Answers in an email please…
My hips keep rocking and The Cockaholic is making ‘mmm’ sounds that indicate approval. Most women seem to like the feeling of sperm in them, but some don’t. I wonder if it’s an emotional thing more than anything else?
Never mind that, this was a good orgasm.
Sex with The Saffa has degenerated into angry sex, which is not my favourite kind, but doing it with The Cockaholic feels sweet, it feels right.
She spends the night and I’m in heaven. We talk for ages again and again I enjoy talking to her. She finds me funny and we laugh a lot. We both feel good. I’m looking forward to seeing her again.
In my Triangle of Temptation (personality, face or breasts) she has personality. I don’t find her face off-putting, it’s just that I’m not enthralled. I can’t just stare at her face and derive pleasure from that, not like I could with The Model and Krazy Girl. I’m now convinced her breasts are fake, but that isn’t a problem to me, which surprises me. How I feel when I’m with her counts for more. Of course her ability to suck a golf ball through a hosepipe matters too.
The Cockaholic having a kinky streak I find interesting. How did it come about? Will she share some of her sexual history with me? I’m really curious, but it’s a rare woman who’ll share that kind of information. I’d love to know what she’s feeling when she’s having sex or how it feels to her being on The Hook or licking my arse. What are her other fantasies? What is she looking for?
I guess the Eurythmics were right: some of them want to get used and some want to be abused. Yes, everybody is looking for something. We’re all pursuing a sweet dream or two.
What are hers?
Eurythmics – Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This )
The disappointment of The Brazilian has taken the wind out of my sales. As I write this, I’m trying to have a galia melon for breakfast, but I’m struggling to swallow it, such is my emotional state at the moment. Stupid me had high hopes for her.
A week after sending her my goodbye text message , driven by a sense of curiosity, I sent her another message. I figured I had nothing to lose and if she answered I would have more of an idea about what was going on in her head. I wasn’t hoping for a reconciliation in the way her favourite movie storylines go, but wanted to further my education about women. My message read, “I’m really curious about something: what was it that I said or did that put you off me?”
To my amazement her reply came within half an hour and it read, “Nothing much really apart from your last text!! Unfortunately then that made me think about distance, work, commitments I’m not ready to have, lifestyle and so on. Maybe we shared too much information too soon as well, but that doesn’t matter. I was very put off by your last text. And I don’t think I can deal with that at all.”
From that message I took it that she was scared and commitment was her issue. I also deduce that she wasn’t so taken by me that her fears and issues were overwhelmed. Her loss. I’ve learned that the two strongest human emotions are fear and greed. Fear has kept our species alive. Our greed has kept us evolving. In my experience when someone says ‘not ready’ it means they are being governed by their fear(s). It takes someone who taps into their greed for something – lust, intimacy, acceptance, love, whatever because it varies – to make them ignore their fear.
The Brazilian’s heart is fragile and scared. She’s in passive-defensive mode, waiting for any man to say or do one wrong thing and she’s gone. It’s an example of the Grey Knight’s First Law of Dating Physics: for every male action there is a disproportionate female over-reaction.
I am also firmly of the opinion that there was at least one other person on the scene, the person whom she was seeing on Wednesday nights far away from her home.
It occurs to me that it is two years since I went online dating. This gives me pause to remember and wonder what has happened to some of the women I’ve met, as well as the ones I wanted to meet but didn’t get to.
First, the women I did get to meet…
Tech Titan I’m still in touch with, but strictly as friends. She and her boyfriend have just got back from two weeks in the Seychelles, where he proposed to her. I’m happy for her, but he only got divorced a year ago.
Baltic Babe has married her Frenchman. LinkedIn sent me an update with her new surname, so I check out her Facebook page, but she has tightened her security settings and I garner nothing new. I find his Facebook and LinkedIn profile. Let’s just say that he has a face for radio. He must be able to lick his eyebrows. Good luck to them both.
As I sit writing about my dates with The Model, looking back over our email and text conversations, it’s now – yes, only now because I’ve had no reason to think about this – becoming apparent to me that she was dating at least one other person. There were the classic lies/excuses of being at the gym, falling asleep in front of the tv, always getting her voicemail. I was totally blind to it at the time; it was my early days of dating. Apparently all’s fair in love and war. I’m starting to understand what that means.
Krazy Gal got herself a new job then lost it three months later. She’s unemployed again and still living with her parents it seems.
I come across Delicate Flower on Plenty of Fish (PoF). She uses the same photos from when we met 2 years ago. I know that she is now 37 going on 38, but she says on her profile she’s 33. She’s also decided that she wants kids. We swap some emails, but when I suggested that we meet for coffee it seems she blocked me because the message history disappeared. I just wanted to chat with her because I enjoy her company. I wasn’t interested in sex because she is an awful lay. I leave matters there.
PoF also tells me that Angry Yank has changed her location to Greater Boston. Does that mean her visa was running out when we met?
I noticed on the national newspaper’s dating site that Musician Gal has blocked me from contacting her. I find that funny. She was recently active on the site.
I search online for Lusty Lass and can’t find her anywhere. Her Facebook page that I have seen before has disappeared. Our LinkedIn connection has been disconnected and her profile is gone. I do a Google search and find out she had declared herself bankrupt in 2010, probably because of her divorce. When we met in July 2013 she was working for a firm on the outskirts of London, but in early 2014 she had a so-called ‘condition’ set against her by her industry’s governing body that she could not work with client monies. Then latterly she had the same condition set against her but this time she was working for a firm on the opposite end of London. The new firm doesn’t have her on their website as a staff member. Doing a search on her profession’s register returns a blank. Has she been silly and lost her accreditation? She has a penchant for bringing drama into her life.
Cat Lady has acquired a second cat and from the photos she posts on Facebook is spending her evenings knitting things for the kitten.
Busty Blonde has landed her dream job and is still active on the dating site where we met. I hope she meets someone better than me.
Now for the women I didn’t get to meet, the near-misses as I now think of them. These are only some of the women whom I spent time swapping messages with but who couldn’t bring themselves to actually meet me for a date.
A New Zealander whom I was very keen to meet but disappeared when I suggested a date has updated her location on PoF as now being in Sydney, Australia. We interacted a month ago, just before I met The Brazilian.
A local lady and I struck up a great online conversation and agreed to a date. On the Saturday in question she sent me a message at 5am saying that she couldn’t bring herself to meet me that day. I see on PoF that she has changed her profile to say that she “wants to get married”. I would have met her for a date if she suggested rescheduling, but now that I know what her agenda is, I’m put off her.
Last night I was flipping through Tinder when I recognised a pretty blonde whom I had seen on my Happy Humping Ground dating site. On Tinder it shows her name and that she is 41. I find her dating profile where she claims to be 35 and looking to meet men aged 26 to 34! I guess she’s just looking for mindless sex. She’s just the sort of woman I’m visually attracted to; perhaps more proof that the look I like is the wrong sort of person for me.
I love a good, shocking surprise…a woman I noticed on one dating site reveals on another site that she is bisexual.
A lady in my town who approached me and was very keen to meet up, but ended up flaking on me an hour before we were supposed to meet in a local pub has updated her location as being in the north of the country now.
I got an approach email on PoF from someone who looked interesting. Then I noticed that she said that she does drugs on a social basis. I pointed that out to her and said that if it wasn’t for that I would have been happy to meet her for a date. I hear nothing but check her profile the next day to see that she’s changed it to “no drugs”. I write to her but the PoF system says that she has blocked me. She is now someone else’s nightmare in the making.
A woman I’ve swapped messages with in the past responds with “I’m in lurker mode.” What the fuck is that? It’s a woman playing games. There are so many of them on dating sites. They love the attention, will swap endless emails but will never agree to meet for a date. They are not emotionally ready for a relationship. They draw power from the emails, they feel better about themselves for being on a dating site, but they are not relationship material. They’re too fucked up. They eventually acquire cats and their brains are addled with toxoplasmosis. They agree to meet within 6 emails or they’re history.
I’m starting to think that flaky women are just a waste of time. The best encounters, the smoothest experiences have started well and gone well from there. Bad or broken communication is a warning sign; it’s how they operate and will do so in a relationship too.
I’ve realized something: For much of my early dating experiences I was in a mild state of delirium. The disappointment of the Exgf destabilised me, Baltic Babe knocked me over and Krazy Girl stomped me into the ground.
All these women have taken something from me. I don’t exactly know what it is, but I know I lack it. Whatever it was, I want it back. Through Busty Blonde I’m getting to see that an innocence and naiveté I had is gone. That hasn’t made me a better person, instead a more cynical one. I don’t think its that, however. I think it’s a goodness that gave me an arrogant strength is what is gone. It gave me the notion that when it came to relationships, I was better than most men. Now that I have experienced what I have, I feel like I am like other men carrying the same weariness and delusion that they do. I am no longer as special as I once was. Can I be that again, or is the best that I can hope for a different me, built on the ruins of the old? Time will tell.
For the first time ever, the thought of another first date makes my stomach turn. I’m struggling to believe that The One is out there. I’m fully aware that these are my salad days and that I should be out there, mixing and mingling, because I’ve never going to be as good looking and energetic as I am now. Yesterday I found a grey hair in a sideburn; it’s life reminding me that old age is creeping up on me. At the moment I’m just not interested in women.
Thunder is beating its drum and lightning is crackling across the sky outside my window. My window on life. I’ve spent much time looking out that window, wondering about what is and about what could be, even what should be, but the latter only causes me pain. Of course I would love to lie on my lounge floor with Her by my side, whoever Her might be, the one that I am longing to meet, longing so much that at times it hurts. I’ve never had a problem with being alone, but lately I’ve been feeling lonely. That horrible old feeling is back again, to tease and torment me.
After this short and slightly nasty experience with The Brazilian that has left a bitter taste in my mouth, I’ve come to accept that I’m destined to be alone for some time yet. I’ll see it as paying my dues, serving my apprenticeship, hoping that one day I shall be rewarded. Of course there’s no way of knowing what the future holds and it might just be a massive, echoing nothingness for me. A dried up empty husk, devoid of life and of no use to anyone – that is what my love life might hold. It’s a fate that I choose not to think too much about for fear of it depressing and then paralysing me.
My friend, you’re a tourist in the jail that is my dating life, I’m a prisoner here.
Michael Buble – Haven’t Met You Yet
I was sitting alone at home on a rainy Sunday night, staring blankly at my television, my thoughts racing in circles trying to understand what had happened with Krazy Girl and all the other women I had met in the previous 10 months. I was trying to make sense of it all when an unusual chill came over me, unlike any other I had felt before. It was coming from behind me.
A giant invisible hand gripped me, picked me up with ease and dropped me into the Arctic Ocean that had appeared out of nowhere. Everything became cold and dark. Natural buoyancy and the vice-like grip of the icy water propelled me to the surface. Thunder and lightning raged overhead in the pitch-black night sky as a vicious wind swept up the waves. Pieces of jagged ice sped past me, carried by a strong current as bigger, dangerous icebergs were threatening to crash into me. I started swimming towards a flatter sheet of floating ice; I knew I only had a few minutes to survive the freezing water. My clothes were becoming heavy and were betraying me, trying to take me under, into the dark, lonely depths below where nothing and nobody mattered.
Between the booms of thunder I could hear voices, chattering voices, women’s voices. I couldn’t see where they were, but their high-pitched sounds were becoming louder.
“Help me!” I shouted out, in a pathetic attempt to be heard above the roar of the storm.
“Hahaha. Hahahaha,” the women’s voices answered, laughing at me, in a cacophony of mockery and scorn.
I tried clambering up the sharp sides of the sheet of ice, pulling myself up as forcefully as I could, but I was struggling. Hypothermia was setting in, my muscles weren’t working as they should; my clothes felt like a dead weight pulling me back into the black waters that yearned to be my grave. With the last of my strength I pulled myself up over the edge, as I did so there was a strange snapping sound. It felt like a piece of me had broken free from inside my chest, morphed out of my ribs and slipped into the eager waters so quickly that I couldn’t see what it was. It was gone forever, whatever it was.
I woke up realizing that my single glass of wine had put me to sleep. Or had it?
Something inside me had indeed snapped and then died.
Months of unrewarding, demanding dating had taken its toll and I was now angry. I was angry at women, all women. I was angry at women because of their seemingly endless messing me around. I was angry at their insatiable need for silly fucking games.
I was angry about all those many pointless nights I spent swapping messages with dozens of women on dating sites that never led to a date because they just couldn’t bring themselves to meet in person. They preferred hiding behind a screen, basking themselves in male attention without having to give or do anything in return. How women had jerked my chain and wasted my time. I was sick of it.
Why couldn’t they just be happy to be with me? Why couldn’t they just accept that I’m a good guy with a lot to offer? Why must they dwell on their past to the extent that they sabotage their present and future and embroil me in that? Why do they treat me with suspicion when there is no reason for it?
Why couldn’t they just want to hold hands as we walked? Why couldn’t they be happy to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon telling each other stories that made us laugh? Why couldn’t it be simple instead of all so complicated? Why couldn’t they be happy and just be looking to add to their happiness?! Why did they have to be so messed up? Why couldn’t they just be normal?! Why couldn’t they be more like me?
Tech Titan was unbearably clingy. Baltic Babe wanted a glorified sperm-donor. Demolition Debbie was still married. The Model was deranged. Miss Indecisive was a serial dater, a female player I suspect. Potty Mouth disgusted me. The Hirsute Russian made me cringe. The German Shrink bored me. Quiet Katie nearly left me in a coma. Sweet Thing wanted me as a slave and dog-sitter in her home. Irish Eyes had her bloody games. NutSlut was an attention-seeking, approval-craving unpaid whore. Krazy Gal, well who the hell knew what she wanted?
It was that last one who really hurt me, the one who did the most damage, because I had got my hopes up.
I had always adored women. I still think that the most amazing creature on our planet is the female human. She is designed for and capable of a multitude of roles, yet still so delicate and sensitive, despite the versatility. I had always thought that women have a far harder time in life than men do. Most men embarrass me because of their weakness. Mother Nature has even decreed a cruel irony in that women tend to spend their last years alone and struggling. Was it because they could cope with it? After my father died when I was thirteen my mother was a single mother, so I know the hardship and even today my heart (what’s left of it) still goes out to the single mothers of the world. I read somewhere that, if a man treats a woman like a queen, it shows that he was raised by one. My mother had raised me to treat every woman like a queen. I revered women, so much so that I had put every single woman up on a high pedestal. They could do no wrong in my world.
I had always thought that the sweetest thing in the world was little girls between the ages of two and four. I couldn’t agree more with Charles Aznavour: ‘Thank heaven for little girls’. To me they are all just so cute, with their big eyes, abundant enthusiasm, their sense of adventure, even their wilful ways. It always made me smile to see a little girl dressed in a chequered skirt, cream cardigan and pig-tails running along, laughing, with an ice-cream in her hand.
Sadly, somewhere along in their development these little girls all seem to fall into the clutches of a Miss Haversham; they become spiteful and mean to boys, determined to play games with them. They develop the mindset and skills that reduce men into mere playthings for them. Men are there to be toyed with, to be accommodated while it suited her, to be played off against another guy (publicly or secretly, it didn’t really matter) and then to be belittled and rejected when the time was right. Little girls grow into young women devoid of respect for men, even before they have life experience of men. Women seemed to think that men don’t have feelings.
The so-called fairer sex were anything but fair to me. The more respect I gave them, the less they appreciated me. My manners and consideration were being mistaken for weakness. Is it possible that I was “too nice”? All those nights of dates where I was the consummate gentleman, pulling back restaurant chairs, opening doors, offering my jacket, making polite conversation, paying for everything. Where did it get me? Fucking nowhere.
A sense of outrage had been accumulating and it finally came out in me. My ex-wife and ex-girlfriend had both deceived me. You don’t deceive somebody you love. Therefore they didn’t really love me; I felt like a fool because of it. Nobody likes feeling like a fool and especially not me. Years of harbouring memories of their deceit seeped to the surface. That mixed with my feelings about my previous dates and an overwhelming sense of frustration bubbled over in my psyche.
I concluded that the nice guy that I am had gotten me nowhere with women. They didn’t seem to value me. Instead, they seemed to want to take advantage of me, to use me. They didn’t want to give me anything, they only wanted to take.
The thing in me that had died was respect for women.
I decided that it was time that I changed my ways and started playing women at their own game.
I harboured out-dated, unrealistic notions about the true nature of women and these ideas were hurting me. You see, I had lived life in reverse order compared to most people. I got into a serious, committed relationship at the age of twenty that lasted until my mid-thirties. I didn’t have that crazy exploration phase that most people have in their twenties. I didn’t go bed-hopping and heart-breaking when I was young. I had skipped all that and consequently I lacked experience and skills when it came to women.
I resolved to improve my skills with women to such an extent that people who knew me would start accusing me of being a player. Yes, that much-maligned male aberration would become a velvety cape that I would slip on when it suited me and I wouldn’t give a damn. No woman would ever again outsmart me, abuse me or hurt me; I was going to make sure of that.
There’s a great line from Californication (for the aficionado it’s season 1, episode 3, minute 5:55) in which Hank says, “A girl knows within seconds whether she wants to fuck, marry or kill a guy” and I think it’s true. I had to stop assuming that the woman in front of me wanted the same things as me. Some of them, perhaps most of them, just wanted to get laid. I hadn’t bothered to find out. All along I had been leaning towards the “marry” angle, a long-term relationship, not just a quick forgettable fumble in the dark to stave off loneliness. The latter was never appealing to me, but perhaps it was time to explore that side of life. Instead of trying to direct the currents of the dating ocean, going with the flow was much easier and who knows what it might lead to?
My father’s advice about there being only two types of women, “Good Girls and Good-Time Girls”, became more poignant. If my date was the latter, I would give her what she wanted and a lot more than she bargained for.
I made a conscious decision that, if I didn’t deem the woman in front of me to be a Good Girl, to be relationship material (I call that Plan A), I would revert to Plan B – to see if she just wanted to get laid, and if she did, to see how much fun I could have with her. It would become a game to see how long it took before I could have my way with her; consequences be damned.
The night of the iceberg dream was the night the idea of all women being a ‘nice girl’ died in my mind, along with the ‘nice guy’ my parents had raised me to be. My White Knight mindset had not served me well and had in fact got me into trouble in the past and it was causing me trouble now by way of unfulfilled expectations – that of finding my queen, The One, and living happily ever after. They were proving to be unrealistic expectations given the environment I found myself in, this crazy online dating scene.
It was now time for me, a whole new me: a leaner, meaner, more selfish me. No more White Knight in shining armour only offering the best of intentions, but instead a Grey Knight, much less shiny and white. A knight still capable of being a White Knight if the reason was there, but now more intent on indulging himself in the sins of the flesh.
Yes, I was going to dive headlong into a sea of pointless pussy. Would I learn to swim or would I drown? I didn’t care.
Either way, no more Mr Fucking Nice Guy…more like Mr Nice Guy Fucking…
Sinnerman by Nina Simone
I felt like the King of the World! I was close to having my way with The Model and I had closure with Baltic Babe. It was a great day, but something was bothering me. On the walk back to her offices, I had mentioned to Baltic Babe that I was going on a date with an ex-model that night. I wanted to see her reaction. Her response was, “You’re going on a date dressed like that?!” We parted ways before I could ask her what she meant by her comment as I thought I was adequately attired. I sent her a text message while I was waiting for The Model.
After that typically intense & stimulating encounter…there is something I just have to know… What’s wrong with how I’m dressed for my date tonight?
Baltic Babe: So madly busy now. I will tell you later if I survive. You cannot change anything about it anyway. Have fun tonight!
Baltic Babe: Just got into a cab. It was not a very nice evening but the job needed to be done. How was your date? I hope enjoyable with the model? so your clothes..I just did not feel that you looked presentable enough for a date! Night
I left it there. I was too busy fantasizing about how Saturday with The Model was going to turn out. First I would impress The Model with culinary skills, then the clowns at the circus would make us laugh, then when the time was right, I’d impress her with my cunnilingual skills. When would be the right time to make my move?
The following morning while sitting in the reception area waiting to start my new job, Baltic Babe sent me a text message:
“Have a nice first day at work! Send me your new work email address as I will be sending you dirty jokes :-)))”
I ignored her. She had her chance with me and blew it. I was also too busy with my first day on my new job. She must have seen things differently because the next day she texted me again.
17th October – 8:55am
Baltic Babe: “So what is this silence? Did you not get an email address at work? How was your first day?”
I was a little surprised to hear from her again. From our lunchtime encounter I got the distinct impression that she had no interest in me.
I responded with this text message:
After all that has happened… NOW you want to send me dirty jokes?! Now.
Just what kind of a nutcase are you?
Send me your dirty jokes.
I’ll send you dirty pictures…
The next day I sent her the following email from my new work email address:
As demanded, herewith my new work email address.
I think there is a system-generated footer attached to all outbound emails. It should have the main switchboard number included. My extension is 5236 or you could ask for me by name.
This is a very tightly controlled environment, so I would prefer it if you only used this email for emergencies only.
Being management, I have to lead by example.
But you being you, you probably would prefer it if I sent pictures of me in my new work environment. Or…even more paranoid and diabolical…I use video on my phone and showed you everything and everyone over my shoulder. Tsk tsk. I know you.
PS. If I get a mystery phonecall to my extension, with light heavy breathing, before the phone is politely put down on me without a word being said… I know it’s you.
She didn’t reply. Was she just wanting proof that I was working where I said I was? Probably. Her trust issues ran deep.
On the Thursday night I phoned The Model to make final arrangements for our date at my place on the Saturday. The call went amicably enough and we shared a few laughs. I thought it had went fine and the way was clear to have some (hopefully naughty) fun on Saturday night. I don’t think you can imagine my surprise, horror and disappointment when an hour later she sends me the following text message:
Hi you! Really sorry but I can’t do Saturday…Or any day. I’m not OK with any of this. It all feels a bit awkward. Sure you will understand x
I felt crestfallen.
What the hell happened? Our chat was good, the previous date was at least okay (her kisses told me so) – what was I missing? I racked my brain for hours trying to figure out what I had done wrong. I grew frustrated and angry at what had happened, but I’ll never truly know the reason. Whatever it was, it remained in her head and heart. The last sentence in her message must have alluded to her knowing that I suspected her of being badly on the rebound. Who knows?
Smarting from The Model’s shock and abrupt dismissal of me on the Thursday night, on the Friday morning I texted Baltic Babe the following:
OK, let’s try the friends thing. The Circus is in town. I have 2 tickets. I can also provide lunch and a tour of my town. Can you make it?
Baltic Babe: When is it on? My weekends are so full now…Have been working until almost midnight as well. Very tired.
Later that Friday night at 10.04pm
Baltic Babe: Just leaving the office. I don’t think I can escape tomorrow as I have not been able to do anything during the week. Enjoy the circus and thanks for the invite
Being snubbed by two women in 24 hours was more than my ego could take. In a moment of anger and despair I wrote to Tech Titan on the Friday night. Her and I had been swapping the occasional email over the previous three months. I answered her emails out of my misguided pledge that “of course we can be friends”.
She was coming across as desperate to keep in touch with me, I suspect all in a hope to rekindle a relationship, which I really wasn’t interested in.
I invited her to join me for the circus the next night, but she answered saying that she was in San Francisco for work and would be returning in a week’s time. She suggested us getting together on the Sunday. I agreed to this. Idiot. Stupid Boy strikes again!
Never in my life had I had a romantic moment with a woman and then moved the relationship on to the basis of a friendship. I didn’t think it could be done, largely because I didn’t know how. I was curious about whether or not I could be friends with a woman, knowing full well that the woman in question had hopes of her own about me. Okay, that’s all largely true and partially bullshit too.
There is something I must confess to you. I was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with me after having been spurned by two women in such short order. A part of me was craving validation about being attractive to the opposite sex. Being around a woman who fancies me, is not just happy but excited about being with me would make me feel a whole lot better about myself.
Thus the stage was set…
How I felt is encapsulated in this song:
Queen- Somebody To Love
Can anybody find me somebody to love
Ooh, each morning I get up I die a little
Can barely stand on my feet
(Take a look at yourself) Take a look in the mirror and cry (and cry)
Lord what you’re doing to me (yeah yeah)
I have spent all my years in believing you
But I just can’t get no relief, Lord!
Somebody (somebody) ooh somebody (somebody)
Can anybody find me somebody to love ?
I work hard (he works hard) every day of my life
I work till I ache in my bones
At the end (at the end of the day)
I take home my hard earned pay all on my own
I get down (down) on my knees (knees)
And I start to pray
Till the tears run down from my eyes
Lord somebody (somebody), ooh somebody
(Please) Can anybody find me somebody to love ?
(He works hard)
Everyday (everyday) – I try and I try and I try
But everybody wants to put me down
They say I’m going crazy
They say I got a lot of water in my brain
Ah, got no common sense
I got nobody left to believe in
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
Ooh somebody – ooh somebody
Can anybody find me somebody to love ?
(Can anybody find me someone to love)
Got no feel, I got no rhythm
I just keep losing my beat (You just keep losing and losing)
I’m OK, I’m alright (he’s alright – he’s alright)
I ain’t gonna face no defeat (yeah yeah)
I just gotta get out of this prison cell
One day (someday) I’m gonna be free, Lord!
Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love love love
Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love somebody somebody somebody somebody
Somebody find me
Somebody find me somebody to love
Can anybody find me somebody to love ?
(Find me somebody to love)
(Find me somebody to love)
Find me somebody, somebody (find me somebody to love) somebody, somebody to love
(Find me somebody to love)
Find me, find me, find me, find me, find me
Ooh – somebody to love
(Find me somebody to love)
(Find me somebody to love)
Find me, find me, find me somebody to love
(Find me somebody to love)
Anybody, anywhere, anybody find me somebody to love love love!
Wooo somebody find me, find me love.
I got to Gloucester Road early and scouted out the area for somewhere classy to eat and found a place that I would take The Model to. What I really wanted was to take her to bed and eat her, but I had to play it cool and be patient. We had swapped a few emails and a phone-call during the week. She seemed more upbeat than our last disastrous date so I was looking forward to this encounter, not just because I wanted to see her and get to know her better, but also because there was something I wanted to put to her.
We met punctually outside the Tube station and The Model was smiley. I kissed her ‘hello’ on the lips which made her smile more. She wasn’t hungry, so we went for a walk around the area, passing the famous museums that millions of tourists from all over the planet come to visit. Nothing in them were as attractive to me as The Model.
We held hands as we walked and talked. Amongst other things, I asked about her friend’s break-up situation and about her weekend with her mother, but details were a little sketchy.
Having walked up an appetite I led her to the restaurant that I had chosen. It was called “The Green Door Steakhouse” and offered a varied menu promising high quality food. Naturally it was pricey, but I was starting my new job the next day. I don’t mind wining and dining a woman as I think it’s romantic.
It didn’t take too long before conversation between us reverted to its familiar stale format. She kept talking about her previous boyfriend. I didn’t pre-empt it, she let her mind wander over to it. Once she had latched on to that, it seemed as if nothing I said or did was good enough. Sitting at the table I realised that once her head was filled with thoughts of ‘him’ that she entered a very dark, lonely place in her psyche…and that the rest of the date was fucked. Lesson learnt.
“I have something to suggest to you,” I began, trying to distract her, get her back to reality, back to me.
“Yes?” she said cautiously.
“A circus is coming to a nearby town this coming Saturday. Would you like to join me?”
“That could be fun, darling.”
“Great. It’s in the late afternoon, so if you get to me by lunch, I’ll cook for us,” I said, trying to hide my excitement.
“I’d love that. I like it when a man cooks for me,” she beamed. Distraction successful.
After the meal and some positive conversation, I walked her to her car and we stood alongside it and kissed for ages. She felt so good to hold and her lips were exquisitely soft. Our kisses grew more intense and passionate. Our tongues touched and teased each other. Unsurprisingly after several minutes of this I got a hard-on. If one of us lived nearby, we would have gone to bed that night.
The Model broke contact and said with a smile and sparkling eyes, “Okay mister, I’ll see you Saturday lunchtime. Have a good first week back at work,” and like that she got in her car and drove off into the night.
I felt that I now had a green light to get intimate with her. Perhaps if we connected physically then a proper relationship would follow? Who knows, with a little bit of time, love even? The love I wanted and deserved?
Saturday couldn’t come soon enough…
My date with The Model was lacklustre. It just didn’t feel as good as when I was with Baltic Babe, not for a moment at any point. I don’t know why, but I sent Baltic Babe the following email:
Hello & Goodbye
It’s a cool Sunday morning and I would so much have preferred to have woken up to the sight of your pretty face, angelic smile, bushy hair…and the sound of your unforgettable laugh. How I miss your laugh.
I never ever thought I could or even would fall for someone as quickly and as deeply as I did with you.
My heart says I must fight for you. I must do whatever it takes to prove to you that you are wrong about me. Show you just how much of me you have misunderstood. Show you how good we could be together.
But, my brain says “No, don’t.” It says this for various reasons.
In recent years I have learned (at great expense) to trust my brain. My heart has got me in to trouble in the past.
Your past is not your future – and that applies to me too. What I want now from life has changed from how I have lived before. After 2 weeks of interviews, this week I landed a permanent position as a manager in the IT department of Famous Company. I have 22 staff to look after. In February we will be delivering a new website. Whenever you use it, you can think to yourself “He did that.”
If things in the coming years do not work out how you hope, then remember this: if your priorities change to simply wanting to be with someone who loves you – really loves you – and if you think you could grow to love me, and if I am still available, then you have this email address.
Don’t feel obliged to be polite and answer this. For once, let me have the final word.
I hoped that Baltic Babe wouldn’t answer and would just leave matters there.
Later that same Sunday night I phoned The Model, but she didn’t answer so I left a message. She sent an email the next day saying that she had fallen asleep watching a dvd with her heart-broken friend.
Also on the Monday morning I get a text message from Baltic Babe. It read:
Congrats on your job! Yes, that site needs a refurb I will send you some pics from sunny beach soon.
Me: How do you do that? I’m sitting here looking at our photos from Sunny Beach…
I knew she would answer, that was typically her cheeky sense of humour. However, I wasn’t expecting any photos from her. Was she just angling for attention, or had she had a change of heart? I let matters with Baltic Babe rest there. I had a prettier fish to fry…
The Model had to go travelling around England for work the following week, so we couldn’t get together then. I phoned her one night during the week, we had a chat and she told me that she had her mother coming to visit for the weekend.
On the Sunday morning I emailed the following to The Model:
What a lovely morning. I don’t mind this time of year – falling leaves, a nip in the air, the anticipation of Xmas speeding towards us… It’s the depth of Winter I don’t like, especially having to get up and go to work when you’d rather be snug under the duvet keeping somebody else warm.
Anyhooo… my start day has been moved to Tuesday and I’m going in to London on Monday to the South African embassy to run the gauntlet of bureaucracy gone mad. I expect I’ll be there over lunch. As I’m in town and will be free in the evening, I’m wondering if you’re free too because I’d like to buy you dinner. OK, I’ll admit it. I also want to partake of the loveliness that is you, even if just for a few hours.
Her response came very late on the Sunday night:
Hello lovely one!
Thank you for your email… It would be lovely to catch up tomorrow. Im training some clients in Gloucester rd at 3 then finished about 4pm so lets catch up! Had a heavy weekend so was planning an early night tucked in with cocoa- so I can alter that but can you be gentle with me please!?!!?
Heavy weekend with her mother? Hmm…