Tag Archives: trust demon

So excited

The next day, Thursday, I wake up and within seconds I feel breathless. I want her, I want The Artist. I want to be with her, look into her eyes, hear her laugh, see her smile. I want to hold her hand in mine as we walk. I want to stop, cup her face with one hand and kiss her gently. Just thinking about those things makes me tremble inside; I’ve forgotten what that feels like. In truth, I’m a little scared because it feels like I’ve lost control. This is the effect she’s had on me. A rational, logical person would say that it’s only been one date and that I shouldn’t get carried away. My instincts tell me that she’s worth getting carried away for. I wonder how she feels?

I send her a text message at 7.05am bidding her a good morning. I offer a few words of support for something she’s not looking forward to doing at work. I make fun of the fact that we’re not strangers any more so it’s okay for us to talk on the phone, suggesting that we chat later in the evening. 22 minutes later she answers with a very long message, so she must have started texting me back straight away. She thanks me for my words of encouragement and says that ‘something’ will be distracting her today. Then she says that she would ‘love to chat’ and asks if she should let me know when she’s home.

Her last sentence makes me smile; women love a man to pursue them. I don’t want to do what other men do, so I respond by suggesting that she call me when she’s comfortable once back at home. I let her know that I have an idea for our next get-together. I deliberately don’t use the word ‘date’ because it is laced with pressure in so many women’s minds. I tap into a woman’s innate desire to tie up loose ends, satisfy their curiosity, that is why I’m deliberately vague and enticing about having ‘a plan’. It works.

Nine minutes later her response arrives, again much longer than mine and it ends with “Looking forward to talking to you and hearing your plan! X

My heart swells to bursting point. She really likes me.

I struggle to function properly the rest of the day. All I can think about is her. My thoughts and feelings of when I was with her on our date had a very limited sexual dynamic to it. Yes, I felt physically attracted to her, but my focus was solely on her as a person. Now, the next day, my thoughts regularly turn to wondering what making love to her would be like. I think it would be gentle and tender. The way she kisses tells me she is about love and not lust. She didn’t once use her tongue, even though I teased a little once at the end of the evening by sending forward a probing tongue on her lips.

So far the greatest physical negative is her being on the chubby side, but I can live with that. Having seen that she can out-eat me, perhaps I can be a helpful influence in that regard, but only if she wants to lose weight.

More than anything, I want to find out what her romantic fairytale idea is and then make it come true for her.

Later that night we chat and The Artist tells me that she is visiting friends in Cambridge for a party on Saturday and staying over. My plan involving the cablecar across the Thames, a visit to the Millennium Dome followed by a meal at a South African steak restaurant will have to wait for another day. Every ounce of my being tells me that that day is going to happen.

“I don’t suppose you fancy coming to Cambridge on Sunday?” she asks.

Teams of muscular wild horses being stung by wasps couldn’t keep me away! That’s what I say to myself.

“I’ll think about it,” is what I say to The Artist.

I call her at 8pm on Friday night on the pretence of wanting to chat with her, but deep down I know I want to find out if she’s on a date. My Trust Demon is tut-tutting at my enthusiasm and he demands that I take a moment to play safe. She answers my call but is on a bus home, so I ask her to phone me when she gets home and is okay to talk. “It’ll be about half an hour til I’m home,” she says. “That’s fine,” I say. I don’t know whether it was because she was on a bus or is having second thoughts about me, but she didn’t sound too pleased to hear from me. I assume it’s the bus.

Exactly half an hour later she calls me. I appreciate someone who does what they say they will do. She’s just arrived home and immediately phones me. I take that to show serious intent on her part. We make small talk and she sounds a bit upset or grumpy to me. I coax a little bit and she opens up. “I don’t want to bore you with this, but I’ve been having a bad time at work this week,” she starts, then launches into detail about her problems at work. I just listen and it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I guess that she has nobody to talk to this about, so I just let her vent. I’ve learned to not be the solution to whatever a woman is moaning about when it comes to her work.

Saturday 28th February 2015
I send her a text message at 8pm telling her that I hope she enjoys her party and takes embarrassing photos. I don’t expect to hear from her, the party should be well under way. Less than half an hour later she sends me a very lengthy text message that she must have started composing as soon as she read my message. She provides me with a postcode for me to find her friend’s house and suggest one-ish as a meeting time. That’s far earlier than I expected and I’m surprised and pleased.

Something I’ve learned to do is to pay attention to the length of woman’s a written response versus what I send her. If I send a lengthy message, whether it be an email or text message, and the response is short, it is an indicator that she’s not feeling particularly positively inclined towards me. If she matches the number of lines I write, then we’re in sync. If she answers with a much longer message it means she is feeling excited about me. The Artist’s very lengthy responses make me feel good. I get the impression that she’s very keen on me and struggling to hide it.

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

Pointer Sisters – I’m so excited

Obsession

I hadn’t planned to see The Cockaholic on the Friday, for fear of wanting to seem too keen. However, I actually wanted to see her before she went away on holiday with her mother. I like being with her, she is lively and fun…and very keen to please in bed. I text an innocuous message to her at lunchtime and we both confess to wondering what the other was doing that night. It doesn’t take long for us to agree to meet up that night.

I go to The Cockaholic’s place for the first time and it’s so much nicer than mine, as I expected. Bless her for not being disappointed by my dump. She makes us a pizza that she specially went to the shops to buy. She also bought ciders for me and South African wines for her.

After dinner she produces a photo album that her mother had made for her fortieth birthday which has dozens of pictures of her through the years. As a teenager and young woman she was exceptionally attractive, but in some of the photos I noticed how flat-chested she was. She was a small a-cup then and is now a good b-cup.

We chat amiably and before long we’re kissing on her sofa. Suddenly she jumps up and goes to the kitchen, returning with an unopened tub of clotted cream. I remember asking her on the Monday night if she had ever eaten food off somebody or had food eaten off her and the answer was in the negative.

She undresses me and asks me to lie down on her sofa. She starts sucking on my cock for a little while before opening the tub of clotted cream and smearing it over the head of my cock before eagerly licking and sucking it off. She remains fully clothed and continues doing this to me for more than an hour.

She’s a cockaholic and just can’t stop sucking my cock. It’s pleasant, sweet and disturbing all at the same time. I’ve never experienced anything like it before. It’s as if she is obsessed with my cock or perhaps penises in general. I bet she sees cocks in the unlikeliest of places.

Cock recipes

Cock recipes

Cock cloud

Cock cloud

Cock sundae

Cock sundae

Cock chandelier

Cock chandelier

Cock fruit

Cock fruit

Penile building

Penile building

Penile sign

Penile sign

Cocky food

Cocky food

Penis-shaped building

Penis-shaped building

Cock cake

Cock cake

Penis pizza

Penis pizza

Penis weather

Penis weather

We go to her bedroom where I lick and suck her clit while fingering her g-spot with two fingers in her pussy. Just like on Monday night she has an almighty orgasm that leaves her shaking and trembling. I cuddle her and it feels good. She’s almost in an euphoric state, eventually recovers, swallows hard and breaths normally again. Only a handful of women have reacted so well to my touch.

Without my saying a word she starts sucking on me again and barely stops to take my cock out of her mouth for at least an hour again. She’s unbelievable, but I’m not complaining. Eventually I cum in her mouth and she just keeps on sucking away like nothing was happening. She’s more than happy to swallow my cum and even sucks and licks tenderly long after I’ve cum. Either my cock is her obsession or my pleasure and contentment is important to her; perhaps both.

We eventually switch the lights off well after 1am and it feels like minutes before we’re both awake again. It’s just after 7am and sirens from the main road outside have woken us. Almost instantly she starts sucking on my cock again! We’ve hardly said a word to each other; she is keen to please. Again I cum in her mouth, but I hurry it up this time because she has a hair appointment to get to. I think with her there will always be time for a blowie.

There is always time for a blowie!

There is always time for a blowie!

The next day, Sunday, she goes off to Spain for a week to go holiday-house hunting with her mother. I spend the same afternoon with The Saffa, intending to break up with her, but I’ll tell you what happened there in a little while.

Over the course of the week The Cockaholic and I swap messages via WhatsApp, all pretty generic and low-key. On Thursday I suggest that we get together on Sunday. I’ll make a curry and get other Indian snacks; she agrees excitedly. I’m pleased by her response and I’m looking forward to seeing her.

Then at 6am on the Friday morning my Trust Demon wakes me. My immediate thought is that she had sent me photos of where she had been in Spain, but none of her and her mother. So I send her a WhatsApp message, wishing her a good day…and asking that she send me a selfie of her and her mother together. She sees my message minutes later, but uncharacteristically doesn’t respond. In the evening she sends me two separate pictures: one of just herself and another one of her mother with an unknown woman.

I download these and analyse them. The properties of the photo of her mother was taken at a very large resolution size and the previous day, but her other pictures she sent me during the week were all taken at a smaller size, while the one of just her was taken at a very small size, also on another day. This indicates that a different camera or phone was used on each of them. Hmmm….I wonder who she really was with in Spain.

My Trust Demon spins furiously in his cage.

Animotion – Obsession

My troublesome Trust Demon awakes

I’m meeting The Saffa and it’s a sunny, tranquil Sunday morning. It’s the end of September and unseasonably warm. I’m not sure how today will play out after the petty arguments of earlier in the week. We kiss hello outside the Royal Exchange at Bank and she’s immediately her chatty self. My concerns appear misplaced; it seems as if nothing bad has ever happened between us.

We make our way down to the Docklands Light Railway where we get a front-row seat on the train so that she could experience what a train driver sees. We alight at Canary Wharf to walk around the Cathedrals of Capitalism; she has never seen anything like it. Then we get back on the DLR and travel under the Thames into Greenwich. We walk around the village area, feeling the history then wander around the Old Royal Naval College where she is captivated by the chapel which has an impressive Baroque interior.

The Maritime Museum is next and she wants to stop and look at every exhibit which is natural, but we could spend the entire day here while I have plans to show her much more. By now we are getting hungry and I lead us to a nearby indoor market where we buy and share all sorts of foreign nibbles and delicacies. The Saffa smelt somebody’s chips doused in vinegar and salt, so she craves that. We find a traditional English fish and chips shop where she gets her craving satisfied. We stroll off to Greenwich Park where we lie on the grass eating our motley lunch. When we finish eating she asks me to lie on top of her; it was a feeling that she just had to have. I oblige despite feeling very self-conscious with hundreds of people around us. She really lives without boundaries.

Next I take her up the hillock that is presided over by the Royal Greenwich Observatory, the place where time is measured from. Unknown to her it is also where I asked my ex-wife to marry me. It’s closed, so we stand outside at the vantage point taking photos of the surrounding London skyline and Canary Wharf. We walk back down the hill and along the way we are passed by an absolutely stunning Eastern European girl dressed in all white to match her hair. The Saffa spots her and remarks, “Did you see the heels she was wearing?” I pretend to not have seen her. In my head I was remarking to myself how attractive that girl was, but how I could never ever have the kind of connection with her that I have with The Saffa. There’s a lot to be said for cultural similarity. My days of being attracted to Slavic women are over.

It’s dusk and we end up at a Jamie’s Restaurant where we find a comfy sofa and share coffee with pastries. Conversation never once runs dry between us, but that would never be a problem because the Saffa is something of a chatterbox, so much so that she is prone to talking over people. It’s rare for me to finish a sentence, which I’m starting to find annoying.

The only blight on the day was that she was regularly venting about her work situation. She’s now in a dispute with her employers about her Wednesday afternoons off. From what I could see The Saffa was taking liberties with her time off and her employers were laying down the law, but she didn’t see it that way. No amount of trying to apply reason would change her outlook. Fearing becoming embroiled in yet another silly argument I have to change the topic several times before she lets go of it.

It’s getting late so we head for the trains, catching the DLR back to Canary Wharf where we change to the Jubilee Line. I have to change en route to get my train home, so I have to say goodbye to her on the train. Not the best kind of good night kiss, it’s always too rushed.

I have enjoyed the day. Is she ‘The One’? In my heart I don’t think so. There’s something about her that is bothering me and I can’t identify it. It’s stopping things from blossoming. Do I enjoy spending time with her? Very much so, but it feels more like friendship and not love. What am I going to do? I’ll give it time.

Late on Monday she tells me that some old high-school friends were wanting to meet up later that night. She loves spontaneity, so I think nothing of it, other than wondering about her employer’s opinion given the current impasse about her taking time off. The next day on Facebook she posts several pictures of her with three guys in a pub. I see no problem.

On Wednesday The Saffa comes up to my place. I make her a strong massaman curry which she loves. The spicier they like the food, the better the lover; I’m convinced of it. We watch some Californication which she is becoming addicted to. Almost predictably we started making out then fucking on my sofa.

Krazy Girl contacting me the other day made me realize that I regret not filming her and I having sex. It’s a strangely satisfying thing to see yourself in action and it helps to improve technique. Whether or not things work out between me and The Saffa, I want some memories of us together, pleasuring each other. I had recharged my camera battery the day before, so in a premeditated fashion I began filming us fucking.

We’re both naked and The Saffa is sitting on the footstool, looking at the television. I switch the camera on, position it perfectly on a table and point it towards her.

“No, what are you doing?!” she exclaims as I stride over to her.

Without saying a word I point my cock towards her face and all resistance is broken. She comes forward and latches her mouth onto my penis like a starving baby getting its bottle. The footage ends with her being on all fours on my sofa, her d-cup breasts flopping about. I’m fucking her from behind, pulling her silky blonde hair back with one hand and I’ve got a thumb up her bum.

“Ja, fuck me. Ooh, fuck me harder,” she shouts out just before she cums with that little squeal of hers.

Still on The Hook she slumps forward onto the sofa while I continue to do my thing. It isn’t long before my cock is pumping and squirting hot, sticky cum into her tight little pussy that has a slight curvature in just the right place. I pull out and she spins around and sucks my cock dry.

We cuddle up on the sofa under a throw for a while, but eventually the time nears for her to have to go back to work in London. I don’t want her situation with her employers getting any worse because of me.

“Sweetie, isn’t it time to catch a train?” I ask.

“No, I want some more of your cock,” she says, leaning over to my groin, pushing the throw away.

“Hey, you don’t want to get into trouble at work,” I counter.

“Agh, fuck them,” she says as she latches onto my cock and starts sucking away on it.

I look down at her in disbelief and she does what she does best. What is her problem? Does she have some kind of death-wish going on? I try to figure it out while she expertly brings my orgasm to fruition and savours the proceeds.

Not long afterwards we’re scampering towards my train station as her train is arriving. A hurried kiss sees her off. It’s just turned eleven o’clock, the time when she’s supposed to report back to her charge, but the trains will take another hour to get her there. I turn and saunter back home, my head full of questions about her self-destructive behaviour.

On Friday morning The Saffa tells me that she had used up all her nights off for the week. Then later in the day tells me that she’s meeting her old school friends again that night.

Hmm, my trust demon awakes and rattles his cage, yearning to break free. I haven’t felt him for a while, thinking him in an icy hibernation, his black little heart frozen. I’m wrong. He’s alive and well and trying to protect me.

I go onto The Saffa’s Facebook page and do some reconnaissance. I notice that in preceding weeks, when she was supposed to be “working”, that she was out partying with friends. She told me that she only gets Wednesday afternoons and Saturday afternoon until Sunday evening off. The date and time-stamp of photos that she and other people have posted of her tell me otherwise. My analytical eye sees that one of the guys has appeared in photos thrice in the past two weeks.

She’s lied to me, there’s a mystery man on the scene and she is deliberately courting danger with her employers.

I see trouble ahead…

Lindsey Buckingham – Trouble

Brazilian rumbled

As I sit here writing this, having got home just over an hour ago after our first night together, I feel a long-forgotten sensation that I like: light-headed, butterflies in my tummy and a warm glow all around me. Could The Brazilian really be The One?

What is it that I’m so drawn to? Aside from having a common wanderlust and, so far, a few other important things such as an enjoyment of sex, it’s how I feel when I’m with her. She has a passion for and outlook on life that is very similar to mine and I think that will serve as the basis for our relationship. She has a zest for life that I feel I once had and have lost, so I appreciate that in her. It’s not since Krazy Girl that I’ve met someone who, when we look at each other, we have a mutual desire to jump each other.

That animal magnetism that was so sorely lacking with Busty Blonde has appeared out of the internet and it counts for a lot. After just one weekend with The Brazilian I’m infatuated with her; in all six months with Busty Blonde not for a moment did I feel this way. I can see that I can forgive a lot of things in The Brazilian because I desire her, lust after her and, after last night, our first night together, I know that no matter what, we’ll both want to fuck each other even after a fight.

I marvel at the simplicity of this carnal urge that will forgive all manner of sins, but I do wonder about the sensibility of it. I’m not talking about being like a dog in heat, my always wanting to fuck, just waiting to be let off the leash. I’m talking about a quieter, more powerful sense that resides deep within me, that gives me equal measure of comfort and concern. Comfort because it makes me feel alive, a virile man, capable of and actively coupling with a woman whom he desires.

The concern and question of sensibility is of a self-aware man knowing that it could get him into trouble, leading to yet another heartache. With age does it become harder to deal with disappointment and even harder to still believe in true love and to keep trying to find it?

I think it’s the beauty of the structure, that the obvious risk and potential fallout is necessary to heighten the sensation, the euphoria, of what it is to be in love. Knowing that it could end very badly, is the thing that makes us subconsciously pay that extra little bit of attention, to make that effort, not just in the hope of avoiding disaster, but in making the most of what is on offer.

At the moment I would say that The Brazilian and I have similar hearts. We seem to both yearn for a drama-free relationship. I think that if you trust, value and respect each other then there’ll be very little drama.

She has an innocence, a vulnerability in her heart that I can sense, because it is there in mine too. She’s like a little girl who wants somebody to take her hand and lead her to her tea-party in the garden, then to sit and play with her.

I’m starting to think more of her as a little bird. She wants to feel safe and protected while at the same time being filled with a sense of freedom. I have to learn to gently hold her heart in my hands and savour those moments, because there is no telling when she’ll suddenly flit away, perhaps one day never to return. I know already, after just two dates and one night together, that that is how it will be between us and I have no choice but to accept it as such.

I’m infatuated with her, intoxicated by her. I can’t stop thinking about her, remembering all the things we’ve said and done and not just our first night together. I’m looking forward to taking her to all the same old places that I’ve taken all my other dates over the years, largely because I know it’ll be fun with her and it’ll be different with her.

I see elements of some of the other women that I’ve encountered in the past two years. There’s the fun factor of Tech Titan, the cheekiness of Baltic Babe, the sexuality of Krazy Girl and the goodness of Sweet Thing and Busty Blonde, all rolled into one person. Looking at the sentence I’ve just written, I realize that those are the factors that encapsulate what I am looking for in a woman and why I am so taken with The Brazilian. Most importantly, there’s chemistry between us.

It’s now Tuesday and as I write about Krazy Girl for my blog, I find myself wondering if this might turn out to be a repeat of that; starts off all fiery and frenetic and then she runs away. Or it could be like Baltic Babe, all sweet and light in the beginning, then the crazy comes out? Time will tell.

Wednesday night and I’ve spent the day writing about Krazy Girl. I’m starting to see a lot of similarities. The previous night The Brazilian had said to me that for the Wednesday and Thursday night she would be attending a government training session for her industry. She mentioned that it was in London, somewhere near her.

Just before going to bed, something at the back of my brain (my trust demon, perhaps?) told me to check her profile on Tinder. Her profile said that 4 hours previously, at 7pm, she was 70 miles away from me. Every other time I visited her profile it said that she was 28 miles from me. She wasn’t in London, far from it, literally.

I feel so deflated. It feels like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. My every instinct tells me that she was with another man, probably on a date, possibly more. It feels like cupid has fired a flaming arrow through the balloon that was my hopes for a relationship with The Brazilian.

Of course I’ll see what she says, but it’s not looking good. I have an old decision to make now: do I confront her and probably never see her again after having it out on the phone with her or do I live in hope that there’s an explanation, or do I string her along and see how long the sex lasts?

I hope I’m misunderstanding this, but I’m pretty upset at the moment.

The thought has just occurred to me that this is life repaying me for having hurt Busty Blonde so much.

It’s Thursday night and I’ve just got off the phone from The Brazilian. I had played it cool all day, only sending her one Whatsapp message at lunchtime asking how she was. She answered just before 6pm. I decide to call her at 8pm to speak in person instead, not because I hate fingering a device or because it’s nicer to hear the other person’s voice, but because I want to have a chance of catching her out if she has lied about her whereabouts. People change their tone of voice when lying.

We make idle chit-chat then I slip into the conversation her “course” of the previous night. She said it was boring. I ask where it was, but she ignores my question and starts talking about something else. I ask again where it was and there is a momentary silence before she mentions an adjoining suburb in a slow, hushed tone. My stomach falls around my feet and blood from my upper body races off after it.

It was only a split second, of course, but it felt like such a lonely, empty eternity, as the gravitas of the disappointing lie set in.

“Why, were you checking up on me?” she asks, breaking the momentary silence. Has she realized that I know she was lying? It’s a strange thing to ask, don’t you think? If she had nothing to hide she wouldn’t have asked that.

I ignore her question and move the conversation on, just like she tried to do. How does she like it now? She’s not stupid, she now knows I suspect something. Does she think I’ll like her lies? How can I love her lies? What’s next: games?

If you forgive one lie you instantly commission hundreds more. A relationship beset with lies is something I can and will not tolerate. Complete trust and honesty is essential to a healthy relationship. Only a fool or an inveterate liar believes otherwise.

My trust demon is going berserk in his cage. He’s straining at the bars, trying to force them apart. He’s swearing unspeakable words at The Brazilian. How dare she do this!

My gut reaction is to call her back and have it out on the phone with her, but I’m older and wiser now. This could all be a misunderstanding on my part, but my instincts tell me otherwise. Nevertheless I know to keep my options open. I consult a friend of mine who is an expert in these matters. She earns her living from helping people deal with matters of the heart. With the help of her ideas and words I came up with a course of action.

It’s a Friday night in early July and it’s hot. The Brazilian is due to visit me tomorrow and I think that whatever happens will either make or break us. While I was cleaning my home in anticipation of her visit, words and feelings inside me met and this poem was the outcome.

    The hot Friday night before you came

It’s a July Friday night
It’s hot and it’s still light.
I so badly want you by my side
Your every word I would abide.

We have serious issues to discuss
I could really do without a fuss.
If we argued, early you would leave
Another wasted chance I’d grieve.

If finding you are made of deceit
From you I shall retreat.
But if you are The One for me
Talking it through will set us free.

The way will be clear
To find love
Free of fear
Each other’s glove.

I’ll be everything I know I can be
You’ll just have to wait and see
I can’t wait to take your hand
I hope tomorrow goes as planned.


Yello – Of Course I’m Lying

Me and my trust issues

I am by nature a trusting person; it’s how I was born: ‘different’. Perhaps the doctor dropped me, or instead of slapping my botty he missed and clouted my head. Who knows? As a kid I was always easily tricked by other kids because I wasn’t a nasty little shit like them. I remember being six years old, in first grade and sitting on the end of a long row of tables for kids because I am left-handed. The pretty little blonde girl who sat next to me, Nicky, used to hold my hand and ask me to help her with maths. I thought she held my hand because she liked me; she liked me most during maths. The next year I was seated somewhere else. All through junior school Nicky was my girl, but of course only in my little head.

My father was a weak person and his weakness found sanctuary at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Even as a little boy I swore to myself that I would be a stronger man than him. It wasn’t difficult. My mother never trusted my father to be alone with me. Now you know why I make a point of discovering my date’s ability to handle alcohol. I grew up in a home that was a battleground devoid of trust.

My mother wasn’t a bad mother, just an over-protective domineering one. She couldn’t handle the responsibility she felt when other kids came to play at my house. When I was nine, a little boy hurt himself at our home and my mother banned me from bringing kids home after school. I think humans are intrinsically social creatures, so in my very first act of rebellion I enticed kids to incur my mother’s wrath by offering them any of my toys if they came to play with me. I didn’t give many toys away. Unsurprisingly I wasn’t allowed to go to other kid’s homes either because my mother was terrified that something bad would happen to me. My formative socialization was disastrous. It won’t surprise you then if I told you that today I have very few friends.

My mother put her own feelings and the feelings of others ahead of mine. My father died of a heart attack when I was thirteen and I was lurched into a new world, the adult world that I was ill-equipped for. At times I went to school for three days a week and worked in a scrap metal yard the other days. Far earlier than most I began to think for myself and saw that my mother was a simple person, struggling with her own place in the world, a world that never made sense to her and everything scared her. I lost all faith that she could do what was right for me. I lost faith in her consistently flawed judgement and that eroded my trust in her.

At the end of high school I had my first serious girlfriend and she was my first love and I lost my virginity to her. It was great. I didn’t have the money for university so I had to go off to do National Service. I was posted literally a thousand miles from home and I kept in touch with my first love via weekly letters and a brief phonecall late on a Sunday night. Three months into my training she told that that she met a guy at her work and had slept with him. I was devastated. That betrayal sliced a valley though the middle of my heart. The rigours of everyday military life took my mind off what had happened to me and I realize now that I suppressed it. Let’s call that Betrayal 1. Click here to read more.

A couple of years later and I meet a sweet little brunette girl who doesn’t have the blonde aquiline look that I like, but I liked being with her. She was good, decent, honest and innocent, so I felt emotionally safe with her. She was non-threatening to me. We grew up together and we grew apart. At the end of our fifteen year relationship she said to me that she didn’t love me for the last five years of it. Again I was devastated. What bothered me the most in the longer-term fallout was that I had missed the fact that she was deceiving me. I trusted her totally, but it was my damaged faith in my own judgement that bothered me. Let’s call that Betrayal 2. Click here to read more.

The paperwork on my divorce settlement hadn’t dried when I met the person who became my Exgf. We shared a chemistry like I had never experienced before. I’m a bit of a love-fool in that I fall in love very quickly and I love totally; I hold nothing back. I revel in love, I live for love. Imagine my shock when I discovered that my Exgf had been putting on an act and had been spying on me for the duration of our relationship. She had duped me and manipulated me from day one. I felt like such a fool. Let’s call that Betrayal 3. Click here to read more.

The cumulative effect – the damage, the baggage – of these three betrayals is long-lasting. I only really became aware of it when I encountered Baltic Babe who also has trust issues. Hers stem from her parents giving her up when she was little. Being assaulted and patronised by someone else’s insecurities was not fun, but it made me realize that I am beset with a similar sensitivity, a hobbled outlook.

Like so much of human behaviour my trust issue is driven by fear. I fear being hurt again, fear being manipulated, fear feeling like a fool again and it is at the back of my head every time I meet someone new for a date. I now don’t trust my judgement when it comes to women. I instinctively still hope for the best, but am so much more in-tune to keeping an eye or ear out for this person’s ability to betray me. I know it’s not right, but the three scarred roads, the betrayals, that criss-cross my heart make the journey a little rougher than what I would like.

So what stirs my fragile sense of trust? The number one thing is anything that hints at manipulation. A smattering of lies on a dating profile about their age and old photos are quickly revealed for what they are once I meet her. Their efforts to craft an impression, to deceive me into meeting them jars from the outset and it rubs up against my wondering if they can be trusted. Trying to trick me takes me back to being a little boy being made a fool of by mean-spirited kids. Nobody appreciates being led by the nose.

That’s the obvious and superficial, but it’s the second thing that equally totally kills it for me: dishonesty. If my date reveals, usually by way of anecdote, her having to indulge in dishonesty for whatever reason, I go a little cold inside. There are people who indulge in ‘little white lies’ all day long as their way of getting through life – I am not one of them and I consider such people as weak. Weak people can not be trusted; they will eventually screw you over, then offer some excuse and make you feel bad for not forgiving them. They will say and do whatever makes for an easy life for themselves and eventually I pay the price for their weakness. That has been my life experience, whether it be in my home, the workplace, anywhere and everywhere.

I’m not saying that I have never told a lie, because I have but it really is only a couple of times a year. I’m serious. I reject the world I grew up in; I shall be the change I seek. I would rather hurt someone with the truth than deceive them with a lie – and I expect the same in return. I have no time for people who lie every day, not because of their dishonesty but because of their weakness. I’m aware that this is all a learned condition, exacerbated with adulthood experiences, but I fear that I might never un-learn it.

On a date I lead with my heart because that’s how I am. It doesn’t take too long discussing pretty much anything when ethical or moral dilemmas are mentioned. I pay careful attention to how she handled the situation. I like to know that the woman in my life won’t buckle under pressure and take the easy way out, like my parents used to. I need to know that I can depend on my woman at all times. I operate to a high standard and am best suited to someone similar in that regard. Someone who lacks self-respect and is promiscuous can not expect respect from me. If they do not respect themselves how dare they expect respect from someone else? A woman who thinks there are grounds for cheating has no place in my life. These are just other forms of weakness. Someone who has very different ideas of what is right and what constitutes wrong will collide with my trust issues.

I am pretty sure that I don’t let my trust issues show when I’m on a date. I smile, am polite, affable, interested and interesting. Someone who has never met me could not detect them; I bury it deep. I think of it as a little demon that runs around inside me; he’s hideous to look at but he’s not all bad. Lately I have managed to capture and lock him away in a tiny cage suspended from my heart by a chain. If my heart starts beating too fast, the chain down to his cage springs about and the movement wakes him. The cause of the increased heartbeat could be that I’m liking what I’m hearing or seeing, so he serves as a balancing force within me that prevents me getting carried away. Sometimes the chain moves because a woman has said something that grates against my sense of honesty and decency, so he gets woken then too. He stays on alert the whole time that I am in the presence of danger, such as with the Randy Russian, and he only retreats to his dark corner, chortling to himself, when it safe for me again. He is a little demon that I have to manage, he does not control me, but he has his uses and I shall keep him around until I feel the time has come to cut the chain that binds us because his purpose has been served.

My damaged need for trust has had the recent effect of me not becoming embroiled in relationships with women who are patently not suitable for me. A younger version of me would have pursued Krazy Girl until she became mine. She was physically perfect and her state of confusion I perceived as temporary, which appealed to my White Knight Syndrome because I felt I could fix her. However, it is my trust issues that prevented me from charging at the windmill that is her and spearing her with my lance, literally and metaphorically. My trust issues have kept me out of danger. I think of it as a shield, not the best or prettiest shield, but it does the job.

Is it not better to err on the side of caution? Some people might say that opportunity does not come along often and that embarking on a promising relationship should always be done because if it doesn’t work out you can try again. I find that avenue of reasoning to be flawed and dangerous. None of us are getting younger, past a certain age our marketability is constantly in decline and the effect of a succession of short-term relationships can not be good. You run the risk of treating each relationship like an expendable commodity and thus sabotaging it from the outset. You also use up time that can not be replaced. Furthermore I believe that we are imbued with a finite capacity for emotional damage; I call this Emotional Capital. Each failed relationship draws down on our Emotional Capital and eventually one day the thought of a relationship no longer holds any attraction. Trust in others is inevitably damaged.

My White Knight Syndrome has got me into relationships and the price has been coming away with trust issues. The irony is not lost on me that those same trust issues are now keeping me out of harm’s way, preventing a draw-down on my Emotional Capital and protecting my capacity for love. I would rather take my time and get it right, because if you don’t have the time to get it right, where are you going to find the time to do it over? We are all running out of time.

Trust in someone else takes a long time to build up, but it’s destroyed within seconds, which is very similar to respect. Both are vital ingredients for love (there are a few others too). What my travels through the Kingdom of Dating has shown me is that finding someone whom I can trust and respect is rare. That saddens me and a casual observer will point an accusative finger at me. I would suggest that they refrain until they know my entire journey, have walked in my spurs for a while.

I look forward to the day when I cut my trust demon free to drown and disappear into oblivion. My faithful little accomplice will no doubt wail and thrash about in a pitiful attempt to save his meagre existence. A part of me thinks that he might surprise me and instead grip the rusted frame of his prison one last time, press his ugly face between the bars and grin up at me, happy for me, his crimson eyes glowing bright as ever, but smiling for once as he goes under.

Billy Joel- Matter of trust

Date #24 – Randy Russian – Final part

As she chatters away, I take a good look at her and notice something. It’s a hot day and her foundation make-up is starting to disintegrate and is almost sliding off her face. It reveals a lunar-like skin, pock-marked with what looks like needle injection marks. Then I notice that her forehead doesn’t move much; she’s all botoxed up. I look closer, trying not to make it obvious. Yep, I’m pretty sure she’s had collagen injections in her lips. I look at her cleavage and it seems unnaturally perfect and symmetrical. She’s plucked her eyebrows off and painted fake ones on; how crazy is that? Her nails are fake too and she’s not a natural blonde. Any minute now she’ll tell me that she’s looking for a real man.

There’s an expression for a woman like her and it’s a ‘dirty fox’ – nice from far but far from nice.

She starts gesticulating and moves her left arm to accidentally reveal a tattoo on the top of a bicep that had been hidden by a sleeve. It’s of a barbed-wire design, the type popular with prostitutes in Eastern Europe. Is she everything she claims to be? I doubt it and I can’t be sure. My trust demon grips the bars of his cage and is screaming silent obscenities at her.

She tells me about her marketing job for a luxury goods company. As she talks it becomes obvious that image, status and money are important to her. Where other women might have a heart, she has a very expensive purse. Is this an Eastern European woman thing?

After lunch she excuses herself to go to the ladies and returns a little while later. The nose got some serious powdering as a new layer of foundation has been applied.

“I had some botox done this morning. I’m sorry if you saw something you shouldn’t have,” she says.

I just laugh and suggest that we go for a walk along the river, to which she agrees. While she was gone I decided that I should use this date as an opportunity to learn some more about women like her – Maneater. I might be encountering more like her and I need to know how to tell as quickly as possible, perhaps via a screen instead of the effort and expense of a disappointing date.

Something I realised about myself in recent dates is that when I decide that the woman I’m with isn’t The One, my behaviour changes from active interest to passive disinterest – and that the woman’s demeanour becomes the opposite of mine. In other words, when I become disinterested in a woman, she becomes more interested in me. This happens with this stunning Russian too.

We end up sitting on the patio of a wine-bar, basking in the sun next to the Thames and she’s now peppering me with questions about myself and my life history. I tell her about the countries I’ve lived in, shared some notable stories from those places, regale her with stories from my other travels, my going around China, Turkey, Japan, Italy, California and she can’t get enough. We discuss international politics, the state of the economy, alternative history and conspiracy theories.

She can’t stop playing with her earlobes while I’m talking. I know that that’s the most certain sign that a woman is liking what a man is saying. As the sun sets on our backs I come to the conclusion that she is totally into me. Besides the constant ear lobe fingering, she occasionally preens herself by playing with her bleached hair, she is leaning in towards me and her feet are pointed at me. She starts touching my arms for no reason while we talk and a knee touches mine. At one point she rests her hand on my thigh as we laugh about something, as if it was the most natural thing to do.

I realize that she’s a sapiophile – a woman who gets sexually turned on by an intelligent man – and, if I’m correct, she must be ready to slide off her seat, her pussy must be dripping wet. Her pussy is probably neatly trimmed, might have a little heart or dolphin tattoo nearby or a diamond on the tip of her clit – and it all tastes of poison. I can see that the more I caressed her brain, the more her emotions were squirting everywhere.

We finish our second bottle of wine for the afternoon when, for some stupid reason, I lean over and kiss her. She nearly falls off her seat as I pull away. She rests a hand permanently on my thigh and she starts gently gripping it, sinking her nails into my jeans. We have passed the flirting stage and she wants more.

“Where do you live?” she asks.

“I live in the countryside, about an hour away,” I answer.

“I’m just four stops away on the Tube,” she says and nods towards the entrance of a Tube station near us.

She wants me to go home with her!

Shit, this is most unexpected. I’ve never slept with a woman on a first date. I’m not comfortable with that. I’ve never had a one-night stand and have never felt the need for one. I want True Love and the passionate regular sex that comes with that. However, that’s not what is on offer tonight. Perhaps it’s time to broaden my horizons?

“Shall we?” I say as I stand up.

She smiles, collects her things and we go to the Tube station. I don’t know why, but I feel it acceptable to hold her hand as we walk. We don’t talk much, I think we’re both excited, anticipation is running high but I’m also feeling apprehensive. As we stand on a platform waiting for a train we start kissing again. She throws her arms around my neck and I can feel her breasts against my chest. She’s a lusty kisser, using lots of tongue and I can tell that’s she’s turned on by the way her body touches mine. She’s randy and I might be her first lay since her husband, who knows?

My test results from the sexual health clinic came back during the week and I’m clean. All that fretting over the anal sex incident with Krazy Girl was for nothing. That bothersome feeling I was carrying around for a few months made me resolve to be more judicious in my sexual shenanigans. This randy Russian might result in me going back to that shitty feeling. I am packing rubber, sex with her will be interesting, but is she worth it?

I hear our train clattering towards us in the tunnel and it’s decision time. I’m not comfortable with this situation. This woman’s trouble, a Taker and this isn’t what I want. Any other man would not think twice about having sex with a Russian model and then probably never seeing her again. I’m not like other men. Fucking this creature would be like screwing Satan’s little apprentice, you can’t really be sure how it’s going to turn out.

“I’m sorry, but this is too soon for me,” I say to her, uncoupling her arms from around my neck.

Her face drops and her eyes glow. In an instant my rebuff to her female ego was converted into anger within her. Without another word she gets on the train and seconds later she’s gone.

I had it on a plate and I chose instead to go home alone on a Saturday night, rather than be with a woman like her. I’m proud of that. I shall think of her forever more as the Randy Russian.

Despite this date and stereotypes about Slavic women, I’m looking forward to my next date on Monday night with…a pretty Polish girl.

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Beauty on its own is meaningless; looks fade. 2) If I switch from active interest to passive disinterest, women chase me 3) There might be something to the stereotype about Slavic women.

Footnote: More than a year after this date I go looking on PoF to find her profile to jog my memory for this post. She’s still on there, but has dyed her hair pitch black and has decided that she now wants children. For the hell of it I write to her remarking about her new look. She replies with “Men have fun with blondes, but marry brunettes.”

Nelly Furtado – Maneater