Tag Archives: trust

Facial

I phone The Cockaholic late in the morning and she sounds upbeat. Although her flight only got in at 1am, she is keen to see me. I need to get to the bottom of whether or not she was with her mother on her trip, or with some other guy or an ex-boyfriend. I’ve decided I’m also going to have fun with my phone. I’m going to film her as she sucks on me and I’m going to indulge in dirty talk. Then I’ll start asking her questions about her sexual history and see what ensues. Yes, I have a voyeuristic streak and having video mementos of lovers in action is something to be experienced to be fully appreciated. Of course nobody else will ever see my growing collection.

Going round to The Cockaholic’s is easy, taking less than ten minutes to drive there. I’ve never had anybody as quick to get to before. It might be a blessing and a curse; the latter because it will be tempting to visit each other. She is pleased to see me and I notice that her one eye is larger than the other; it must be what happens when she’s excited. I have seen that before when she was sucking my cock, just like with The Brazilian.

We eat and chat and the hours fly by. We have chemistry, that’s for sure. There’s that rare energy between us and we key off each other. I don’t feel bored like I did with Busty Blonde or exasperated like I did at times with The Saffa. I am aware that it’s still very early days and time will tell how compatible we are. I must say that it is very pleasant interacting with somebody as positive as her…and she does love sucking my cock for hours on end, literally.

After lunch we go for a walk and end up going through her town’s centre. She has never been into a pound-shop before, so I take her into a few. She marvels at the low prices, but disses the clientele. I detect a bit of a snob in her, which I find ironic considering her humble origins; her father was in the army and was stationed around Europe, so she grew up in army housing. So many of us are trying to get away from our childhood.

In situ I decide not to confront her about who her companion was last week. I might be getting paranoid after all my bad dating experiences and accusing her, even slightly, might derail things between us. This knight decides that silence is the best path to the truth. She might come clean if there is a reason to do so, or she might let more clues or details slip. I’ll bite my tongue while she bites my cock.

Back at her place we chatter away and before we know it darkness has descended on the world. At about 7pm she starts pulling my trousers off.

“I didn’t think we’d make it until 2 o’clock before I did this,” she says laughingly. She totally fancies me and it feels good.

Again she does the licking of my arse thing, but this time for much longer and making approving sounds. She does like licking arses it seems. We end up in her bedroom where she happily sucks away at my cock for hours. She’s insatiable. I end up giving her the biggest orgasm yet. She’s a shivering, sweaty heap when I finish her off and lie half on top of her.

She goes down on me again and this time I get my phone out and start videoing everything, being sure to indulge in copious amounts of dirty talk that she participates in. She’s fully aware of what I’m doing.

“You like sucking cock, don’t you?” I say.

“I love sucking your cock,” she answers, looking at the camera.

“How old were you when you sucked your first cock?” I ask.

She thinks about it for a few seconds, drops my cock out of her mouth, says “Twenty three” and resumes sucking.

“Did you make him cum?” I ask.

She shakes her head, keeping my cock in her mouth.

“Do you like making a cock cum in your mouth?” I ask.

She replies with a satisfied “Mmm” sound.

“Do you like the feeling of cum in your mouth?” I continue, curious as to how she’ll answer.

“I love having your cum in my mouth,” she says.

“Do you like swallowing cum?”

“I love swallowing your cum,” she replies, looking at the camera, then resumes sucking away on my cock with renewed gusto.

After a few seconds of her slurping and gurgling on me I decide to see if I can get on camera something naughty.

“Do you want to lick my arse?” I ask her.

“Definitely!” she answers,

I raise my knees and she lowers her head. Somehow I’m able to lower and hold my phone down next to her head, capturing her first sucking then licking my arse.

“That’s it, lick my arse,” I exclaim.

The Cockaholic rhythmically and slowly licks away at my anus, as if she’s licking an ice-cream on a hot day.

“That’s what you like doing. Do you like licking my arse?” I ask.

“I do,” she purrs.

“Stick your tongue in my arse,” I instruct and she instantly complies.

After a couple of seconds she repositions herself onto her side and gets comfortable; she’s intent on doing this for a while. I feel her lips suctioning onto the perimeter of my anus, then her tongue starts pushing into it.

“That’s it, stick your tongue into my arsehole,” I say for some unknown reason. People say the silliest, weirdest stuff during sex.

For about a minute she keeps doing this, then detaches her lips and starts licking my butthole like a puppy licks a jam-coated finger. She’s in her own private Nirvana, a place only she understands, a place she enjoys more than anything else.

“You love licking my arse, don’t you? You love sticking your tongue in my arse, don’t you?” I say to her.

A lustful, deep-throated “Mmm,” is her response.

After just over a minute of this tongue-in-arse routine, she pulls away and starts licking and kissing my balls. The thought of faecal bacteria on my manhood makes me shiver inside, but what’s going on outside me is more enticing.

“Do you want to be my cock-sucking slut?” I ask in a moment of oxytocin-driven rudeness.

“Oh, yes!” she answers and latches onto my cock..

“That’s it, suck my cock. Make it bigger, then I’ll fuck you with it,” I say.

“Mmm,” is all she says as she eagerly sucks on my penis.

“I’ll fuck you doggy-style,” I murmur.

“Mmm,” she utters.

“Do you want me to fuck you doggy-style?” I ask, not sure how she’ll respond. She might be turned off by all this and react negatively, so I have to proceed cautiously with my naughty talk.

“Yeah, now,” she implores.

I take a moment to think about how I want this encounter to end.

“Do I have to beg you?” she asks.

Huh? Where did that come from? What’s that about? I don’t know what to make of it, I’m so taken by surprise. I move on, passing on the opportunity to find out more about her psyche.

“Do you want me to put a thumb in your arse while I fuck you doggy-style?”

“Mmm,” The Cockaholic moans.

“Or do you want me to put my cock in your arse?” I ask, pushing my luck here, wondering how she’ll react to that idea. So much of sex involves the brain, getting the other person mentally turned on too, getting them to imagine things they ordinarily might not, or even better, suggesting a secret desire or fantasy of theirs.

“Let’s save that for next time,” she replies, catching me by surprise again.

“I think you want it,” I say, recovering quickly.

“Not when I’ve just had such a big orgasm,” she counters, continuing to suck my cock.

Huh? I thought she hasn’t done anal before? How would she know what’s right or wrong after an orgasm? She just became more intriguing.

“I think you’re looking forward to feeling my cock in your arse,” I say, continuing to push my luck.

Silence.

“You want to feel my cock cumming in your arse, don’t you?” I continue.

“Ooh, mmm,” she moans some more, indicating approval.

“Say please fuck me in the arse,” I instruct.

“Please fuck me,” she answers.

“No. Say please fuck me in the arse,” I repeat.

“Mmm,” is all she says.

“Do you want to feel me cum in your arse?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs.

“Do you want to feel my cock pumping cum in your arse?”

“Definitely.”

“Do you want to feel my cum, hot and sticky, in your arse?”

“You’re going to have to put it in me now,” she says.

I spin The Cockaholic into doggy-style position as it’s her favourite. She’s so turned on from going down on me and perhaps from the dirty talk that it takes less than a minute for her to cum again. Earlier she mentioned that she’s never had a facial, so I straddle her face as she sucks my cock and I finger her pussy and arse. She’s quite okay with my fingering her arse, claiming never to have had that done before me but enjoys it nevertheless.

After a while I cum all over her face and The Cockaholic laughs about it. She goes to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror. It’s several days’ worth and her face is messy. After she washes it off we cuddle up in bed and I switch my phone off, noticing that its 2.49am.

Monday morning she and I wake at what seems like the same time, probably the sound of an ambulance’s wail disturbing us both. It’s 7.14am. She almost immediately rolls down to my crotch and starts giving me a blowjob that naturally leads to my cumming in her mouth and her gratefully swallowing my load. Not a typical start to my Mondays.

Minutes later she makes me a coffee and a flask of juice for my day ahead that I watch her prepare. The Cockaholic is a very giving person, so unlike the vast majority of women whom I’ve dated more than twice. I could get used to this, but I’m aware that as with The Saffa, with the passing of time her random acts of affection might diminish and be replaced by something less likeable.

Until then, if that were to happen, I like being with her. It feels good, but I’m aware that I’ve been in this position before. There’s another feeling, a hollow one, that I know all too well and it’s growing.

There’s something missing: love.

Yes, we’re having fun, yes, I like her, but there’s no sign of love on the horizon. I think it’s because there’s a trust issue that I need to resolve. Is it just in my head or is there something going on that I don’t know about?

Tina Turner – What’s love got to do with it

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

Dumping The Irish Cougar

“Feeling frisky?” is the first thing I say to The Irish Cougar when we awake after our night of unrestrained passion. The look in her eye said, “yes” and that’s all it took before we were at it again. It wasn’t long before we were doggy-style on the bed, with me pulling her hair back and my thumb in her bum. She certainly was a little cum-machine and she squeaked her orgasm out within minutes. Not long afterwards I unloaded fresh baby-batter into her.

She had to get to work, so a frenetic flurry of activity ensued on her part just before I was ushered out of the millionaire’s apartment…without being offered breakfast. It mattered not in the scheme of things and was totally in keeping with her selfish ways. I smiled to myself on the bus that took me back to my car because I felt that I had exacted my bit of revenge for her deceit…by deceiving her.

I felt no compulsion to ever see her again. Other than her sexual abilities I couldn’t stand anything about her. I couldn’t believe a word she said. Later that night I sent her the following email. I know that women prefer being dumped in person or over the phone, but I wanted to put it in writing so that it could serve as a reminder to her.

When I figured out your real age, I thought to myself “What is an almost 50-year old woman wanting with a 42-year old?”

“Ah, she’s just out for a bit of fun.”

I have kept an open mind about this, looking for evidence to the contrary.

In my world, if someone helps you move, pays the congestion charge, etc., it is customary to take them out for a meal.

Imagine my disappointment last night when you didn’t even offer to pay for the meal.

That oversight served to reinforce my perception that you’re out for yourself.

There is something in your profile that has bothered me and I think now that’s it’s all interrelated.

You’re looking for and am used to men having far more money than I currently have. I’m currently back at square-one: a 20-something kid starting a new life. I have my doubts that I can live up to your expectations regarding lifestyle. I have no doubt in my mind that as time were to go by that this would become a bigger problem between us. As I’m writing this, I’m getting ready to go off to Aldi and Lidl to do my groceries. I have never spent £70 on 3 carrier bags of food from M&S and probably never will. I have no doubt that your opinion of me would plummet if you saw my home.

My only 2 relationships ended with the same realization: they were with me for the money AND they had deceived me.

I was so excited after our first date. You can’t imagine my disappointment when I read your LinkedIn profile and saw your true age. I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt.

Your lying about your age was a cardinal mistake. To me it feels as if trust was strangled to death at the outset. My thinking about this is “If she lied about something so important, what else has she lied about?” I catch myself not believing half the things you tell me. It’s not natural for me to be like that. I’m by nature a very trusting person and have been badly taken advantage of in the past. Maybe I’m hyper-sensitive to deceit nowadays, but the slightest, smallest of white lies does not sit well with me at all.

You said that you’re looking for your soulmate. Me too. My soulmate would never have lied about anything, let alone her age.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this.

I just can’t see a way forward.

I’m sorry.

I wish you all the best.

You are remarkable and deserve the things you want.

I just don’t think we’re right for each other.

Good luck.

Her response came the next day and it was lame, centring on how wonderful her new life was going to be. I almost felt sorry for her…almost.

I’m struck by how quickly things between us degenerated. Our first date was promising but it was obviously my discovering her deception that halted matters abruptly in my heart. With every interaction her true personality came to the fore. Now just a matter of weeks later and it feels like I hate everything about her. I really need to stop being so easily impressed by a woman on a first date.

Telling lies on a dating profile is so stupid. The truth ALWAYS comes out, just how long it takes varies. Once the deceit is revealed, trust is damaged. In my experience women seem to lie about their age, weight and appearance. Women I’ve met on dates tell me that men lie about their height, jobs and income. It’s an age-old case of women trying to make themselves more physically attractive, while men try to appear to be able to make a woman feel safe physically and materially. Playing “I fool you, you fool me” only makes fools of each other.

This incident with The Irish Cougar has lowered my opinion of women even further. It has been on a downward slant for quite some time now. I’ve become aware of how acute my trust issue is, but every passing woman is making it worse, cementing what is already there. In my quietest moments I fear that I might never trust a woman again; it’s getting that bad.

I’ve always thought womankind to be something of a mystery, what with their unpredictable ways, inconsistent moods, mercurial decisions and emotion-driven behaviour. They’ve been a puzzle that I’ve been trying to solve all my life. I don’t think that I’m any closer to understanding women, but instead what I am learning via online dating is taking the shiny sparkle off them for me.

I used to think that the vast majority of women are good, kind, giving and supportive and only a few bad women existed on the periphery of society. It now seems to me that it’s the other way around and that a truly good woman, the kind I want, is a rarity.

I started out on my dating quest as a White Knight and with every new woman I meet it feels that I am becoming increasingly grey. I find myself doing things I ordinarily wouldn’t for reasons that are unfamiliar to me.

The shine is fading from my armour…and I’m not sure what to make of it all.

Ugly Kid Joe – Everything About You

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

Second date with Teacher Gal

It’s a Tuesday night and I’ve driven up to Teacher Gal’s town for our second date. I’m sitting in my car waiting outside the Italian restaurant she asked to meet at. My thoughts take flight and return to the past weekend. Yes, fucking Tech Titan was fun, but doing it with Krazy Girl is amazing. The way things ended with Krazy Girl left me with a nagging, negative feeling in the centre of my chest. I know that I should have kept my mouth shut and just let things be physical between us, but Stupid Boy wanted it all, when it so obviously isn’t on offer.

I spot Teacher Gal and she’s carrying something in one hand. It’s a box from a bakery. I get out my car and meet up with her, kissing her hello on a cheek. She’s wearing a different coloured version of last week’s outfit. Once again the jacket is adorned with an over-sized accessory, this time a gaudy brooch, which again let’s her whole look down.

“I’ve brought you something,” Teacher Gal says before I get a chance to tell her that age-old lie of how nice she looks. I think I’ll always struggle to tell white lies.

I smile, take the gift out of her hand and start carefully opening it, revealing a large slice of an elaborate, multi-tiered spongecake.

“Aaw, thank you,” I say, hiding my bemusement as to why she had brought me this.

“It’s from a town in the north of England where I went hiking on the weekend. It looks incredibly sweet and remembered that you have a sweet tooth,” Teacher Gal elaborates.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I say, wondering just how old this cake is. So, I was in her thoughts while she was away from me? Good.

We enter the restaurant and it’s full, busy and noisy. I was hoping for a quiet romantic evening after yet another shit day at work.

“I don’t suppose you have another wing or floor?” I say to the maître d’. I can see that Teacher Gal is impressed by my taking charge of the situation. We get escorted to another floor where there are plenty of tables and nobody else. Perfect for getting to know each other better.

We choose a table and I ask her which seat she would like, then I offer to take her jacket off, put it over the back of her seat and pulled the chair out for her. She sat down as I stood behind the chair and pushed it in for her before moving over to my seat. Most other women I had done this for were perplexed and it showed that this was new to them. Teacher Gal hardly blinked an eye and it told me that she was accustomed to being treated like a lady. I am old-fashioned (I blame my mother, for many things) and enjoy being a gentleman. I don’t do it to show off or score points or anything silly like that; it’s just how I am.

Teacher Gal and I get down to talking about the old country and it is enthralling to hear her stories of African sunsets, wild animals and favourite places to have a cold drink under a hot sun. I can see that she is less reserved than on our first date, but she only really relaxes once she finishes her first glass of wine.

The evening eases away as we chat, laugh and occasionally flirt with each other. A couple of times I just look at her, say nothing at all and smile with my eyes, bite my bottom lip, which makes her look away and almost blush.

By the time we leave the main restaurant area is empty, we’ve been upstairs talking for that long. I escort Teacher Gal to her home, walking through the deserted streets of her town. We arrive at the gates of the complex where she lives and we kiss slowly and tenderly under the light of a lamppost. I don’t use my tongue, having learned to wait for her to do so, but she doesn’t. I bid her goodnight and watch her walk off; she doesn’t turn around.

As I walk back to my car, I decide it’s time to answer my acid-test question: is she a good girl or a good-time girl? Without a doubt she’s a good girl. The way is clear to consider having a serious romantic relationship with her in that regard.

There’s something else I consider: trust. After my experience with my ex-girlfriend (Exgf) I’ve started to realize that I might have a trust problem. ( http://www.meanddating.com/2014/08/the-ex-girlfriend/ )When I sit talking to a woman, most of the time I’m wondering if what she is saying is true. I believed everything that my Exgf told me, so when the truth was revealed it was a big shock. I think it’s that shock that still lingers deep in my psyche somewhere, like an unwanted fart.

Most of my previous dates failed this test, consciously or unconsciously. The strange near-misses I had with The NutSlut ( http://www.meanddating.com/2014/05/the-nutslut/ ) and Irish Eyes ( http://www.meanddating.com/2014/04/irish-eyes-were-smiling-oh-yeah/ ) reminded me that I need to be careful with a woman until I knew much more about her. If at any point on the first date she let slip that she had been unfaithful in the past, then I instantly lost trust in her. Those who had confessed this to me, usually under the affluence of incohol, had been unfaithful in their twenties. Nevertheless, I believe that we all have an in-built sense of wrong and right and once a cheat, always a cheat. All that’s required is the right ingredients.

If I have any hint of doubt about my date when it comes to the trust stakes, I play safe and don’t see them again. I don’t have that concern with Teacher Gal. I think because of our similar upbringing we have an almost identical moral code; well, mine used to be like hers. The fuckbuddy arrangements has bent and twisted my moral compass, but not broken it.

Teacher Gal’s decency and elegant femininity is what is good in my world. She’s more like the kind of woman whom I can trust and respect, the type to share my life with. Just being with her helps me to forget about the recent horror show with Krazy Girl and the sweet, but unsustainable friends with benefits arrangement with Tech Titan.

This is more like it. This is what I want.

LESSON LEARNED: 1) Wine relaxes women, usually to my advantage.

Krazy Girl – The second and the mini-date

We met the next day for another date and I fetched Krazy Girl at her parents home where she was staying for the weekend. She asked me to park around the corner, out of sight, something I thought odd but complied with nevertheless. She suggested that we drive to an upmarket pub in an adjoining town for Sunday lunch, passing several equally good pubs along the way. We were getting along very well as conversation flowed effortlessly and fruitfully; we were enjoying each other’s company. As we were driving away from the pub she gave me a funny look.

What’s that look about?” I asked.

Oh, it’s nothing,” she replied.

Don’t lie to me. Out with it,” I coaxed.

Have you ever had a feeling that you know you’re going to be with somebody for a long time?”

Good grief, I wasn’t expecting that, but hearing it pleased me.

Yes. It’s a good feeling isn’t it,” was the clever answer I gave her with a smile. My ex-girlfriend came to mind; after our first date all those years ago that was how I had felt about her. Fool. I wasn’t feeling that way about the little hottie sitting next to me, well, not just yet.

Krazy Girl and I walked around her neighbourhood and we had a pleasant long chat sitting on a bench next to a canal. As we got to know more about each other, the more I liked her. She was charming, good-natured, sweet and innocent…and couldn’t get enough of kissing me. I also found her incredibly attractive and was relishing the prospect of making love to her, but knew that I had to bide my time. She seemed like a good girl and not the type to jump into bed quickly.

The second date ended with us sitting in my car near her parent’s home. We started kissing again and she got really turned on; her kisses and sounds became increasingly passionate. Suddenly Krazy Girl got very aggressive and put her hand between my legs as we were kissing. Her aim was badly off and she couldn’t find my cock. Inside I was laughing but she got a little upset and said, “Where is he? You don’t have a small one do you?” There was hint of concern in her tone of voice.

If only she knew the truth, I thought to myself, continuing to laugh to myself.

No, he’s just sleeping,” is what I said to placate her.

I think we should call it a night. It’s getting dark and your parents are probably getting worried,” I said, wanting to end the date before things went too far too quickly. We could quite easily have ended up having sex in my car; the windows were steamed up from our kissing as it was. But I didn’t want that; I wanted to start this relationship as sanely as possible, despite my wanting to rip her clothes off and fuck her senseless.

Oh, don’t worry about that. My parents think I’m at a friend’s place,” she answered.

Hmm, her being willing and able to mislead her parents didn’t sit well with me at all. (In hindsight that was red flag number one.)

Krazy Girl was going away to family in south-west England for the next week, to stay with a cousin who had recently given birth to second child and needed help with the first child. So it came as a great surprise when the next morning when I was at work Krazy Girl sent me a text message saying that she hadn’t started her trip and wanted to see me again that night after work. At the agreed time I arrived at the same pub where we had first met and it turned out was only a block from her parents home.

After the initial courteous pleasantries she said, “I didn’t leave today because I wanted to see you again…and I wanted to talk to you about a few things.”

This sounded serious, so all I said was, “Riiight….”

I lost my job on Friday. They made me redundant. It’s another reason I’m going to my cousin’s, to get over the shock of it and to come up with a plan about what to do next.”

Okay. I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m sure something will come along for you,” I said, trying to show my supportive nature. We were sitting side by side on a bench and she put her hand on top of mine and squeezed it.

The other thing is that my failed marriage has really knocked my confidence with men. I’m a little scared of getting into a relationship too quickly,” she confided, still keeping her hand on top of mine.

My initial emotional response was one of feeling sorry for her, but my logical brain kicked and began wondering if she was trying to brush me off. I decided to respond as positively and compassionately as possible.

I can understand that. I felt the same way after my divorce. I’m in no hurry now either,” is what I came out with.

Good, I’m glad you understand,” Krazy Girl said with a smile. A very mysterious smile. 

Seeing as we were having a moment of honesty I seized the opportunity to discuss something serious too that had been on my mind.

I have to ask you about something. What are your feelings about children?” She was after all ten years younger than me and with time she might change her mind.

I had an infection on my ovaries when I was a teenager and the doctors said it was unlikely that I could have kids. I always thought that if I got broody I could always adopt,” was her frank reply, which suited me.

We shared a few more drinks and made small talk about the family that she was going to be staying with for the week. She told me that she had borrowed her father’s car for the trip and that she had a female rag-doll cat that she was going to drop off en route at another rag-doll owner’s place for the week to see if her cat could get pregnant. Krazy Girl was planning to return the following Monday, so we agreed to keep in touch by phone during the week.

Did she keep in touch? Every couple of hours the next day she phoned me when she stopped for petrol or food. I’d grab my phone and go to find a quiet corner to talk to her. Her level of interest and attention was unprecedented. I had assigned an unique ring-tone to her number on my phone and by the end of the day my colleagues were making funny remarks about that ring-tone, such was her idea of “keeping in touch”.

We spoke at night during the week and it became evident that Krazy Girl was not enjoying the stay at her cousin’s. It also became evident to me that I wanted her in every way possible, such was the intensity of my feelings for her. I could see myself being with her the rest of my life; she ticked all my boxes. (My lengthy list of tickboxes can be seen at: http://www.meanddating.com/2014/05/who-am-i-looking-for/ )

By the Friday night I felt like a bear trapped in a cage; all I wanted was Krazy Girl. That night there was an electrical storm where she was and the phone signal was poor but text messages were getting through. For some reason (okay, I was horny as all hell) I turned our late-night text conversation naughty. I started off subtly and then gradually escalated it, peppering her with increasingly risqué text messages until she wrote back, “Okay, that does it. I’m coming to you tomorrow. I’ll arrive just after lunchtime.”

My text message that got that response?

I’m looking forward to discovering what gets your blood flowing, what you love, how you’re going to react to the things that I can do to you and for you…the sounds you make, how you smell…I’m especially dying to know how you taste…I reckon you taste sweeter than you realize…”

That final message of mine left very little to her imagination. The effect it had was that the next day she drove at 100mph for 4 hours to get to me, abandoning the holiday with relatives. I had a roast lamb dinner ready for her arrival. I had planned to play it cool and smooth with her. A little clever conversation, some smiling and sly looks, suitable mood music and low lighting, the occasional loving touch with a lingering glance. I would break her fortress-like defences with a well-chosen bottle of wine. When the time was right I would make my move and, hopefully, let pleasure commence. 

What transpired was very different…