Tag Archives: Wild Animal Tickler

Date #53 – Tall Gal

It’s been more than two months since I’ve had sex and I’m as horny as hell. I know I pledged to only sleep with The One when I finally find her, but my resolve is being sorely tested by the ready supply of eager pussy to be found on the internet. I accidentally stumble across a way to game Plenty of Fish to get more traffic and approach emails from women. Consequently I get an email late on a Thursday night from a pretty brunette. I look at her profile and see that she’s 31 years-old and six feet tall. Those are two items on my Fuckit List, i.e. scandalously younger and how tall must a woman be to become impractical to fuck. I say thank you to Life for this opportunity and answer her email.

Witty, flirty emails ping-pong between us for an hour and it turns out that she has a thing for tall guys with my accent. She later makes a comment about “if you can keep me intrigued for that long” which tells me that she’s looking for fun and not a long relationship. I notice on her profile that her longest relationship has only lasted a year. She’s perfect one-night stand material and just in time too because I’m starting to forget what the warm wetness of a woman’s pussy wrapped around my cock feels like.

I end the interaction by challenging her to buy me a coffee in exchange for all the questions that she wants answers to. She claims to have plans for the Friday night and is going off to Spain for work on the weekend. We swap phone numbers and I leave it there, doubting I’ll ever hear from her again.

This interaction with her combines to make me think of the stunning brunette I encountered at the dating site’s drinks evening. Maybe my addiction to blondes has been the reason that I’m still single despite my best efforts. Maybe blondes and me just aren’t a good fit? Perhaps I should broaden my horizons a bit and see if the grass is better on the brunette side of the fence? At the same time I’m wondering if my belief that dates off free sites tend to be disappointing has any validity to it.

The next night, Friday, at seven o’clock she sends me a message on WhatsApp and I ask about her plans for the night and before I know it we agree to meet in a pub in my town in less than an hour’s time. I run around like a mad thing getting my place tidy in case we end up back here. As I’m getting dressed a good female friend contacts me via WhatsApp wanting relationship advice from me. In my current state I’m the last person to be giving anybody any kind of advice but I do my best. It’s amazing how there are bouts of silence, icy nothingness and then all these women come at once. I say this because there is another lady who made contact with me on Friday that I like the look and sound of, as well somebody else who I matched with late on Thursday night. Maybe there is something to astrology after all? Is my moon in Uranus?

Could tonight’s date be The One?

She gets to the pub before me and we find each other. Wow, she’s tall, the tallest girl I’ve ever met on a date. She’s wearing heels and is almost as tall as me. Fucking her might feel like copulating with a giraffe; long legs and limbs everywhere.

Naturally I think of her as Tall Gal.

She’s a pretty girl with blue-green eyes, round cheeks and a pleasant smile. We make a little small talk as we queue at the bar and after a couple of minutes pointless banter she says to me, “No, you still have your accent,” which pleases me because I know it’s something she finds attractive about me. Game on!

The pub is busy and noisy because of a major rugby match being shown on the giant television screens and we find the last available seats against a pillar. Not ideal as this is too noisy for a decent conversation and calm enough for me to evoke emotions of lust in her. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

“Do you like spicy food?” I ask, curious about her sexual side.

“I love spicy food! The spicier the better,” she replies.

She likes the sound of her own voice and I just encourage her to keep talking. She’s probably nervous and it will put her at ease. I’m conscious of how little I feel; I’m like a cold-blooded Great White shark patrolling my turf out at sea. I smile politely and ask open-ended questions that sets her off. Over the course of the evening she hardly asks any questions of me.

“I worked on a resort that was popular with Russian tourists,” she says, recounting her work experience abroad.

“What did you think of them?” I ask.

“When they’re young, they’re stunning, but they’re all only after a man with money,” she rejoins.

It’s nice to hear someone else parrot the conclusion I have come to about Russian women.

“Don’t you think it’s understandable though that marrying up is their best chance of bettering themselves?” I ask, playing devil’s advocate in a test of her moral outlook.

“Yes, I do and I think that if I were in their shoes I would probably do the same thing,” she replies.

Her answer leaves me cold. She really couldn’t have said anything else to have put me off her. I still steadfastly believe that people should only marry for love, because that is what will make it work. Any other reason for marriage won’t last very long and if it does it won’t be a happy one. Why do people struggle to understand this?

On the plus side her answer just reinforces my initial idea that she either isn’t interested in a long-term relationship or just isn’t relationship material. This girl is just trouble, just dangerous for a man looking for love. I feel somewhat more justified in just wanting a one-night shag off her.

I change the subject slightly and she starts telling me about her longest relationship.

“He wasn’t from this country, he was much older than me and he had loads of money. We had a lot of good times together,” she says.

“Was the age gap a problem in any way at times?” I ask, wondering exactly what her pull towards older men is about.

“Yes, when we were out and about I was conscious of people staring at us. People probably thought that I was one of those Russian trophy girlfriends,” she says with a childish giggle.

“What was the attraction?” I ask, tying to get closer to the truth.

“We had a chemistry that I’ve never felt with anyone else before or since,” she answers, then continues,”I wonder if that amazing chemistry is what has kept me from meeting someone else? I can’t help but compare every guy I meet to my older guy,” she says with a frown.

My thoughts wonder over to the part of my brain reserved for Baltic Babe and the answer is ‘yes’. I’ve been guilty of that too and I realize that this Tall Gal is in no way causing me to feel another kind of attraction to her. It’s not because I find her unattractive – she is pretty – but I’m realizing that there’s also too much of an age-gap between us to give hope for a relationship. She speaks in a way about things that are new to her, but that I have already grown tired of.

“So what happened with your older guy?” I ask in an effort to complete the picture.

“He went back to his country,” she says with a sad face and looks away from me. Is she still hung up on him?

“Is that when you came back to the UK?”

“No, I stayed on but came back a year after that,” she replies with still a downcast look on her face and evading eye contact with me. I see what is obvious to me and press on it.

“Did you come back here because of another guy?” I ask as softly as I know how.

“Yes,” she says, still evading eye contact.

I change the topic by asking her about her favourite television shows and she starts rattling off a slew of depressing psychological dramas, murder mysteries and supernatural-themed shows. She starts telling me how she likes the gritty realism of the gory shows and the real-life application of horror moments. All that she speaks off is filled with negativity and the dark side of life. I could see that she could be a real drag to be around sometimes. Where have I felt this before?

Suddenly it hits me that Tall Gal is another Lusty Lass and Krazy Girl. A soft-hearted, sweet, well-intentioned young woman who is unlucky in love because she just doesn’t take a timeout for herself to get her emotions in order before embarking on a new relationship. She’s constantly on the rebound, carrying ever-increasing emotional baggage around with her. I start to feel sorry for her. Do I really want to be another guy who just uses her? Do I want to go back to being that self-appointed vengeful shit who avails himself of vulnerable women’s orifices? No.

Tall Gal unravels her scarf to reveal a bit of cleavage. It’s actually cold in here, so why did she do that? The pub erupts in celebration as a try is scored which causes her to look around. I take the opportunity to check her body out. She’s not as slim as in her photos with several rolls of puppy fat bulging under her white blouse. For a big girl and one carrying a few extra pounds her breasts are surprisingly small and no more than a B-cup. Am I that desperate to have sex that she’ll do? No.

I decide to employ my Golden Silence trick, in which I keep quiet for as long as it takes for my date to initiate a topic of conversation. Whatever they go with is usually what is on their minds lately. Tall Gal turns to me and I just smile, biding my time as I take a sip from my drink. As they all have, she eventually cracks and speaks.

“How many dates have you been on?” she asks. An interesting choice of topic. Is she genuinely interested in me that’s why she’s asking or does it bother her.

“I’ve been on more than most, I’m starting to realize. Why how many have you been on?” I retort before she realizes what I’ve done.

“I’ve been on five before tonight and that’s over three months,” she says proudly. Amateur, I think to myself.

“What have they been like?” I ask before she can say anything else. I’ve learned that no woman wants to hear that I’ve had more than fifty dates, so I avoid giving a direct answer.

“Well the second one was an absolute nightmare because he got totally drunk, but the others were okay. I was so nervous for my first one,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“That’s normal. Is this your first time you’ve been online dating?” I ask, suspecting I know the answer.

“Yes, I’ve always thought it an odd thing to do, but everyone is doing it nowadays so I thought I’d give it a go,” she replies.

Wow, you must be the last woman in the country not to have tried internet dating. And you’ve started off with Plenty of Fish?! Talk about a baptism of fire.

I start telling her of my memorable dates such as the Angry Yank and the Wild Animal Tickler. I tell her about the typical lies that women tell on their profiles (age, old photos, height, smoking, job) and she seems a little surprised at my words. I take her reaction to indicate surprise or curiosity. I’m wrong.

“Well, there is one thing I’ve lied about on my profile,” she says with a mischievous look in her eye. Here we go, what now?

“I’ve said that I’m a non-smoker, but I do, only a few a day, usually at the end of the day after work. I suppose I’m a social smoker,” she says matter-of-factly.

That’s it! I want to go home now!

I wasn’t feeling any chemistry with her, wasn’t exactly enjoying myself, didn’t really fancy her, didn’t want to have sex with her and now she turns out to be a smoker. Gross. Why am I wasting my time here?

She seems emotionally needy to me and that will eventually spill over into clingyness that leads to men rejecting her. She is going to keep getting hurt, but it doesn’t have to be at the hands of me. I don’t need more notches on my bedpost or stains on my conscience.

I decide that the best thing to do is to end the evening gracefully, not do her any harm emotionally and just let it be as positive an experience for her without her becoming invested in me. I want her to have the strength to keep dating because she might get lucky…and she’ll tie up some of my competition by keeping them busy or perhaps taking one of them off the market. All I need is an excuse.

She stifles a yawn and I call her out on it, for which she apologizes. Then she asks me what the time is and my exit is complete.

“It’s half ten. Shall we call it a night? You’re starting to yawn,” I suggest.

“Yes, I think we’d better,” she says.

Perfect. She now thinks it’s her idea to bring this date to an end. She feels she’s in control, just what I wanted, a nice way to end the encounter. I do my usual gentlemanly thing of helping her put her coat on and I escort her to her car. There’s an awkward silence between us and I get the impression that she’d rather I didn’t accompany her. I don’t think she wants to see me again.

We stand next to her car and I kiss her on a cheek and say, “It was nice to meet you,” and nothing more. I look at her and devilishly watch her squirm for words.

“Yes, it was nice to meet you too. I’ll be seeing you…you…” and she got caught up in her thoughts, thrashing about for something polite to say, definitely avoiding anything that sounded like commitment. I just keep quiet and smile.

“Some other time,” she says, her sentence trailing off on the vapours of her breath that drifted away into the cold February night air.

I say nothing, turn around and walk off.

That felt like a total waste of time, but if I didn’t go I’d always wonder.

Anyway, I have two more dates lined up.

Akon Ft Kardinal Official – Dangerous

Date #27 – The W.A.T.

It’s a year to the day since I met Baltic Babe and I’m bothered by my date with The Matron last night. Was there anything in her profile and pictures that I had missed that would have alerted me to the true nature of her enormity. I go onto OKCupid to look for clues when I see a profile that had intrigued me in the past but I had not written to because she wasn’t blonde. Apparently we’re a 95% match, one of my highest.

Her profile speaks of someone my age with a similar taste in music (I’m stuck in the 80s), movies and she has travelled a fair bit. She’s pretty enough in her three photos, but the smallest one gives me cause for concern because she looks a bit older than her 39 years that she states in her profile. Just a bad photo I tell myself.

Driven by a sense of frustration I fire off an approach email to her, not really expecting a reply. I get on with analysing The Matron’s profile and come to the conclusion that I had not missed anything and that she had just flat lied about her appearance. At the end of this exercise I see that the other woman has written back. It’s lunchtime on Saturday and she’s on OKCupid? Then again, so am I, perhaps she’s had a run of bad dates too? We arrange to meet.

Could she be The One?

It’s late Sunday afternoon and I’m pleased with the speed with which we’ve agreed to meet up. Not many people are able to move as freely and quickly as me. Apparently some people have a life; I say they’re just disorganized. I’m sitting on the patio of a pub in the middle of nowhere in the English countryside that looks like it could have been used in ‘American Werewolf in London’, it’s that creepy. There’s only a retired couple inside the pub and a few bar staff. My date suggested this place because it’s close to where she lives. I didn’t mind because it’s somewhere new for me.

A text message arrives from her saying that she’ll be a few minutes late. I know what that means so I go and get a pint. Half an hour later a car arrives in a cloud of dust. She parks unnecessarily far away in the empty car park and gets out.

Is it her? I’m not entirely sure. It kind of resembles her.

Oh, fuck! Not again!

This woman also doesn’t look much like her photos! Then I remember the third photo that I was suspicious of. How old are the other two photos?!

“Sorry I’m late,” she says as I kiss her hello on a cheek, “but I remembered as I was leaving that I needed to feed my pets.”

“What do you have?” I ask, seizing the obvious conversation starter as we sit down. I like animals, you always know where you stand with an animal; with humans you can never be sure. I like dogs and I’m starting to wonder about the nature of women who like cats.

“I have three cats, two dogs and a chicken who thinks he’s human,” she says matter-of-factly before continuing. “The dogs actually belong to my ex but he hasn’t come back for them yet. It’s been more than six months now.”

“The chicken sounds like a character,” I say, playing along with this oddity.

“Yes, he likes to wait for me to come home, then jump on the front of the car and sit on the bonnet as I drive into my parking space.”

I smile, my eyes blinking furiously, I’m probably looking like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

What do you say to that? Good thing we’re not standing at the stairs outside Tower Hill Tube station and I pull my chicken joke.

“I take it you don’t live in an apartment then?” I jest.

“No, I live in a stone cottage on a big piece of land. I can’t even see my neighbours. It’s less than a mile from here,” she says.

Less than a mile away and you’re still half an hour late?!

I change the topic of conversation to a safe one that everyone enjoys: travel.

“I see on your profile that you’re a bit of a traveller. So where was your last trip to?” I ask in all innocence.

“A couple of weeks ago I went to Greenland,” she replies.

“Really? Why there?” I can’t think of a single reason to go there.

“Well, I went to be pulled along in a sled by a team of huskies,” she says with a mysterious smile.

“I get the impression that there’s something else,” I coax.

“You’re going to laugh, but I have a tickle fetish. I don’t know if fetish is the right word,” she says with a silly little laugh.

I just keep quiet, wondering what the hell I’ve got myself into now.

“When the huskies were running along at full speed, I crept forward on the sled and tickled the closest ones,” she says and looks at me with big eyes.

“And you do this why?” I have to ask.

“Because it’s fun,” she says cheerily.

“Have you done this before?”

“Yes, I’ve been to Thailand where I tickled a tiger. A proper conscious one, not one of those sleepy, sedated ones for tourists,” she says.

I think it was the expression on my face that made her take out her phone and start showing me pictures of this. Someone else was taking the photos outside a cage as she crept up to a tiger from behind and gave it a quick tickle. The photos were in slow-motion time-lapse fashion and I could see her facial expression change from mischievous delight to fearful horror as the tiger lifted its head and then it’s body, turned and lunged at her. She quickly escaped via a door.

I say nothing. I don’t have to, she’s on a roll.

“Then I went to Borneo to meet the orang utans.”

Now you and I might go all that way to see those creatures who remind me of my high school headmaster so that we can pull funny faces at them, or shake hands with them or high-five them. Not this nutcase. No, she went to tickle them. She shows me photos of her sneaking up behind an unsuspecting adult male and tickling him. He jolted upright and then stood up with a pissed off look on his face as she ran off.

I know how he feels. Maybe I should do a runner? No, I’m staying; you can’t make this shit up.

“Ah, this is my favourite,” she says, thumbing through her iPhone. Whatever next?

“Here’s the time I went to Darwin to visit a crocodile farm,” she says proudly. Surely not?

Again she shows me time-lapse sequences of her creeping up behind a big crocodile that is sunning itself with it’s mouth open. She sits on its abdomen at the rear and tickles its side. I know that the top of a croc is hard, the lower sides and under-belly is softer and fleshy in places. I don’t think that the croc felt her tickle, just the weight of her sitting on it unannounced. It spins its head around and its jaw starts slamming shut in her direction. Her face goes from childish glee to total fear in about a second. She jumps up and starts running as the croc starts turning around, intent on chasing this idiot.

Wild Animal Tickler

Sitting on the croc of the day…

I seriously need another drink now. Why can’t I meet someone normal?

“I’m getting myself a drink. What can I get you?” I ask as I stand up.

“I’ll have an Earl Grey tea, please. I don’t drink alcohol,” she says with a cheery smile.

Of course you don’t drink alcohol. Normal people do that. You don’t need a drink to do crazy shit.

I think of her as The Wild Animal Tickler. The ‘wild’ bit is apt.

I return with a pot of tea, a cup and my pint of cider. The Wild Animal Tickler – The WAT – is thumbing through her phone, giggling to herself. What would she be like if I got her drunk? Shall I spike her tea? No, there’s no need. Something tells me that there’s a whole world of kookiness still to come.

Asking The WAT about her job sets her off telling me about her demanding, stressful job in the medical industry. While she talks I take the opportunity to check her out. In her photos she has light brown hair, but today’s she’s a dark brown – her natural colour I suspect – with a hint of a few grey hairs. Nothing wrong with that, I have a few grey hairs too; it’s grey pubes that I fear. She’s slim and trim with a-cup boobies; they seem pert. Her skin has seen a lot of sun with a few blemishes on her arms and shoulders. Her throat and hands are much older than a woman of 39. I wonder how old she really is? She is quite pretty though, with expressive big brown eyes.

The WAT stops moaning about her job and at the end mentions that she was at work yesterday. I make a comment about an issue we had discussed in our exchange of emails yesterday. She stares at me blankly, having no idea what I’m talking about. My instincts tell me that something is not right here, so I fall silent, trying to figure out what it could be. After an awkward silence she speaks.

“Okay, there’s something I have to tell you,” she says.

Oh shit, now what?

“My best friend was answering my emails yesterday,” she says in a subdued tone.

“What?” is all I can say. I’m shocked.

“I was at work and I’m rubbish at writing emails, so my best friend was helping me out,” comes her explanation.

By now I’m slumped back in my seat, not feigning passive disinterest but showing active surprise. I wear my heart on my sleeve and my face easily betrays my feelings. I could never make money on the poker circuit.

“Anything else I should know?” I ask, suspecting that there’s more.

She’s leaning forward, her elbows resting on a knee and she’s thinking.

“My best friend wrote my profile. I’m not good with that sot of thing. In fact, this whole internet dating thing doesn’t sit well with me,” she says.

I’m starting to feel the same way…because of nutjobs like you!

“Anything else?” I coax, not really expecting more but just making sure.

“Yes. I’m actually forty-six, not whatever it says on my profile,” she replies.

She certainly looks good for her age, but the whole lying thing just floors me. I want to say to her, “Lady, I have serious trust issues. You can’t go doing the things you’ve done!” but I know there’s no point. She’s not The One.

Your friend must be fronting for you because you’re stark raving mad. She’s probably tired of you and this is her last roll of the dice to unload you onto someone else before she has to commit assisted suicide.

I make some more small-talk with The WAT and when I point out that it’s getting dark we decide to call it a night. I walk The WAT to her car and give her a goodbye kiss on a cheek. The next day I send her a text message of “Great to have met you. Sadly I don’t get the feeling that we’re meant for each other. I wish you the best of luck in your search.”

If I spent a night with her, I’d probably be rudely woken up by her tickling me, a cat sleeping on my clothes, a dog licking my nuts and a chicken nesting on my head. (I think the cat sitting on my clothes would be the worst bit, in case you were wondering.) Sex with her would probably be kinky and freaky. Tempting as it is to have stories to get a lifetime of free drinks with, I don’t want to be the straight character in her funny farm.

The date I have lined up for this coming Friday night with an American can only be better…surely?

LESSONS LEARNED: 1) The worst photo in a woman’s profile is what she’s likely to look like 2) Some women are not afraid to lie about their age. 3) Not all profiles are written by the person it represents; sometimes not even the emails. 4) Some women are stark raving mad. 5) OKCupid’s matching algorithm is crap.

Gnarls Barkley – Crazy