41. Mr Big By Name…

So last time I left off I was faced with a dilemma – whether to meet Mr Big again or not, given his marital status.

Well the short answer is I did.

We met up for a quick drink in a bar not far from where we both work.  The bar in question is well known as a bit of a meat market – the type of place where women from a certain area east of London associated with the TV show TOWIE, come to find a nice gentleman with a steady wage.  What am I saying – they go there because it’s where all the City Boys hang out on a Thursday (it’s the new Friday) and get absolutely wankered, easy pickings on both sides.

I was a bit surprised and I’ll admit dismayed with his suggestion but put it down to his not being in the country long, so I bit my tongue and met him there.  Again he was dressed in standard City Trader attire with his monogrammed shirtsleeves (cringe), but he carries it well.

We chatted for a while and I found out a bit more about what he does for a living – trading in some sort of agri-business…  And I told him about my passion in life – pole dancing. I know I know I shouldn’t, but he seemed like an adult so I thought he might not assume the usual sleazy leer.  He assumed a slight momentary leer.

He also spent an inordinate amount of time staring at me and saying how attractive I am.  Now compliments are great and of course I’m grateful, it’s just that they make me a bit uncomfortable at the same time.  I always try the be gracious and say thank you, but the honest truth is it kind of embarrasses me.

We’d been standing chatting at the bar for an hour or so chatting (him gazing at me – a bit staring_cat-2like my insecure cat does when he tries to out-stare me, he usually wins), which is a tough gig when you’re wearing 3.5 inch stilettos.  Seeing my pain he suggests we sit down and he guides me to a secluded corner where he then proceeds to kiss me.

If you’ve read many of my previous posts you’ll know I’m not a prude by any means, but this still felt a little fast for my liking.  But it wasn’t like I didn’t want to kiss him, it’s just that given his circumstances I wanted to proceed with caution.  The next thing I knew he had his hand on my thigh and was trying to guide my hand to his formidable cock.

WTF???

Where the hell did that come from?  And I’m not just talking about the dick proportioned baby-Weightliftinglike the arm of a well-built baby that does weight-lifting – on steroids… How had we gone from gentle flirting  to ” here’s my giant cock, wanna feel?” in the space of an hour?

I wasn’t giving him any overt sexual signals – believe me I know when I am as they’re pretty darned intentional.  In fact I was being what I thought was pretty coy… was it because I told him about my passion for pole (no pun intended – well ok maybe intended pun)?  Did he actually know the rep of the meat joint he’d taken us to and assumed that “well she must be up for it if she knows we’er going here…”?

Now I have to admit to being a bit crap here – any strong, self-respecting woman would have twatted him in the face after such lewd behaviour.  But I’m a total big girl’s blouse (aka lame-ass coward) when it comes to confrontations.  So I just made my excuses and left in an extreme hurry.

Jeeze I just seem to have terrible luck or otherwise I’m a horrendous judge of character, I just didn’t see any of that coming.  I assumed he was a gentleman, but what gentleman tries to get you to grab his knob in public on a Tuesday night after taking you out for a very civilized lunch date?

I’m beginning to wonder if I should steer clear of individuals who talk to strangers on public transport.  Which reminds me, I have to tell you all about Crazy Italian –  the Sicilian guy who asked me for directions….

I’ll explain all in the next post

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40. The Dilemma, To Date or Not To Date?

So where did I leave off?

Oh yes I was about to have a date with London’s answer to Mr Big, my American stranger from the train.  He’d asked me to decide on where to meet for lunch as he claimed to be unfamiliar with the area – it turns out he’s only been in the country about 6 months.

We meet just near the restaurant and head upstairs, I’ve dressed in an extremely clingy but still somewhat professional looking dress.  It’s so tight I’ve had to deny myself any form of carbs for the past 48 hours, in fact I’ve had to avoid even thinking of carbs in case that shows up in this dress too.  So not wanting to waste the opportunity, I ensure that I walk in front of him up the stairs, removing my long coat as I do so.

It has the desired effect as when I turn around at the top I can see his eyes quickly come back up to face level.  He’s dressed very much as he was when I met him, sharp business suit and shiny shoes.  I then notice the shirt – checkered but with his initials embroidered into the cuffs.

It’s only because he’s a Yank that I can forgive him this fashion misdemeanor –  on a fellow Brit I would be mercilessly tearing him apart (unless he was a toff – they can’t be blamed as such, on the basis that they’re usually public/boarding school educated and have had their initials hand-embroidered into their nappies and every other item of clothing since birth).

But back to the date.

Conversation flows easily and I get over my initial nerves  – I was actually pretty terrified of this date as I’d managed to build him up into some amazing international, super-intelligent jet-setter in my head, and couldn’t think for the life of me how I was going to hold my own for an hour in his company.

It turns out he does do a fair bit of international travel with his job, travelling to Asia, South America and the USA visiting his company’s local offices there.  And he’s also pretty intelligent from what I can gather too.  So it seems I’m not far off the mark, but he has an easy manner and seems to be genuinely interested in me too.

So what else did I find out?

Well he’s in his 40s, studied at Harvard, half Italian half Caribbean, oh and has a wife and two kids.

DANMIT!!!   I should’ve known it was too good to be true.

He tells me that he’s in the midst of separating from his wife which he says is further complicated because of visa issues.  Ok I think, he could be telling the truth, but best to approach this whole situation with extreme caution. Heck, I’m not so wet behind the dating ears not to know that a lot of guys will say whatever comes into their heads if they think it’ll help ’em get laid.

So we end our lunch with him saying that he really wants to see me again but will understand if I’d rather not….  So I’m now stuck with a dilemma, whether to give him the benefit of the doubt or not.

Actually, for a change I’ll ask you…  What do you think, would you believe him?

39. Mr Big

So I have lots to tell you all of my dating adventures including a wild trip to Barcelona and a random hot guy on a train.

I’ll start with the guy on the train.  Okay so I may have mentioned in the past how I’ve been picked up on London’s great public transport system.  I even managed to score a date on a bus once – a long time ago I hasten to add.  I was only 20 at the time and was still a relative newbie to the city (I’m a Northerner by birth).  I was still at that naive stage of smiling and talking to strangers, before reality sinks in and you learn that most people in London are freaks, and if you’re speaking to strangers – well you’re probably a freak too.

So there I was, a self-acknowledged young freak talking to a good-looking guy on a bus, so of course we exchanged numbers and went on a few dates.  Sadly nothing much came of him and I was left waiting for yet another metaphorical bus to arrive.MJ

Several years (a decade and a half – cough) there was Train
Guy 1 – the original.  A very tall slim guy, he looked like Michael Jackson sans Jerry Curl, when he was still relatively black and less creepy looking, that small window of time between Off the Wall and Thriller.  Before his nose looked like something he’d stolen from Mr Potato head.Potato Head

Train Guy used to get on the same carriage as me every morning.  For several weeks, possibly even months, we exchanged furtive glances and the odd half-disguised smile.  Eventually one morning he came over and spoke to me and after a few more morning conversations we exchanged numbers and went on a few dates.  But as you’ve probably already guessed it came to nought – well not totally, we stayed friends for a while until he moved away and I ended up having a very short-lived fling with his half-brother who I much preferred and had way more in common with.

Then there was Crazy Italian – He’s a story in itself – which I’ll have to divulge in full in a blog post all of it’s own – it is that weird and scary.  But just as a teaser intro, basically I was standing outside the tube station talking on the phone when I clocked a handsome tanned guy with short dark hair looking at me.  I then walked down to the ticket area where he approaches me and asks me with a comedically (is that even a word???) strong Italian accent, how he could get to Baker Street.  Eventually he admitted that he didn’t need directions at all but was just looking for an excuse to talk to me.

So another couple of years on and I’m on a crowded tube to work, pushed up against someone’s armpit on one side and with someone’s backpack pressed into the small of my back.  Clearly I had not learned that all-important lesson that so many of us ‘Londoners’ have learned about avoiding eye contact at all costs and I ended up aimlessly staring at the people luxuriously lounging on TFL’s finest plush seating.

It was a few seconds before I realised that the person I was staring at with that vacant, slightly haunted look of the terminal commuter was staring back at me.  In fact they weren’t just staring, they were grinning – and they weren’t half bad looking either!

I did my thing of looking away several times, but I could feel him still looking at me which of course made me look back like a kid that’s been told not to point and stare at the dwayne-johnsonfreakishly tall person standing directly in front of them.  And speaking of tall… at the next stop he stands up, gives up his seat and pushes through the crowd to speak to me… This
guy is at least 6F 2” of dark, skinned handsomeness.   He reminds me of a less muscle-bound version of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, and unsurprisingly he’s American.

Well, I mean come on!  How many English guys do you know who give up their seat on the tube willingly just to speak to a stranger?  Okay – you can’t include the pissed guys at 12 o’clock at night on the last tube home.

It turns out that he works in the same area as me and we get off at the next stop together where he hands me his business card and asks if I’d like to go to lunch with him some day…. Like OMG Hell Yeah!!!

But of course I smile demurely and say that that would be lovely and he laughs at my “quaint, English way of speaking”.  I then rush into the office and google/online stalk him and his company like any self-respecting horny, crazed single woman would. Mr Big

Jackpot! He’s handsome, presumably single and has a high-flying city job.  And promptly I start day-dreaming about him possibly being my “Mr Big” of SATC fame.

A couple of days later… I’m a busy lady don’t you know – Okay I’ll admit I had to be forcibly restrained… I contact him and we arrange to meet for lunch at a posh French restaurant nearby before he has to fly off to Brazil on business…

And that’s where I’ll have to leave it for now.  More on how the date went with Mr Big in the next post.

32. Pornstar Pool Party

full monty sheffieldSo last time I left off I was in an aqua-themed nightclub and about to enter the pool room – and much like a pool hall it was filled with a plethora of balls and very few women.  Aside from myself and two other female friends it was pretty much a sausage fest in the pool area.  After the full monty strip show ended the club soon filled up with more hen parties and large groups of men – the type who prey on the extremely drunk and man-hungry components of any successful hen night.

We were accompanied by my lovely ex porn actor and a large group of rowdy men who were all dressed (partially at this stage) in seventies gear.  Yes there were afro wigs a-plenty along with gold medallions, chest rugs and overly large comedy glasses.

We proceeded to have plenty of clean fun (well as clean as one can hope in that pool – I dread to think of the dna test results were anyone to check that pool, I recall in my drunken stupor wondering if it were safe to enter for fear of falling pregnant from whatever would be lurking in that overly heated and thankfully chlorinated water) splashing about and posing for pictures wearing the afro and medallion.  It was also at some point in these proceedings that I found out my hot stripper-cum-pornstar (yes, pun intended of course) friend was almost 15 years my junior!cougar-sleeping-in-a-tree

Oh Dear God I was headed for cougar territory once again.

But I had my drunk head on, so much like diving into the questionable and decidedly murky pool, and then heading out into the cold night with wet hair to get a kebab; it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I was staying over at my friend’s house that night along with one of the other girls, and through strange happenstance, Pornstar (as he will henceforth be known) came with us.  I think his excuse was something to do with having lost his travelcard and not having enough money to get home.  So of course the only charitable thing to do was to offer him a bed for the night, but with the proviso that there was to be ‘no funny business!’ – whatever!

We all headed back in a taxi having sated ourselves on fried chicken and chips, arriving at Phoenix’s hose in the extremely wee hours… it was starting to get light and the birds were tweeting in that insistent manner they tend to do when you’re rapidly sobering up and wishing that you’d called it a night several hours previous.

Sleeping arrangements…

Well that was an interesting dilemma as there were too many people and not enough beds – clearly.  In the end we opted on myself and Phoenix sharing, with Pornstar happily sandwiched in the middle with the proviso that there be “no funny business, it ain’t Christmas, and it definitely ain’t your birthday!”

It’s funny, I’ve had several opportunities to be part of a threesome and so far I have never succumb (yes there is another pun in there somewhere).  It’s not that I’m a prude or anything, and I’ll admit to being more than just a little curious.  It’s just that either I’ve not fancied one of the other participants or I’ve clearly not been inebriated enough to take up the offer – either way it’s never happened for me.

So what did happen? Well of course Pornstar’s hands stared to wander, and we started kissing again (we’d been full on necking in the club earlier like a couple of overly horny teenagers drunk on 20:20, Wkd – or whatever the latest bright blue, sugar overloaded alcopop the kids are drinking nowadays – at the local school disco).

At one point we paused for a toilet break, Pornstar asked where the bathroom was so of course like any good host I guided him through the dark corridor  -look the bathroom is right next to the stairs and I didn’t want him stumbling in the dark and breaking his neck.

Once we reached the bathroom we proceeded to where we had left off and what little Chocolate Eating Kidclothes we had on were soon dropping to the floor faster than a fat kid eating chocolate bars who’s in a “Which fat kid can eat the most chocolate bars off of the floor” competition. – you know somewhere in the world there’s a competition like this, where lots of skinny people are watching them eat like it’s porn, whilst the fat kid’s equally fat parents look on with pride and a tear in their eye, thinking “that’s ma boy!”.

Now I’d love to tell you that we went all the way but I have to be honest – something held me back, and I’m not just talking about Pornstar holding me up against the bathroom wall (which he did do by the way) – maan there is nothing quite as hot as a well-toned, hot guy having the strength to lift you up and hold you like an under-stuffed ragdoll, rather than the more weighty woman that I am – I’m not light by any stretch of the imagination – pole dance makes you build muscle and I err on the side of athletic, rather than willowy ballerina.

Although we didn’t actually have sex, we did have a lot of fun doing almost everything in between. As an ex porn actor, he certainly knew wasn’t shy and he most definitely knew what he was doing. Oh and I’m told I left a rather intriguing sweaty handprint halfway up the wall – my friend Phoenix’s flatmates thought it was her – oops lol!

So there you go – the story of how I almost did it with a Pornstar!

But as you may have surmised he’s not really a contender for the highly coveted title of Kissey’s Boyfriend (not sure who exactly is coveting this title but I’m sure someone out there must be). Which leads me to my next dating contender… a Palestinian Sports Journalist, but more about that next time.

31. The Pornstar

I know I left a bit of a teaser in my last post regarding my night out with a pornstar and I know I owe you an explanation.
After my putting Football Guy on the bench, or is it the transfer list? (I’m not sure which analogy is the most fitting but basically he’s out of bounds for me now) Well I needed some cheering up and a friend of mine from my pole dance classes asked if I wanted to join her on a girls night out with a difference.
My friend (we’ll call her Phoenix as she’s the one who taught me how to eat fire for Public School Boy – see my earlier posts if you don’t know already) is actually a professional dancer and as such has worked dancing amongst other places, on cruise ships.  The girl’s night out was actually because of a past gig she’d had on a cruise ship the year before, it was kind of an unofficial reunion night out that I got to tag along on.   We were also going to see one of the dancers perform that night, a guy we’ll call Chico – always gotta protect the innocent 😉 who also happens to be a male stripper.

Chico was performing in his regular show in a club in town which is famous for having an indoor swimming pool in one of the rooms, as well as a Full Monty male strip show every Friday night.

We got there just before the show started and found ourselves an area away from the main audience which was 100% made up of ladies dressed in variously themed outfits (mostly Grease Pink Ladies, ‘slutty policewomen/nurses/army girls or eighties neon leggings & matching tutus).

The first couple of guys who came on were clearly new and were still working on their strip acts.  Generally speaking they all worked around the theme of uniformed guy, takes clothes off, embarrasses the bride-to-be and then finishes with a ‘helicopter’ finale.  The helicopter propeller in this case being represented by the extremely fast rotation of a semi-erect penis.

Sexy?  Most definitely not.  Ridiculously kitsch and hilarious after several glasses of over-priced and sickly sweet glasses of wine (kindly given to us by the management, so one can’t complain too much, gift horses and all that)? Most definitely a resounding Hell Yeah!

Halfway through the show there was a break, where a delightful buffet spread of Iceland’s finest lay before us (we’re talking Kerry Katona prawn rings, sausage rolls and the like rather than Icelandic gravadlax or horsemeat in case you’re wondering).  I’ll admit I chowed down on a few rolls and some highly questionable chicken on a stick, I’m not proud, but I was hungry.

After the break the performances resumed – I have to say it made me feel a little nostalgic for my Northern roots – there was something faintly reminiscent of working men’s clubs being taken over by the girls for the night, or the atmosphere in many of the pubs and clubs I’ve been to in the North East where I grew up. That atmosphere being one of sheer animalistic female hunger, like a pride of lionesses who’ve just spotted a lame gazelle quietly drinking at a watering hole, totally oblivious to it’s impending, blood-bath doom.

Saying that, there were times when you could see the fear in the eyes of the male strippers when one particularly enthusiastic and rather Rubenesque bride-to-be decided to literally throw herself on top of one of the younger, less experienced strippers.

Our friend Chico was the last to perform, the finale of the show, which ended wit him completely naked until he eventually covered himself in his national flag. Ay Ay Ay! – or whatever it is they say in Brazil.

After the show ended I was formally introduced to Chico, now fully clothed in extremely tight fitting jeans and a vest top.  He then introduced us to some of his stripper friends, one of whom was one of the early, newer acts who did a ‘lifesaving’ Baywatch pastiche as part of his pre-helicopter act.

It turned out that the baby-faced newbie (with a body that was anything but boyish!) came from the same area so we got chatting, and of course dancing.  He was actually an extremely good dancer and took my drunken twerking in his stride.  He also told me that prior to taking up stripping he’d been a porn actor for the last couple of years…

WOW!  Well thankfully I just managed to keep my jaw from bouncing on the rather dubiously sticky dancefloor and just raised an “Oh really, that’s interesting” eyebrow.

It was all rather odd, having seen him perform his special talent – part of his act involved poi spinning, or whatever the hell it is people do with poi – in the nude before finding out his real name.  And then to find out he used to have sex on film for a living???  Well it certainly made a change from the usual chat-up in a seedy night-club.

So of course it made sense for us all to head to the swimming pool and strip down further – to my bikini I hasten to add, I’m not that free-loving regardless of being the offspring of hippies.

Well I’ll fill you in on what happened in the pool later, it’s Friday night so of course I’m off out to have more fun…

30. Dropping Balls Part 2

My sincerest apologies dear readers, the combination of a bank holiday and a busy work schedule meant that I didn’t get a chance to finish off my last post. But here you go… the second installment of ‘What Happened to Football Guy.

Where had I left off? Ah yes, I’d told Football Guy that I really liked him and hinted that if he’d changed his mind about not taking things any further I’d be amenable. He’d said he liked me and thanks, but no thanks – or at least that was the strong message not so obliquely hinted at between the lines.

So what’s a girl to do when she kind of hints at putting her heart on the line? Well invite him round for one final night of carnal passion of course! Except I didn’t tell him that.

We arranged his coming over much as we have done in the past, lots of hot sexting beforehand about all the things I want him to do to me, and what I’d do in return for him. I picked him up, brought him back to the house and we hung out for a while before leading him upstairs. Now I should mention if I haven’t already that no man has ever gotten me past the magical ‘hat trick’ of three orgasms in a row. But that was before the Pelé-esque bedroom skills of Football Guy!

Five times!!! Let me repeat FIVE TIMES!!!

Alright now perhaps that may not be many or just par for the course for some women, but for me? I felt like a small miracle had just taken place between my legs! It was like a sexual epiphany. The Holy Grail of repeated orgasms and I had borne witness to this most miraculous event. Okay I know I’m waxing somewhat lyrical here but DAMN! The man knows what he’s doing.

After such a bed-shattering event, one might easily have been swayed into thinking it was worth delaying the inevitable, perhaps even deluding oneself that something more must come of such a fantastic sexual match. But no, not me. I’m done with fooling myself and pulling the wooly hat of wishful thinking over my eyes, shouting “you can’t see me, you can’t see me” at the top of my lungs.

In fact I’d go as far as to say that it only reinforced my resolve to nip things in the bud. But I will admit it made it harder. You see sometimes we can end up thinking that there’s more to something than there is, just because there’s chemistry. But the more volatile the mix, the more likely the whole thing’s gonna explode and someone’s always left cleaning up the mess of broken test tubes and chemical burns. Did I just take that analogy too far? Is that even possible?  Surely not…

So at the end of the night, fully dressed and most definitely sated, I drove Football Guy back to the station. But before we got there I told him that this was to be the last time; that we wouldn’t be meeting again. He asked why and I told him – it simply came down to the fact that I wanted more and I knew he didn’t. I was cutting my losses before I got too much more emotionally involved.

He said he understood and we agreed that we wouldn’t just stop talking, we’d keep in touch, but I told him I wouldn’t be meeting or seeing him, at least not an time soon. He said he was sad it was ending but that he respected my honesty and I like to think he was telling the truth.

After I dropped him off I cried all the way home and for a while when I got home. And it made me realize what a close call that had been. Had I left it any longer I might not have had the common sense to walk away and I’d have been in a much worse state. As it is I’m glad I’ve cut things when I did, I know it’s the right decision. If I was younger perhaps I’d be willing to take the chance that he’d end up falling for me. But if I’m honest, it’s not often that a player changes his gameplay, I’m old enough to know that at least.

But enough of the sad songs and ice-cream comfort binging – I did that the next evening and to be honest although the sex was admittedly worth mourning, the rest wasn’t.

I’ve taken myself off the bench and I’m back in the dating game. I’ve got a new guy I’m talking to online and a girls night out to tell you about and it involves male strippers and a pornstar!

29. Dropping Balls Part 1

I bet you’re wondering what’s been going on with Football Guy as it’s been a while since I last mentioned him. It’s been going really well, rather too well in fact, as I’ve been finding myself feeling increasingly drawn to him. We talk regularly about everyday stuff, we sext regularly till I’m so horny that if I were a guy I would’ve been thrown out of several places for having a raging boner in public.

In fact is there such a law? Can you be thrown out of a place if you can’t control your erection? It’s at times like these that I breathe a sigh of relief that the only tell-tale sign I have of ragingly inappropriately timed horniness, is a flushed complexion and not being able to look anyone directly in the eye.

I truly do feel for you guys, I mean as a woman we can be siting on a bus or in the middle of a team meeting thinking the most inappropriate thoughts, and apart from the occasional blush or minute squirming in the seat, no-one would be any the wiser.

But of course that is what makes it all the more pleasurable, imagining what you’re going to do and what will be done to you in a matter of hours, and knowing that the people around you are totally unaware of the depravity going on in your head.

I’ll also admit I’ve loved it when Football Guy has texted back, saying that he’s unable to stand up from his desk for fear that someone may just lose an eye from the massive protuberance I have inspired through my malicious sexting.

The thing is, for me at least it’s become about more than just the sex, or indeed the sext. We talk on the phone, not just about what we want or plan to do to each other, but about our day and about what’s going on in our lives. It’s enough to make a woman think her NSA (No Strings Attached) guy actually cares about her.

And therein lies the rub so to speak, as you may have guessed and as all my friends warned me from the start, I’ve begun to have feelings for him. Yeah I know I know, who’da thunk it huh? You meet up with someone on a regular basis, have mind-blowingly earth-shattering, ear-drum burstingly great sex with them, you get along with them, and suddenly you find yourself wanting more.

Call me crazy but yes!

It’s an interesting one, part of the male/female divide. A key difference between us girls and guys is this- take all the above into account and typically a woman thinks – well this is going great, we work really well together, the sex is great, we have great fun and chat all the time.   In fact it’s going so well we should make a real go of things and make this official!

Whereas a guy’s typical response to the same situation goes something like this – wow this is going great, I love hanging out with her, the sex is great, we always have fun and I enjoy talking to her. In fact it’s going so well, why would I change a thing, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.

From the outside both perspectives are perfectly logical conclusions, it’s just that in this instance I’m on the inside not the outside.

Football Guy had been quite clear from the get-go that he wasn’t really looking for anything more than sex, great sex of course being the preference, but nothing else. Now I won’t bore you with the minutiae of our conversations we had, but I had started scoping out whether there was any room for change in our current status. I hinted that I liked him a lot that I was extremely comfortable around him and would not object if he wanted to see more of me.

And he’d said pretty much the same too but with the added caveat that:

“Well I told you from the start that I don’t want to get into anything serious”

To be fair he’s right, he did say that, it’s just that as a blind, deaf and dumb child with learning difficulties and a pronounced speech impediment could’ve told me, clearly this was no longer enough for me.

So clearly something had to be done, and fast! In our last phone conversation I warned him that I’d have to extricate myself pretty soon, before I started to really fall for him.

He suggested:

“Well if you feel yourself falling, just back off for a while until you’re in control again”

To which I replied:

“Honey, if I feel myself falling it’ll be too late and I will have already lost control”

I’ve been there before, I’m sure we all have… that time when we know deep in our hearts that we really, really like the other person, but to be honest they’re just not that into us.

We string it out, we hope that with time they’ll see how wonderful and special we are and won’t be able to help themselves from falling head over heels for us. Only to be rudely awakened from our dreamy fantasies to find that – oh hang on a minute, actually they can help themselves, and oh look…they’ve helped themselves time and time again whilst we lie there like romantic ideological fools letting them do just precisely that.

So how have I dealt with this predicament I find myself in?

Well I’ll tell you that in the next post 😉