42. Crazy Horses: The Italian Stallion

First of all, Merry Christmas everyone, I wish you all the best for the festive season.

Secondly, here’s a funny tale of past dating from before my 100 dates challenge:

I hinted a little about a previous public transport encounter in my last post so it’s about time I explained more to you about the “Crazy Italian Stallion”. Crazy_Horses

 

It all started when I was on my way home from the gym, I was walking to the tube station and was standing outside whilst I finished talking to a friend on the phone.  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted this tall dark Mediterranean looking man looking at me.  I thought nothing much more of it, finished my call and headed down to the subway.

Next thing I know he’s standing right next to me and asks politely if I can tell him the best way to get to Baker Street.  Being the helpful (is that gullible?) person that I am, I give him directions and we continue talking as we head to the train.  Eventually we end up exchanging numbers and arrange to meet up another time.

A couple of dates on and all was going well, we’d spent the day in Kew botanical gardens, had a date at the British museum and were getting along fine.  We both seemed to have a quirky sense of humour and would talk nonsense for hours – actually a lot of it was nonsense as his Sicilian was that strong I could barely make out what he said at the start.

Now as much as we got along to start I did have a couple of early concerns about Crazy Italian – namely his being almost 40 years old and still working as a temp barman – doesn’t exactly scream ambition.

Anyhow being the non-judgemental soul that I am, I put aside my qualms and decided to see what happened.

After a few dates, he invited me round for dinner… which of course meant sleeping over…

My first shock came when I saw where he was living – it was basically like a student house, a really run-down student house where the landlord hadn’t done any repairs in over a decade!  Again foregoing better judgement I tried to ignore the dilapidated décor and concentrate on the fact that a tall, dark Mediterranean man was cooking me dinner and I knew exactly what we were having for dessert.

Dinner was… forgettable – at least I can’t remember what the hell he cooked for me but dessert…. UN-FOR-FREAKIN-GETTABLE!!!

And for a number of reasons I might add.  You see my crazy Italian was particularly adept at a certain sexual technique – the man was an extremely cunnilinguist.

Never in my life before or since have I ever met a man who could do what this man could do with his tongue… he was like a freakin pneumatic drill… the rapidity and accuracy would have put a trigger happy sniper on speed to shame!

Seriously – I cannot emphasise enough how astoundingly amazing this guy was with his
tongue – I was almost in tears from the paroxysms of pleasure he was causing to washWoody over me.  It was like Woody Woodpecker having had an extremely fat line of the old magic dust, with a tongue instead of a beak just hammering away and hitting the bullseye every damned time! – it almost brings a tear to my eye at the mere memory, and certainly means I’ll be having a few pleasant dreams tonight 😉

Once I’d recovered my composure and had slowed my gasping to a gentle pant, I asked him where in the hell he had learned such skills.  It turns out he had a lesbian friend who taught him everything he knew… I swear if I ever meet that woman I would firmly shake her by the hand and beg that she set up a school to teach every straight man in the world her genius skills.

But back to that evening and what puts the crazy into Crazy Italian…

After several hours of jackhammer inspired pleasure and a rather unfulfilling bout of ‘lovemaking’ – I now realised why he spent so much time on pleasuring me (not complaining of course).  Unfortunately my Italian Stallion had some issues with keeping his pecker up.

But this is not the crazy part, and in fact I think his pecker problem was probably connected to the crazy problem…

By now it was about 3am and we were in post-coital (well actually post-cunnilingual but why split hairs?), the discussion moved towards past significant exes and I noticed his face drop… warning bell number one.  My initial instinct was to let it drop, this was clearly a sensitive subject, but then something – let’s call it female intuition made me push for more information.

Crazy Italian, then proceeded to tell me of his tumultuous relationship with the Mother of his baby! Yep, news to me too!!!  The basically he’d ‘discovered’ that his girlfriend was cheating on him and ‘god forbid…’ with a black man… ohh the scandal (please note the British sarcasm here – to be clear I am not in any way indicating shock or disgust at her possibly having cheated with someone of a different race to him or her, it was more shocking that he seemed to me doubly offended and abused that she could sleep with a black guy – like the race that someone cheats with even matters).

Now at first I listened thinking – ok the man was clearly hurt and betrayed, understandable.  But then his tale continued, he explained how he knew, just knew that she had been fucking this other guy whilst heavily pregnant with possibly his child.  When I asked him how he’d found out he became rather vague and started telling me how she had then thrown him out and threatened to call the police.

The next part of his tale was to tell me how he hid in her apartment when he’d come to pick up his things and how she had at some point thereafter contacted the police, had a restraining order put on him and had told the police she feared for her own safety.  All the way through this tale he protested his innocence and anger that she feared for her life.

“I have pictures of us together where she’s smiling, how can she have been scared if she was smiling?”  All I kept thinking was of a woman with a fixed smile on her face but fear in her eyes.  It just didn’t ring true… I also kept thinking, ok getting a restraining order is no easy matter.  I was more inclined to think this poor woman whoever she was, really was in fear of her life and that this guy was slightly unhinged – it was something in the way he spoke about her and his paranoia about the child not being his, even though it clearly wasn’t mixed race.

Again my women’s intuition, aka survival instinct kicked in and I just knew this guy was clearly a few salami slices short of a Panini.   But given the hour I had to play it safe…  lying naked next to a guy you’ve just been intimate with and now fear is a bit of a psycho-obsessive with a restraining order, does not make for a restful night I’ll tell you that much!Pretend_asleep

I spent the next few hours feigning sleep until I ‘awoke’ and had to return home… “busy day today and all, but thank you so much for a wonderful evening…”

I beat a hasty retreat home feeling thankful that I’d pushed my line of enquiry and truly believe I had a lucky escape.

My lesson in all this? Well I thought I had taken the time to get to know him before moving onto the next step, but sometimes things come out later rather than sooner.  But the main point is trust your instincts, if it doesn’t sound right and you’re getting that crazy freak vibe, then get the hell away as safely and as quickly as you can!

The other key lesson here – No type of crazy tongue skills, no matter how earth-shattering they are is worth the other type of crazy this guy was packing.

But not all random train guys are loopy as the circle line, I have met some lovely people on the tube too, some of them are still friends and as far as I know none of them have any restraining orders…yet

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

35. Premiership Guy – The Semi-Finals

For My second date with Premiership guy, we decided to go for a picnic in the park after work.  It was a beautiful sunny day so I thought what better than to chill out in the sunshine.  It started off fine enough, we found a good spot in the sun and sat down.  He was wearing a tight fitting t-shirt and I could see his beautifully toned arms and further proof of his very flat and toned stomach – made me feel slightly ashamed of my rather soft mid-region.

Us women have a real hang-up about having any type of belly, but the sad truth is, once you get past a certain age it becomes harder and harder to get back to that magical flat stomach some of us (if we were lucky) had in our teens and early twenties.  My magic metabolism disappeared around the age of 23 with my first office job.  It was quite a blow when I realised that could no longer “eat all the pies” without fear of having a mini pie-baby for the next week and a half.

Back then Carbs and I were fleeting bedfellows, now we’re fast friends, as the minute any kind of refined sugar or flour passes my lips, they seem to weld themselves lovingly to my midriff.  Oh and whilst I’m ranting, why oh, why is it that the fat always leaves my not-so-ample bosom first, then my ass and last, and mostly definitely the very least – it leaves my belly!

I’ve been told by some of my kinder male friends that guys actually like a little softness round the middle – pffft!  Apparently they don’t like a rock hard flat stomach, they want a more cushiony belly to rest their head or hands on.  Whether that’s because if we have a belly it takes the pressure off them to have a perfectly toned, you could wash a month’s worth of laundry stomach, or whether they actually do find it more feminine I truly don’t know, I just hope it’s true.

I remember about a year ago when I was seeing a PT with muscles so cut my eyes bled just looking at him.  He was stood behind me with his arms around me when he placed his hands on my little food-baby and jiggled it…

“Whhhat are you doing?” I asked as calmly as I could.

“Ohh I just love your belly, it’s so soft and jiggly!”

Needless to say he did not get any sex that night, instead I spent the next ten minutes explaining to him that although he may indeed love a “belly that jiggles” this was not conducive sexy-talk for any woman.  I then spent the rest of the evening resisting the urge to comfort eat and feeling guilty about all the pies I know I shouldn’t have eaten over the preceeding three months.

Anyway as often happens, I digress… so here I was in a lovely park eating all my favourite carb friends with my handsome Palestinian Premiership Prince.  It was very relaxed, very peaceful… in fact it was a little too peaceful.  It seemed that the conversation that had flowed so easily a couple of days previously was now more like a stagnant pool of small-talk.

I had nothing to say, and it would seem neither did he.

We tried several times to start conversations, but either it was the warm sunshine that melted our brains, or more likely we’d just talked ourselves dry on the previous date.  We relaxed in the park for an hour or so until it started to get chilly and I’d really had enough of surreptitiously envying/ogling his toned body and beautiful green eyes.  We then decided to take a stroll to Trafalgar Square, partly in the vain hope that a change of scenery would stimulate conversation again, but alas it was not to be.  After yet another so pregnant it was about to give birth pause, he turned to me and said.

“It’s so great that I feel so comfortable with you that we don’t need to talk, I’m just really enjoying being with you”

Ass so sweet I hear you cry…. Oooh so boring I heard myself lament.  You see for me conversation is pretty important, mental stimulation is a massive turn-on for me.  If you haven’t already worked it out I’m pretty wordy – and as much as I am drawn to the quiet “mysterious” types, I do like a modicum of communication.

But it wasn’t solely his fault, I wasn’t able to contribute much either and I realise now that this was a direct consequence of arranging a second date too soon after the first – not enough had happened in the last few days to talk about and we clearly had very little in common.

So I decided to call it a night and head off home, and that’s when he went in for the long awaited kiss…

It was… to be quite honest… a letdown, any chemistry I’d felt on the first date had long since evaporated in the drought of our conversational desert.  It wasn’t that he was a bad kisser, not at all, there just wasn’t much in the way of feeling or emotion – more like a practice kiss, like when you’re a kid learning how to french kiss without knocking out your front teeth.

Post-kiss, we said our goodbyes and I went home feeling slightly deflated, which makes me wonder why I agreed to go on a third date – I’ll tell you all about it in the next post 😉

27. Tiger Ears, Potential Stalkers and a Date with No Smell – Part 2

Hello Lovely Readers,

I meant to update this a couple of days ago but my social live caught up with me and I’ve been catching up with friends the last few evenings rather than dating for a change.

My second cautionary tale is of a date that did happen and what I like to think was a lucky escape. Again this harks back to my early adventures on Match.com.

I had already been on one date with Psycho Boy (you’ll find out why he is so named later on) several weeks before. It had been a pretty good first date, we’d got on pretty well, had a couple of drinks and ended up continuing on to a club nearby.

At the end of the night we kissed and there was a definite spark between us. But then… radio silence… It seemed odd, as he’d appeared so keen to the point where he was trying to persuade me to stay over.

Yes I admit I was pretty naive still, and I hadn’t realised that my refusal could be precisely why he’d dropped me faster than an epileptic guy trying to juggle hot coals in an eighties strobe-lit roller disco.

Several weeks later I get a call from Psycho Boy, it turned out he’d had an accident and been in hospital for some time with concussion.

Yes, it actually happened – the excuse that I always imagine is the real reason why a guy just disappears into the ether from whence he came, never to be heard from again, actually came into being.

See! It’s not just an urban myth (whilst we’re on the subject – I did once have a guy claim his long absence and lack off communication was because the Danish military police were interrogating him as a suspected spy – he was an actor and he seemed quite put out that I didn’t find his story that plausible).

Given that Psycho Boy’s excuse was 98% more believable than the Danish Actor’s, I decided that I would meet him for a second date. It turns out he’d been on a work night out, gotten totally smashed, fallen down some stairs and cracked the back of his head open – he even showed me the scar!

Unfortunately the blow had caused him to loose his sense of smell and taste. The net impact of this was that it changed his personality somewhat too. He wasn’t anywhere near as light-hearted as the first time I’d met him, and he admitted that he was really struggling to adapt a lifetime of bland food.

I actually felt a bit bad for him, and I was feeling the need for some physical affection too so I ended up going back to his place. It was only when we started to get intimate that he seemed to have a real problem with my confidence.

He asked me why I always felt the need to be in control and wanted me to lie back and let him take charge. Okay… so he clearly likes to be in control too, and that’s fine as long as we’re both comfortable with what’s going on.

The weird bit was what he said in the middle of us having sex… He looked me dead in the eye, put his hand round my throat and said:

“God, this feels so right! It feels like I own you… Doesn’t it feel like I own you?”

“Erm, not really no, it feels like I own me”

I left pretty sharpish after that as quite frankly he was creeping me out and I found his darker side pretty unnerving.

I really believe I dodged a bullet there and I don’t regret my over-cautiousness for a moment. There are plenty of nice guys out there who are not creepy at all and who don’t want to own or possess the woman they’re with and thankfully they are the rule rather than the exception.

If you’re getting the feeling that someone is a wrong-un, well you know what, they probably are. My spidey senses may not be right every time but I’d really rather be safer and single than end up in a dangerous relationship with a control freak.

Well that’s going to have to be it for now as I’m meeting up with Football Guy this evening and I need to prep…

But I will give you part 3 of this tale over the weekend.

24. Turning it Off and Then On Again

Well after the excitement and sheer wanton abandonment of last week’s post, I guess things had to calm down somewhat… Plus it was Football Guy’s turn to have his son for the weekend.  Which means of course date night for me!  I’d already arrange to meet up with IT Guy again for a second date – this is the guy who’d lived in Japan around the same time as me, same sort of age and we’d had a great first date reminiscing about all things Japanese.

This time we were going to meet at a Korean restaurant.  It’s another small, family owned place, very grubby looking and the wallpaper looks like it has more grease on it than an un-hygenic mechanics’ hands that have just been working on a leaky oil tank for the past week.  But the food there is delicious!  We ordered some kimchee and Korean pancakes, along with pork dumplings to share and I decided to be adventurous and order a weird soft drink, the name of which I’ve thankfully forgotten as the taste will stay with me for years… fermented cow dung with a hint of ginger!  The starters were great and conversation started well, just catching up on what we’d been up to – admittedly I did miss out telling him about my night of mild debauchery and light bondage, somehow I just didn’t think he’d be that interested.

Our mains arrived and I had an amazing dish of tender stewed beef ribs with yam-like vegetables and rice… I’m practically salivating at the memory of the taste!  Sweet, rich and satisfying – much how I like my men!  OK, I apologise for the cheesy joke, I just couldn’t resist.. it was just staring me in the face begging me to say it.

From here the conversation didn’t flow as easily as it had on the previous date.  We’d pretty much talked our way through all our reminiscences of Japan-life and we were left back at the “so what do you do in your free time?” stage.  He told me of his love of Jazz  and how he often goes to late night jazz clubs on his own.  As for me, I tell him that I play netball, I go to the gym and that I used to play volleyball but had to give it up as I kept dislocating my thumb.  I decided to give it up after the 7th dislocation, with each and every injury due to an abject fear of balls.

Yes I know you may find this hard to believe but I’m actually afraid of balls, more specifically of being hit in the face with them.  At school whenever we played rounders (a game a bit like baseball but on a smaller scale) I was fine when it came to batting (well actually I was pretty nervous doing this too), but fielding? I just couldn’t do it.  I’d see the ball heading my way, raise my hands and then close my eyes and back off by about 15 feet just in case it looked like I might be in range of the ball.  Softball??? Oh jeeze, that scared me even more – the ball was even bigger!  And what the hell are they even talking about? If that ball is soft then my ass must be as hard as the lightest of soufflés in comparison.  And then we have netball, an even bigger ball.  But I’ve worked through my fears with this and I’m told now by my fellow team members, that I no longer close my eyes or look away every time the ball is heading towards me.  Though I do have to admit I do still do this occasionally and oddly enough those seem to be the times that I get hit full on in the face by the ball!

Ok, so enough of my odd-ball-phobia… look, see what I did there…? Yes another cheesy joke… and I wonder why I’m still single… Hmm sometimes I fear I may well be the only one laughing at my lame-ass jokes…

Back to the date in hand – we were talking about our hobbies and interests. IT guy was into computer games (no surprises there), jazz music of course, and photography.  Now whenever I tell a new guy about my hobbies I’m always faced with a bit of a dilemma.  You see along with the tamer interests I have like netball and the gym, my favourite activity by far, in fact I’d go as far as to say my abiding passion in life, is pole dancing.  I love it! I love the physical and mental challenge, I love that it has an element of expression in the dance and I love that it makes me strong, much less prone to backache.  But most of all I love the sense of achievement when I crack a particularly hard or scary move that’s taken me weeks to do.

The thing is most guys hear the words pole dancing and all they can picture is lap-dancing clubs and strippers.  To be fair a lot of women think that too, but there is so much more to Pole than that.  And this is where the dilemma is, do I lie to a guy about my favourite pastime or not mention it at all?  Do I make up another activity like Zumba or Salsa?  Or do I come clean, tell the truth and then spent the next 10 minutes explaining that it’s “honestly not like that” and that no, I don’t dance professionally and no I’ve not thought about doing so either.  I usually then spend a further 10 minutes trying to legitimise my hobby, whilst his eyes glaze over watching an internal video loop of some semi-naked hot chick with bigger tits than me (they all have bigger tits than me in those internal videos) gyrating round a pole, and twerking so hard it would put Miley Cyrus firmly back in her skinny-ass place.

I’ve tried all the above explanations in the past.  I have tried being honest and explaining my hobby, renaming it ‘Circus Pole’ to try and make it sound un-sexy.  I’ve even told a white lie and totally renamed it Aerial Hoop – which to be fair I did do a few times before returning to my real love of the pole.  And I’ve tried claiming that I’m passionate about Zumba but it just doesn’t ring true.  Now you may ask why mention it at all, but for me it’s a really important part of my life, it’s what horse riding is to my equine obsessed sister.  Yes admittedly there is more to both our lives, but saying that, our hobbies do take up a fair chunk of our free time.  So the long and short of it is, I either tell a guy about my pole obsession at the start and he makes certain assumptions, or I tell him later… and he makes certain assumptions.  With IT Guy I decided to go with ‘Circus Pole’ and to be fair he handled it very maturely saying that he has female friends who do it too – Phew!

After dinner I suggested we go for a drink at a nice basement martini bar round the corner, but IT Guy wasn’t drinking, I asked him if he had any other ideas of somewhere to go and his answer was nada, no ideas whatsoever…  In the end I suggested we just have a wander and see what we could spot to do along the way.   Eventually we went past a gelato place so I suggested we go for ice cream as it was relatively warm.  Whilst eating our ice cream we got to talking about careers and life expectations.  It seemed that IT guy was no longer satisfied with a job telling people to turn their PC on and off over and over again and wanted more from his career but was afraid to take a chance and try something else.  He was also wondering about the point to his life being in his 30s, not married and childless.  To be honest the whole thing started to turn into a bit of a therapy session.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that he felt comfortable enough with me to talk about these things, and further down the line I think it’s all good, but on a second date… well it’s not exactly romantic or inspiring to hear your prospective ‘Prince’ bemoan the state of his life and the lack of meaning it has therein.  On the upside though, after further discussion we worked out a career plan and he seems to be cheered somewhat by that.   He was admittedly still not sure whether he should just “settle” for just anybody to marry and have kids with, but it was only the first therapy session after all.  So as you’ve guessed I’m not about to volunteer to be the lucky lady he’s prepared “settle for”  – besides, I’m sure it’s against the rules to date your patients…

After we’d tried to sort his life out, I made my excuses and we headed back to the station.  As we were walking back he said he found me quite difficult to read and that he couldn’t quite tell if I was interested or not… I didn’t exactly help clarify things for him either.  At that point I was still making up my mind but did concede that I’d like to see him again some time.  I managed to get away with just a chaste kiss on both cheeks and made my way home.  About 30 minutes later though, I got a text from him, asking if he’d mis-read something I’d said earlier about my flatmate being out for the night, and if I’d in fact been hinting for him to come back to mine.  MOST DEFINITELY NOT!!!  I politely clarified that this was not in fact the case – he had not missed out on a potential shag – and to his question of whether I fancied him or not, I said quite honestly that I wasn’t sure.  No I know it’s not the nicest thing to say to a guy but I’m not about to lie to soothe his ego!

At the moment the jury’s out on IT Guy, he’s a nice bloke, seems very sensible although granted a little mixed up about what he’s doing with his life, but other than that he’s not an altogether bad prospect… God that sounds so uninspiring… and I’m not quite sure I’m prepared to “settle” for just anyone at this point, although I’d quite happily settle for another night of hot sex with Football Guy… maybe I’ll just drop him a quick text…..

17. Popcorn Like It’s Hot

Well picking up from last week, ‘surprisingly enough’ Graffiti guy wasn’t so keen to just be friends as I’d suggested, and to be fair I totally understand – no-one goes on these dating sites thinking “Hey, I’m single, desperate and lonely enough to ask a computer to fix me up and pay a fortune for the privelage.  But actually, what I really want is a friend who I’m crazy about but doesn’t fancy me in the least so that I can find true, unrequited love and write lots of dark, bitter and desperate love poems about them”.  You know what… to be fair, there’s probably a few people out there doing just that!  God knows, I’ve written enough self- indulgently depressive poems in my time (teenage years being the most inspirational period of my life thus far.

But I remain optimistic, Sports Agent Toyboy – ok that’s a little long-winded so lets refer to him by the profession he represents which is football… Football Guy is most definitely still a contender.

We’ve been texting flirty but pretty tame messages for a while and had decided to go to the cinema.  I picked him up from the station and we went back to my house to look online and decide what movie to watch.  This should have been my first indication of what was to come, the fact that he suggested coming to mine to pick a movie.  Amateur mistake I know, and one I should not be making at my age… We should have just met at the cinema.  C’mon woman…why didn’t we just meet at the frikkin cinema – thus avoiding the temptation to get rather heated before your date has even commenced.  But as I say the mistake was made and we proceeded to chat mundanely, enquiring how each other’s weeks had been.  I then introduced him to my two cats that inexplicably scared the shit out of him (I say inexplicably as one of them is tiny and scared of men, and the other has serious emotional attachment issues – he’s very clingy and insecure – yes my cat does need therapy, and is therefore,  excuse the pun ‘a bit of a pussy’).

So sorry where was I?  Ahh yes, hot young guy in my house cowering on the corner of my sofa, trying to get away from two small and socially indifferent cats – and of course sensing his abject terror, the emotionally insecure one started rubbing up against Football Guy’s leg.  So after removing both cats from the room and he starts to breath normally again, we chat some more, we make eyes, and then we make out… for quite some time.  I will add that during this whole make-out session one foot was kept firmly on the floor like any good self-respecting Edwardian woman would.  But, oh dear… at some point one of us had to rein things in and re-establish that we were actually going to go out to on a date.  That person I am proud to say, was me.  I withdrew to the other end of the sofa and rather breathlessly said we should pick a film and get out of the house before things got too out of control.  Out of control???  Hahahahaha, I’m not sure that I’m ever really in control where he’s concerned.  But I used all my many years of experience of being around horny young guys and focused all my powers on ensuring that we did actually leave the house.

So movie picked, we left for the cinema, and sat in a darkened room for just over two hours, with a crowd of strangers and did not touch each other – Ohh the restraint I hear you cry, how did you ever hold yourself back? I hear you ask.   Well to be fair it was actually a great movie, I thank the Gods of Chastity for making that film as interesting as it was.

So movie done and popcorn ingested, we head back to mine for a coffee…  Ok, who am I kidding, I don’t even drink coffee!  So movie done and popcorn ingested, we head back to mine to make out for a bit longer, and yay for me, that’s all it was, a bit of ‘heavy petting’ on the sofa and no funny business thank you very much!  I then sent him on his way and headed back home thoroughly horny and wound up tighter than an ADHD kid left in the pick n mix section of the cinema for two hours and then been told to sit quietly and watch a nice documentary on interior design in the 15th century.

Needless to say I’m a practical girl so I decided to take matters into my own hands.   I’m not adverse to doing a bit of DIY to release some of that pent up energy – In fact I’d go as far as to say that it’s good for the soul, and if you don’t do it well you’re either Cliff Richard or you’re in danger of self combusting one day, you have been warned.  And when I say DIY, no I’m not talking about putting up shelves at 1am in the morning.  Oddly enough – well not that oddly I suppose, Football guy had similar ideas to me, no sooner had I started to amuse myself than I get a text from him saying how much he’d enjoyed my company, to which I reply likewise, and faster than you can type ‘dirty texting’ and we’re full on ‘sexting’!  In fact at one point I paused so long between messages that he guessed before I even had time to tell him that my shelf was well and truly ‘nailed’ to the wall.

So it’s fair to say that there’s a bit of sexual chemistry between the two of us and we’re very comfortable around each other.  Thing is, I’m just not sure if there’s anything more sustainable between us.  There are already small alarm bells sounding that this guy is a bit of a player.  He’s good looking, he can unfasten a bra in under two seconds with one hand (OMG! I’m ashamed to admit this but that is sooo sexy!!! I’m not lying, his bra skills had me trembling!), and he kisses like a born again sinner!  None of which really shouts boyfriend material.  But for now I’m happy to keep the heavily steamed up rose tinted glasses on and hope that my instincts are wrong on this occasion.

In the meantime though, I have a new internet guy who’s been messaging me and wants to meet up.  He’s actually someone who I’ve been in contact with for a couple of weeks – the whole ‘guided communication’ thing does drag on and I have to admit, I can find the whole ‘choose three questions, then choose another dozen more, wait for answers, reply to his questions, send a list of deal breakers, then a list of deal makers, then some more frikkin questions and, ahh what the hell, tell us your whole life story why don’t you’ business a bit tedious at times.  But what can I say, some people feel more comfortable having conversation suggested to them to begin with.  We can’t all be socially adept and cunning linguists now can we?

Which reminds me of my first and I wish I could truthfully say, only (but I’d be lying) foray into the world of speed dating…

Yes I too have stooped that low, I too was that desperate being, out with another single and desperate female friend, defiantly declaring that we were “only going for a laugh” but secretly hoping against all discernible logic that we would meet our Prince Charmings across a sticky, drink-stained table.

Ahh how naïve we were, ahh how hideously drunk we had to make ourselves after the trauma we endured that is Speed Dating.  But oh, how we laughed… after the event was but a distant and slightly traumatic memory.

The event that we ended up choosing was at a pretty cool and rather kitch cocktail bar, one of those tiki bars where you buy drinks that fit inside treasure chests and cost the equivalent your average person’s monthly wage – before tax.  This particular event had the added exciting element of trying to find the person of the opposite sex who had the punchline to the joke that you were given upon entry to the venue.  Oh and there was also a photo wall where you could get your polaroid taken and people could leave ‘notes for you next to your picture.  All of course, ingenious devices to help aid the terminally socially inept to get over their nerves, and talk to someone of the opposite sex.  Or in our case, not being shy or retiring ladies in the least, enabling us to talk to as many random guys as is possible in one night.

Now granted there were guys there who, like us were more than capable in social settings, who were ‘there for a laugh’, so we figured the evening wasn’t going to be a total write-off.  And the cocktails were amazing!   I managed to strike up a bit of a rapport with one of the barmen, who kept me liberally hydrated with some wonderful concoction that was served in a cute miniature metal bucket (I think it only fair to state that had he not served me so many of said delicious beverages I would never have thought to take the bucket home with me as a lasting memento of the evening).

So on to the actual speed dating, and the point I was trying to get to in my usual meandering way.  It was at this point in the evening that it was further reinforced why speed dating still exists.  It is there to help those who cannot or do not know how to communicate with other human beings – or at least that was the case with the stream of men sent my way.  It was halfway sitting through another 3 minutes of excruciating awkwardness that I turned to my friend who was trying desperately not to laugh in the face of the poor man she was sitting opposite, that we began to suspect that perhaps our Prince Charmings had decided to give this particular social gathering a miss.

On the bright side we did actually get to talk to a couple of normal guys and I even exchanged numbers with one of them; but not before one final demonstration of why I’m never going to find my Prince at a speed dating event.  Whilst talking to one of the ‘normal’ guys my friend came over to me and tells me that one of the guys I’d spoken to during the speed dating section of the night really wants to talk to me…  Really??? A grown man (and this man was in his 40s) has to ask my friend if she can ask me if he can talk to me???  I felt like I was back at school, except with less spots and better heels.  I looked around, and there he was sheepishly waiting behind a pillar to see if I would accept his advances.  Now had this been some time in the 17th or possibly even 18th century, and I were dressed in an overly tight bodice, fluttering a fan in front of my face, whilst praying that my family doesn’t succumb to the dreaded pox, I may well have considered his gentile advances.  But this is the 20th century, and if you want to talk to me, well your best bet is to ask me in person.

So there you have it, the reason I don’t do speed dating.  The only other time I did go to one of these torturous events was when a friend begged me to go to a ‘comedy speed dating’ event held in the middle of the day.  Everyone was painfully sober and the comedians only felt slightly less uncomfortable than the audience of a dozen or so lonely strangers in the three quarters empty room.  In fact the only reason I even let myself be persuaded to go was because it was free and my friend had a crush on the compere/organizer of the event.  On the up side she ended up going home with him – so it wasn’t a complete loss for her at least.

09. A Tale of Two Dates

Well what a difference a week or two makes, I am now post-date two with PSB (Public School Boy) and my non-folliclly (no I’m not sure that’s a real word either) challenged Asian friend – let’s call him the budget version of hot terrorist due from Lost.  Okay that’s maybe a tad long winded so we’ll go for Hairy Lost dude instead.

This would also seem a fitting name not because he was or even looked like a suspected terrorist, more because he had an air of the hippy dippy surfer ‘dude’ about him – lots of bracelets, leather straps and beads.  We met at a tequila bar in town and I should have known that this was a bad omen from the start.  It’s a crowded noisy bar, all the shelves display row after row of every brand and oddly shaped bottle of tequila you might care to imagine, so of course you’re going to start on the hard liquor – I mean like when did I even have a choice??

The date itself started ok, I could see he was a bit nervous, perhaps the strong alcohol was to calm his nerves… Conversation was… stilted but not to the point of painful and I have to say his shoes were a vast improvement on PSB’s – not that much of a challenge in all honesty given the un-polished brown monstrosities PSB wore on the first date.  As clothing goes, my Hairy friend was dressed quite well in smart casuals, just rather a large amount of wrist accessories and big silver rings (including chunky skull rings); I suspect he was wearing more jewellery than I probably own!   I also realised that he had enough hair growing from his arms, chest and back (though this last one is only a strongly grounded suspicion) to stuff a three piece suite and possibly the mattress of a queen sized bed. Okay, okay I’ll be realistic – make that a double bed.  The sad thing was that the only place where his hair was actually starting to thin was on his head.  The poor guy had all these lovely long curly brown locks but sadly they were starting to look rather sparse.

When getting a drink, I decided to avoid the temptation of starting the date with a round of shots – after all he didn’t look that bad – and went with the slightly lesser evil of margaritas – of which he ordered a rather large pitcher.  Again I should have read the warning signs, including the alcohol percentage.  As the evening and the conversation rumbled on I soon realised that I was starting to feel the effect of half a jug of strong alcohol and decided that food was in order, but of course all they served was a small plate of tortilla chips which try as I might, did little to aid the soaking up of the aforementioned drinks and even less in the way of sobering me up.  What I will say though is it did make the date slightly less tedious.  The guy was just… dull.  I don’t mean to be mean but I have to be honest, if it weren’t for the copious amounts of alcohol that kept me giggling at inopportune moments, I would have had to splash some of the conveniently placed tabasco sauce (on the bar) directly into my eyeballs in order to stay awake.  I did actually consider this at one point but decided in the end that his company was marginally less painful, and besides I didn’t want to ruin my nice eye make-up.

So half an hour later (who am I kidding? I have no idea how much time had passed as by this point as we were now another jug and a half down and my time/space perception was starting to fail) and we are still sitting at the bar talking about god knows what.  I’m also starting to think of how I can fall off the extremely high stool I’m perched on in as ladylike a manner as possible.  It is then that I say something that is obviously very funny indeed (don’t ask – I have no idea of half of what I said that night) but Hairy Lost dude clearly thought it warranted a high-five, which was fine with me, I mean hey I’m clearly a funny lady after a quart of tequila.  The problem was he kept hold of my hand.  And not just for a few seconds too long… no, he held tightly onto it for a full fifteen awkward, sweaty-palmed minutes.  To make matters worse, he was resting his hairy mitt with my hand tightly clutched on my thigh.  Now as I’ve said before, perhaps I’m too nice, I know plenty of women who wold have removed his ill-placed hand speedily and with great force.  But no I just sat there smiling, trying to hide my discomfort and that “Can you just get your hairy, sweaty, overly accessorised hand off my damn leg NOW” look on my face, which admittedly I must have been succeeding at pretty well as he didn’t seem to notice how uncomfortable I was.

Eventually I was able to move the conversation into an area that required me to make exaggerated hand gestures that, with a little gentle force meant he finally emancipated my hand and leg.  Not long after this I suggested (I think at the same time he was about to suggest another jug of margaritas) that it was time to draw the date to an end as I had work in the morning after all.  He walked me to the station and of course went in for the snog, which thankfully I was just sober enough to dodge the full-frontal attack and managed to re-appropriate the kiss to my cheek.  I then made my rather merry way home and arrived at my door with a text from him exclaiming what a great evening he’d had, to which I duly replied with a thank you and an “it was nice meeting you” – dating speak “jog on luv”.  After all everyone knows what it means if it was merely nice to meet someone, you have a nice cup of tea, you have nice weather, someone’s new outfit that doesn’t look quite right is ‘nice’.  But a good date, if it’s truly good and if you actually want to see them again is never nice – it is always great or wonderful, at the very least it’s lovely and at its best awesome – though this is only admissible in the States – on this side of the pond it might just get that second date cancelled – unless he’s crazy into you too…

 

But on to better things… my second date with PSB… This was on a Sunday evening, not your usual date night granted, but what can I say? We’re clearly busy people who are in high demand.  This time we went to a nice little bar in town where I introduced him to a few choice rums (my drug of choice).  Conversation was flowing and we really seem to be clicking well, and his clothes choice was much improved – smart but casual jeans, a nice shirt, polished black shoes a smart shirt and clean shaven!  The man hath made an effort!  It almost made me wonder if he’d purposefully not made an effort the first time in case I wasn’t worth a second date – clearly he’d realised that he needed to step up his game, and booooy did he ever do that!!!

We moved on from the first bar to a very cool hotel bar that serve the most amazingly delicious cocktails in uber cool surroundings before heading to a trendy but less posh restaurant that serves only burgers or lobsters…  I decided to forego the plastic bib and risk lobster spatters rather than look like a small child or an adult with eating difficulties.  Instead I took the much more mature tack of picking up my lobster claws and posing with them for a cheesy photo opp – yup that’s me, the height of sophistication and elegance.  Clearly PSB was able to look past my appalling table manners and took me onwards to an even cooler secret cocktail bar where he warned me he’d never succeeded in gaining entry before.  I like to think that it was my company that got us in there, but in reality it could just as easily have been that on previous visits he was refused for wearing the hideous brown ‘shoes’ that he wore on the first date.

Two extremely overpriced drinks later (boy was I thankful I’d bought drinks at the first bar) and it was time to call it an evening, this time we had a proper kiss… and although there were no fireworks as such, I could feel the blue touch-paper being lit and the beginnings of a sizzle…

I have high hopes for date number three of which I will tell you more of in the next episode of my dating life 😉