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.


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


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?

23. Trench-Coats and Power Trips

Last time I left off I’d had my first date with our man in IT and was figuring to meet him again to see if we had anything more in common than a mutual love of sushi, sake and shitake mushrooms.  But in the meantime I was cooking up some equally delectable plans for my next liaison with Football Guy.  And so this ‘episode’ is dedicated to a most delicious evening of mild debauchery.

It all started with some light sexting, talking about the next time we were going to meet up and what I imagined doing to him.  And then inspiration hit, I knew exactly what I was going to do the next time I saw him!   A long time ago, when I was still with my ex but not living with him, I used to have to make an hour long train journey to get to his place.  One evening I decided that I’d give him a special surprise, I decided to turn up on his doorstep semi-naked.  Yep I traveled halfway across the city in nothing more than a bra, flimsy knickers, stockings, suspenders, heels, and of course the obligatory trench-coat!  He was as I’d anticipated completely shocked, slightly awed, and as excited as a kid on Christmas Day who’s just about to unwrap a large box that keeps making yapping noises and smells a bit of puppy poo.   Needless to say what followed was fast, no holds barred passionate sex in the hallway of his flat – thankfully he was living alone at the time.

So I decided to take a leaf out of that particular sex book and play dress-up or should I say ‘dress in as little as public decency will allow’.  I started off by laying the groundwork with ‘small’ hints to Football Guy that I might be wearing something a little special for him that evening.  I then gently enquired if he would mind being ever so slightly… restrained.  He seemed intrigued and quite amenable to the idea of getting a little ‘tied up’.  So with the prey well and truly bated, it was time to prepare myself.  I put on my much coveted Agent Provocateur peep bra and panties, along with black laced topped hold ups, 4 inch black patent heels and of course, the obligatory trench-coat.  In this case it was a very cute blue and white striped coat that flares out just after the waist, long enough to look like I could be wearing a short skirt underneath but short enough to imagine that I might not be.

I drove to the station to pick him up and just before getting there ensured that my coat was open just enough on one leg to see the smallest glimpse of stocking.  I pulled up at the station, he got in and I saw him glance at my legs straight away and clock the glimpse of stocking I’d shown as an invite.  I’ll give him credit, he did well to say nothing and we both pretended that nothing out of the ordinary was going on.  We talked about each others’ day, both aware of what was only just on the peripheral of his line of vision.  It was all I could do to concentrate on the road ahead as my mind started skipping on to what would happen next.  I will also admit to being extremely nervous; I know that guys generally like any kind of flimsy lingerie and I doubt there’s many would complain if their partner turned up semi-naked, but still it’s always a little nerve-wracking exposing yourself, to another – in both senses.

Thankfully the drive to my house is a short one and no major traffic incidents occurred on the way.  My God, to think, how would I explain that one to my mother if I’d had a crash and had to be cut out of my car, only for the ambulance man to find me semi-naked and begging them not to damage my rather expensive lingerie should it need to be removed in order to treat my injuries…. Oh dear, sorry just side-tracking into a very different fantasy there…

So ehhhem…. erm, where was I?  Oh yes, I was just about to pull up in front of my house.  My flat-mate had kindly vacated for the evening so I knew I had free rein to do as I pleased in any room (bar hers of course, eww… that would just be weird) I so choose to and with as loud a voice as I care to.  I apologise to my neighbours for all the noise they have to endure whole-heartedly here, as I’m too embarrassed to do so in person.  We walked into the house, closed the door and asked him, “So, are you curious to know what I’ve got on under this coat?”  “Hell yeah!” he replies.  To which I reply by unfastening my coat and letting it drop to the floor – along with his jaw and his tongue.  Stage one accomplished and already I am a happy lady!

With my newly found confidence I let him take in the sight of me, standing in almost plain view of the front door (Thank God for distorted glass!), in black lacey bra and panties and high heels.  I then look him dead in the eye and ask salaciously “So where do you want to fuck me first?”  Oh the look of shock on his face as he tried to get his brain to engage his mouth and formulate any words beyond ‘yes please!’  After a moment he was able to collect himself long enough to splutter “Where would you like?”… clearly any type of decision-making processes were quite beyond him at this moment in time and I will admit I was relishing the feeling of control and dominance.  I looked over my shoulder, considered for a few seconds and turned to face him again “I think we’ll start in the kitchen”

Oh My God! Wow! The whole power thing, coupled with seeing our reflection in the kitchen window.  Knowing that although we’re not in anyone’s direct line of vision, all it would take is for someone to pass by the back yard and they would see me perched on the edge of the counter with Football Guy screwing me as if his life depended on it.  After trying out the kitchen counter (note to flat-mate if she sees this, yes I thoroughly cleaned the surfaces afterwards), we migrated into the sitting room to try out a few other positions before finally collapsing into a sweaty but sated heap.

A couple of hours later I am fully dressed in a simple fitted wrap dress, and we’ve refueled and recuperated our spent energy.  We relax and chat casually about this and that, but with the difference that this time we’re actually listening to what the other person is saying rather than what one of us might or might not be wearing.  Football Guy eventually glances at his watch and says that he may have to go in the next hour or so.  In that case I tell him, we’d best go upstairs as I have more plans in store for him there!

Now this is the part where I’ll admit I was extremely nervous, conversely this was also the part where I really let my more dominant side come out.  I was scared shitless of looking like an idiot and failing to come across as the depraved sex vixen I was trying to portray, and looking more like a clumsy, uncoordinated fool playing dress-up.  The truth of the matter is, for me to do any of this I have to be really comfortable with the person I’m ‘playing with’, and because it normally takes me a damn long time to trust someone that much, I don’t get to play like this very often at all – hence the nervous clumsiness – I did actually almost fall over at one point.

Now to set the scene I should give you a little geography of my room, I have a large king-size bed centered at one end of the room, with a handy headboard that has allowance for one to be tied to it by the wrists if one wishes to.  My wardrobe is one of those large ones that covers the whole back wall and has a very large mirror on one sliding door, that rather handily is directly opposite my bed – a detail that I have to admit has been of great benefit on more than one occasion, and not just for checking out my hair… I have a vanity table and chair on another side of the room where I can do that from.

But back to the main event – I lead Football Guy up the stairs and into my bedroom.  Straight away he spots the two silk scarves placed on the bed, raises an eyebrow and smiles knowingly looking across at the headboard.  Nope I say and move the chair from the table to the end of my bed, directly facing the large mirror.  Ohhhh really? He says and I can see his interest is further piqued.  I instruct him to undress down to his pants, blindfold him with one scarf and tie his wrists behind the back of the chair with the other.  To my great relief he’s immediately turned on and even laughs at the realization of why I had a hefty swig of rum before taking him upstairs… Dutch courage!

I put on some music to further relax me and start teasing him, brushing past him lightly, running my fingers up his thighs and then my tongue.  After playing around like this for a while, I take my dress off and take his blindfold off so he gets to see what I’m doing to him; both directly in front of him and of course the reflection in the mirror.  Once I have gotten him sufficiently wound up, and consequently myself (I get immensely horny by turning on the person I’m with), I take my panties off and straddle him on the chair.

Oh. My. God!!! What followed was perhaps the most earth-shatteringly, eardrum piercingly turn your legs to jelly, sex had in recorded history!  And I’m even exaggerating that much.  It was truly amazing!

At one point his hands came loose – clearly I did not get awarded a badge for knot-tying when I was in the Girl Guides – and he did something that was such a small movement, almost insignificant, but it almost made me implode with pleasure… All he did was grab my ass and tilt my hips in towards him, but this tiny movement had me seeing stars and made my ears pop (weird thing but occasionally, if I’m having really great sex, my ears literally pop and my teeth feel all vibratey).

After that he wasn’t going anywhere… to be honest I think we were both too exhausted to move any further than the chair to the bed! He ended up staying overnight, which I know is breaking one of the cardinal rules if you’re keeping things casual, but I’m using the excuse that it was for our own safety – I could not have operated any heavy machinery e.g. a car after a session like that!

So there you have it – I’ve still not managed my fantasy of doing a striptease or a pole dance for a guy, but I do feel one step closer to having the confidence to do so.  And who knows… if he plays his cards right, Football Guy could be the lucky recipient.

Hmm, I think I’m gonna need a bigger shot of rum for that one…

20. Playing With Balls

Ok so the waiting over, let me tell you what happened next with Football Guy.  Last time I left off I had a decision to make, whether to give it a chance and see if something more concrete could come of what really amounts to an explosive level of sexual chemistry – about 147 times stronger than Chernobyl and ever so slightly less damaging to my general health.  Well it doesn’t take a genius to guess that my loins got the better of me and I decided to give it a shot.  But not before I’d set some important ground rules.  I told Football Guy that I wanted to go out, on dates, real dates.  Not just he comes round to mine, we chill and then we screw, I wanted us to get to know each other and that would involve leaving the house and meeting in public.  Yaay! Way to go me… for asking for the bare minimum I know, I’m not proud of myself, but what can I say? I’m fallible or is that I fall for bull…

On the basis of this new ground rule we set a date, we decided to o play pool, I actually really enjoy pool – as I’m always proud to proclaim, my skills range from moments of astounding fluke-ish brilliance to hour upon hour of beyond mediocre, tipping dangerously close to well below sub-standard one armed and partially sighted play – but I do enjoy it.  Plus the dating benefits are two-fold.

One, you get to see how competitive a guy is, whether he hates loosing and therefore doesn’t give you a chance at any shots (this is of course presupposing he can play to any kind of level too).  I’ve been out with guys where I’ve played a Tom Cruise in the “Color of Money” hustler-esque game (well it was the one time really but it felt damn good), the date I was with was shocked admittedly but totally cool with getting his ass summarily whupped three times in a row (he actually thought I was hustling him and I’ve never played him again for fear of breaking this illusion).  I’ve also been on dates where the guy has whupped my ass but at the same time they’ve ‘messed up’ a few shots to make me feel better about losing.  And I’ve played games where the guy has just wiped the floor, cleared the table and shouted in jubilation at beating me and winning yet again.

The second benefit of pool dates… surely it’s obvious… is all the opportunities to bend over the table in overly tight jeans.  Hell yeah I do that! I don’t have much to distract a guy with at the front, but I can certainly use my other ass-ets to great advantage.  Yeah sorry about the pun, I just couldn’t resist – yes we really have sunk to a new humor low.  Anyway, I decided that yes I was going to use all my womanly wiles on Football Guy at a local pool hall.

If you’ve never been to one before, let me explain… these places are always interesting venues to venture into as a woman.  The first time for me was with a boyfriend at Uni, it was back when smoking indoors was still allowed (yes I know I’m showing my age).  We were actually going to play snooker, or rather he was playing snooker and I was trying to knock a white ball into some other different coloured balls around what seemed like a gigantic raised felt covered football pitch.  It was around 2am, and became surprisingly busy as the hours passed; filled with smoke, a scattering of older working men and a lot of dodgy looking young local blokes who glared or leered at me aggressively over their flat pints of lager.   I was pretty much the only woman there – the only other one being a rather haggered looking older woman with over-bleached hair, standing behind the bar with a fag hanging precariously atop a resentfully curled scarlet red lip – to be honest I’d be scowling if life had brought me to this point too.  Anyway the point is these venues are not often frequented by women, and in some ways this can add to the charm… okay I’m stretching it a bit and thankfully pool and snooker halls across the nation are generally not as unpleasant as they were back then.  For one thing you can’t smoke in them anymore, which means that they smell slightly better (a mixture of spilt beer, BO and disappointment) and you can actually see the balls on the table rather than squinting through a smoky, carcinogenic haze.

Anyway back to the matter in hand, I was coming straight from work and had decided that to up the ante I would dress corporate.  Not so strange given that I work in the City, slightly more strange given that it was ‘dress down Friday’ but he didn’t know that.  I wore a blue pinstripe shirt with white collar, black pencil skirt, black patent heels, and of course every woman’s favourite – black hold-ups.  Ohh yes I knew what I was doing alright, I’d already checked that when walking or standing, there was nothing to see; but every now and then, if I needed to lean across the table just a little more to get that difficult shot – which of course I missed (I told you I’m crap at pool), just the merest hint of the top of my hold-ups would show.

The thing is, at the time I wasn’t really sure how successful my ploy was.  Sure every now and then I caught him giving me a furtive glance as I gracefully bent over and looked purposefully down the cue at the next shot I was about to miss.  But at the same time he seemed quite distracted, and not by me… He kept checking his phone, texting and disappearing off to the bar or the bathroom. And when I asked him (whilst trying desperately not to sound like a paranoid and attention demanding princess) why he was on the phone so much, he said it was because he was checking the scores of a big football match that was on which he’d sacrificed watching to spend time with me… Hmmmm.

Four games on and I was beginning to get hungry so I suggested we get something to eat.  There was a Nandos just round the corner and we headed there.  Time for the next alarm bell to ring… Now this may not seem like a big deal, but given his ADHD-like inability to stop looking at his phone all night, I felt my female spidey-senses tingle when he guided us to a table at the very back of the large and not particularly busy restaurant. But hey, you might think, what if he was guiding you to a secluded table because he was so excited by your provocative pool-play earlier?  Perhaps he was thinking of some under the table play of his own?  Nope, Nada, N-O-Thing at all!  He just continued checking the football scores and acting like he would rather be anywhere else but there.  It all just got me feeling like he just didn’t want to be spotted with by anyone he knew.

Alright so I should explain, I’ve been cheated on in the past, by someone I really trusted and loved for a long time.  So I’m aware I have trust issues, and perhaps because of this I tend to overcompensate and assume that my paranoia may be just that, the ghost of relationships past.  And in an effort to overcome this I do try and balance out what my woman spidey senses tell me and give each person the benefit of the doubt (though to be honest if I’d listened to them in that past relationship the first time I might not have stayed in it so damn long).  I decided to give him the benefit, but I also decided that I had to nip this behaviour in the bud early on and to overcome years of keeping my mouth shut and just accepting crap for fear of rejection by saying what I actually felt – minus the paranoia.  We got back to mine, and in a non shouty, non-confrontational way I made it clear that I’d found his behaviour pretty inconsiderate.  When I was out I wanted his full attention, well certainly more than the paltry 65 percent I felt I was getting.

I felt like a changed woman, empowered and strong for speaking my mind – I know it’s not a monumental thing, but for me it was big.  It signaled the arrival of a new more assertive me; a me that’s aware that I deserve better and more!

Now admittedly the new, improved strong assertive me really ought to have told Football Guy to sling his hook, but the hormones in me were flying again and the new strength I’d found meant I was horny as the French section of a brass band playing on Viagra.  So I succame, is that even a word? Perhaps not, but I like it and it’s rather fitting, as there was a lot of that going on too.  I found out that my outfit had actually had the desired effect after all and was put to further great and imaginative use – yes I kept both the heels and the hold-ups on, I told you I know what I’m doing.

So I’ve thrown myself into the pit, I’ve flagrantly ignored the warning signs and I may well have to pay the price at some point, but not right now and boy does it feel good right now.

But then again does it really?  I’m left with a feeling that this Football Guy is playing me like Ronaldo, or some other overpaid football player with fancy footwork that dazzles and distracts you so much so that you actually applaud when they sweep the ball away from your momentary possession.  That rather than feeling robbed of the ball as you have been, you feel like you’ve just been witness to a talent far greater than your own, and on some level you’ve got to respect that.

And this worries me, I have a strong sense that I’m willfully pulling the wool over my own eyes and setting myself up for a fall – perhaps I need to reconsider my position again, and I don’t mean how far forward I bend over a pool table in hold-ups and heels.

19. Football Guy and The Importance of Wearing The Correct Strip

Well I know quite a few of you have been eagerly awaiting an update on Football Guy, so here goes…

The conversations with Football Guy (the young Larry Fishbourne lookey-likey I met at the ice rink) have been getting more and more flirtatious, nothing too outrageous really but I suspect things are about to step up a gear as I invite him for dinner at mine.  Firstly there’s the consideration of what to cook…. I don’t want to get too fancy by showing off my culinary skills with some fancy-pants duck confit (besides I’ve never cooked that in my life) so I decide to cook good hearty “Man Food”  – Chilli con Carne instead – without the beans mind you.  Much as I love chilli made with kidney beans I’m not prepared to deal with the embarrassing digestive after-effects, hardly conducive to setting a romantic  or seductive ambience.

I spend the day cleaning the house, ensuring my flatmate is out for the night and that my legs are as smooth as a newborn with alopecia.  The evening arrives, my house has never looked so clean and my legs, my legs are so silky smooth that they could talk a man into bed faster than Justin Timberlake could serenade a girl out of her panties!  But of course, I’m making no assumptions on how the evening will progress…. (yeah right!)  But it always pays to be prepared, and I say this from experience.  Years ago I was dating a guy who I was yet to get to know “intimately”.  I was extremely keen but didn’t want to jump into bed too soon, so I took the precaution on our next date of not shaving my legs and wearing probably the least sexually appealing lingerie I owned (you know the ones you save for weekends at home where you’re pretty sure you’re not going to leave your bed let alone your room. – These ones were so unflattering I don’t think you could even use the word Lingerie in the same sentence, even M&S circa 1990 would be insulted.  But testament to my overactive young libido and that of the young man who was trying to get me out of said undergarments, we didn’t let the matter of my hideous underwear, and legs you could sand concrete with get in the way of proceedings.  No, far from it!  It just meant that I spent an inordinate part of the evening’s foreplay apologising for my unappealing underwear (all the more reason to hastily remove it) and for the minor flesh wounds my unshaven legs must have inflicted on him.

His revenge in turn was swift and to the point – we’d been out for one of those ‘wonderful’ Chinese eat all you can buffet meals (yes I was used to the finer things in my formative dating years too) earlier that evening, and in the throes of passion he both belched in my face and broke wind simultaneously – and yes it was at the worst point in proceedings you can imagine.  To make matters worse, after falling asleep in post-coital bliss, I awoke after a rather traumatic dream of being at sea, to find that he had dribbled in his sleep, directly into my shell-like ear.  Now you may think, where the hell do you go from there??? Well I can tell you, straight into a long and passionate relationship of course!  I figured it couldn’t get much worse than that, surely with all those illusions broken so early on things could only get better, and to be fair it did.  He learned to sleep with his head well away from mine and I went and got myself some new underwear.  But all good things come to an end and I learned a valuable lesson… no matter what, always be prepared, and remember, there’s no shame or embarrassment great enough to stop me from getting my freak on if I’m in the mood.

But back to the matter in hand.  My house was ready, my legs were ready and I was suitably made up and attired to look like minimal effort had gone into my preparation.  Of course the truth of the matter was several hours of preparation and debate over what to wear – in this case tight jeans and a fitted top… and decent underwear of course.  I picked Football Guy up and took him back to mine where we were greeted by the delicious aroma of home cooked “Man Food”.  We eat, we make conversation, we move to the sitting room and spend an hour or so looking at music videos on youtube in a game of one-upmanship as to who can find the coolest video.  We veer from old school R&B, Hip-Hop into contemporary with a few random tunes thrown in the mix to try and be clever – Ok I admit, it was me trying to be clever and show off my music knowledge, but I’ll also admit I eventually lost the music battle.

Food digested (without any embarrassment) and time killed sufficiently so that it didn’t look too obvious that all either of us really wanted to do was, in the immortal words of that wiser than their years warrants duo, Rizzle Kicks, to “skip to the good bit”.

And ooooh boy… Was it ever the good bit!!!  The man has such amazing bedroom skills that it pretty much confirms that he has to be bad news – no-one gets that good without a fair bit of practice. His protestations that he’s really a shy boy who struggles with women falls on deaf ears.  Now I’ll confess it wasn’t the adventuresome sex marathon of Pubic School Boy, but sometimes good old vanilla can hit the mark even better than the most convoluted ice cream flavours with extra toppings.  I start to wonder if I’ve hit the jackpot, could this be something? We definitely have chemistry, we get along well – granted we don’t have the most stimulating of conversations but we do have a laugh.

Sadly though my post-coital glow and overly optimistic conjecture is rudely interrupted as a short while after (my pride says an hour but the reality is closer to 20 minutes at a push), Football Guy says he has to go home as he doesn’t have his contact lens case with him… Hmm, I begin to suspect that what seemed too good to be true is exactly that, too good to be true.  I drop him off, return home and although I’m left satisfied on one level I’m also left feeling slightly empty and possibly even duped on another.

A few day later and we are talking on the phone, we’d already had some conversations about what we’re both looking for.  I’ve been straight up about not wanting just a casual fling and he’s said he’s not really looking for a relationship per se.  It’s a difficult conundrum we face, and a lot of the issues around this come down to the way men and women communicate what they want from each other.  As a woman we often say we’re looking for a relationship, and in one sense we really are.  But that doesn’t mean we want to skip getting to know someone to see if they’re right for us.  When we say we want a relationship it means we don’t want meaningless sex that’s guaranteed to lead no-where.  We certainly don’t want to jump into a full blown committed relationship from day one either, we want to see where things go knowing we’re not heading down a dead-end street.  The problem is when a guy says he isn’t looking for a relationship per se, it doesn’t instil much confidence for the woman concerned.  Now some men I’m sure mean what they say, they’re not looking but at the same time they’re not going to turn down a relationship if it ends up heading that way.  On the other side of the coin though there are guys who are not looking, really don’t want anything more, and will run several hundred miles as soon as it looks like the woman concerned has even the vaguest interest in anything more than what is in his trousers.

But how do we work out which is which? Well if I had the answer to that, I’d have a billion copy selling book and all the bad boys would have a contract out on me for spoiling their fun.  Ok ok, I will concede there are times when all we want is no strings fun and when the two needs coincide it can be a beautiful thing indeed.  In this case though, I’m not so sure.  We end up having a far too deep and meaningful conversation at such an early stage, where he confirms that he’s not looking for anything serious and I say I don’t do casual flings.  It would seem we are at an impasse already.  I ask if he is adamant that he wants nothing other than casual fun and explain that although I can start casual I can’t start something knowing that there is absolutely no chance of anything more coming of it.  To be honest I shouldn’t be surprised, I’m ten years older and he’s got a long way before he’s going to be ready to commit to anything more meaningful than a 12 month mobile phone contract.

So the conclusion to this discussion is that he’s not totally discounting the possibility of something more coming of this but there are no guarantees of that happening either.  I tell him I need to think about whether I can accept that or not and that I’ll get back to him.  Ok I know I’m probably on a hiding to nothing here but damn that ‘ice cream’ was good!

What this does mean though for sure is that I’m still keeping my options open and certainly not putting all my dating eggs in one metaphorical basket.  I go back to the old faithful list of online profiles and find that I have an email from a new prospective guy.  This one is in his thirties, looks more like Mr Reliable than Mr You Can Rely On Him For One Thing And One Thing Only; and as he’s from the website, I can only presume (make that hope) that he’s interested in something more than just the obvious.  It’s early stages with him though so I’ve still some time to make up my mind about Football Guy and that potential minefield.

11. Public School Boys and Hobbits

Public School Boy got in touch whilst still away and asked me if I had planned our next date for his return. An ever-so subtle way of saying “it’s your turn luv” I suspect. Well I would have jumped at the challenge had I not injured myself trying to impress him with my amazing rock climbing skills. But instead, limping as I am I more accurately rose gracefully to the challenge and yeah, I think I did pretty damn good thank you very much.

Now amongst the challenges he left me last week was the really tough one of buying some spectacular underwear and I decided to throw myself into this one wholeheartedly. There’s a certain brand of lingerie I have always wanted to own, and for some reason I always had the fantasy that one day a man would purchase this expensive brand for me, much like I’ve been waiting most of my life for a guy to tame me away for a romantic weekend in Paris (I fully intend to go there this year whether alone or with a friend I WILL get there!). Well that clearly hasn’t happened yet so instead of waiting for a guy to do so I decided to do as PSB suggests and spend an inordinate amount of my own money on a flimsy bra and panties from Agent Provocateur. Both items came in just shy of £100.00 each and are ridiculously lacy and suitably flimsy. The bra is gorgeous – it has a lace section that can be raised so that you can flash a little more than your cleavage if you so wish. The panties that went with the bra, well they don’t exactly match, but the pair that went with the set are not so much crotch-less as back-bottom-less. Now that may be all well and good for those who like a bit of bum fun but for me, at this early stage in the game? No way!!! So I go home quite happy and excited with my beautifully packaged new lingerie set and work out the rest of my outfit for this momentous occasion.

My friend says that it’s never good to go out knowing that sex is a foregone conclusion and I try to tell him that it isn’t completely set in stone. But if I’m honest, well PSB would have to mess up in a very seriously big way for him not to score tonight! I’ve meticulously planned out the night with three locations on the agenda. At each place I intend to reveal one of the tasks that I have completed until we get to the last place where I’m hoping he’ll be so impressed with the first two tasks that he’ll forget about the lack of a third task being completed (and hopefully just drunk and horny enough not to care).

Venue One is a very cool cocktail bar with kooky deco and furniture and luckily just the one table free. Here I tell him of my rock climbing injuries which helps explain my slow limping walk from the station to the bar. He’s suitably impressed and in return gives me a belated birthday gift of a bottle of champagne (it was my birthday whilst he was away) and this suitably impresses me!

The next venue is a beautiful but cool restaurant with chandeliers and candles all done in an ‘ironic’ but still allowably romantic without being too cheesy or clichéd way. We have a delicious meal during which I reveal my hairless and slightly singed arms along with describing my newly acquired ability to eat fire (without revealing how it’s done I hasten to add). He is extremely impressed with this and slightly in awe of me – just how I like my men to be… It’s strange, well not that strange I guess, but I am always surprised at how easily impressed men are by anything that involves a woman’s mouth. It always seems to connect back to fantasies of us being supremely talented in other oral pastimes. I mean seriously… now I get the whole thing of tying a knot in a cherry stalk in your mouth (incidentally I am quite proud to say I can do this particular party trick too) – but basically all it means is that I have a strong tongue and possibly too much time on my hands. But ok I will concede that it does suggest this particular ability would be handy in the bedroom. But fire eating?? All it says to me is that I’m stupid enough to put something long, hot and burny in my mouth with little or no consideration for my own safe.… ohhhhh ok now I get it…

So he’s all impressed with me and I’m getting increasingly tipsy and I’ll admit a fair way towards horny myself (hope I’m not peaking too early- the window of time between my being drunk and horny to drunk and asleep is a very small window indeed, rather like the window on a doll’s house, pretty tiny and doesn’t even open) – well it has been seven long dry months – of my own choosing I’ll admit, but this doesn’t change the fact that I’m now feeling as frisky as a Jack Russell on Viagra eying up a vicar’s trouser leg.

It’s a very true truism (hence the word) but as a woman it doesn’t take much to get laid if one really wants to. Any woman can get sex should she choose to, it just depends on how desperate you are and how low you’re prepared to let your standards slip. Hell, you can see it in any bar or club, in any country or state. You see a room full of guys all circling the same set of women at the end of the night, trying to figure out if any of them are drunk enough to give them half a chance, and if not drunk enough, whether their self-esteem is low enough to allow a small opening for these guys to small talk their way into their pants. The point is, generally speaking it’s the women that call the shots on this. In fact a friend of mine recently told me about a study where they took a man and a woman to ask 100 different people of the opposite sex if they would like to have sex with them. Complete strangers, no preliminary chat up just “would you like to have sex with me?” and you know what the results were? Well unsurprisingly all the women asked said no, and the men…. Pretty much every single one of them said yes, some asked if the woman offering sex was crazy, but they still said yes!

Anyway back to the main event…
So we finish dinner and head off to the last venue, another achingly hip cocktail bar that specializes in extremely potent cocktails in funny novelty cups. There’s a DJ playing and the music is actually pretty cool as is the crowd inside so I’m quite proud of myself and hope that some of the coolness rubs off onto me by association. It’s pretty packed and we’re forced to hold each other tightly just to avoid standing on top of the person next to us. Now I will admit that before getting there we did make a detour to the top floor in the restaurant, which as chance would have it was totally empty and darkly lit with candles – what were the odds??? We had a bit of a snog and a minor grope (ok we checked out each other’s butts, pretty tame stuff really) for a few minutes before being discovered by a waiter and leaving feeling like two kids caught necking behind the bike sheds at school (not that this ever happened to me, I did get locked in a cupboard with a boy at school once but nothing happened – much to my great and bitter disappointment).

It is in the uber cool cocktail bar where I tell him that I failed to do any further tasks due to my earlier injury and much to my joy he is too drunk, in awe from the fire-eating, and horny to care. Job well and truly done!!!  We managed all of about the time it takes to gulp down an extremely strong cocktail and to smooch in an extremely inappropriate manner to realize that perhaps we had better take this evening to somewhere a little more secluded. Luckily I’d planned the whole evening in an area that is only a short taxi ride home back to mine… ok, like I said it was already a foregone conclusion.
What followed was the world’s slowest taxi ride in creation, and this was not just because we were both quite drunk and extremely eager to reconvene to a more comfortable location (without the spectator sitting in the front of the car trying to get us there).  I’m not sure whether the poor taxi driver was enjoying the spectacle of two adults necking on like undersexed teenagers dry humping at the back of the school bus, or if he was just worried about the upholstery of his recently valeted car but he did look rather uncomfortable at times. But either way we didn’t really let him hinder our efforts. I will say though that after the first 30 minutes of sitting in heavy traffic and watching the fare multiply to quadruple the normal charge, I was beginning to lose the ‘heat’ in the moment. But finally we did reach home and what followed was to all intents and purposes a very satisfying evening indeed. In fact I would go as far as to say it was the perfect end to an almost perfect (taxi ride) evening, with only one other issue.

Now I’m not a perfectionist (okay well maybe I am sometimes) and yes I’ll admit that of recent I have been fortuitous with the caliber of men I have had occasion to share my bed with (this is what happens when you tend to hang out at gyms and work out a lot). In terms of his body, PSB was relatively normal, fit but not toned, solid but with only a slight softness around the middle, but then I saw his feet……

Oh My Dear God! Never in my life have I beheld such monstrous feet on a man! Now I know feet are not the most attractive of appendages at the best of times but these feet??? Okay, I had seen feet like this once before, it was a few years back.. a new film had come out, it was a fantasy fiction film about a group of vertically challenged men – let’s call them a fellowship. This fellowship of brave, young men are on a mission, one of grave importance that revolves around the transportation and destruction of a rather special ring… Yes my lovely, charming, Public School Boy has Hobbit Feet! Even worse than that, he has cankles (if you’re not sure what a cankle is just pop it into google images and get ready to gag)! The only slight consolation is that they are not hairy like the real Frodo’s feet.

Now I’m a realist, I know feet are not the be all and end all, I can look away, and let’s face it when the two of you are romping away in the throes of passion there are (thankfully) not too many opportunities where your partner’s feet are in your direct line of vision. All it does mean is we may have to rule out any French numerical positions, and him standing up and taking me from behind is a definite no-no for now (in case I look down), at least until I can get over the initial revulsion/shock. But all I could think of at that first glance was “Oh My God! My children will have deformed feet! Yes I know that it’s probably a bit early to be practicing my new signature and all but seriously, I was quite shaken. Anyway I shook these thoughts out of my head, made sure his feet were obscured from my line of sight and ploughed on – actually he did most of the ploughing, but you get the jist (apologies for the cheesy joke by the way, I just couldn’t help myself).

Having said all this though and in the cold light of day, if all that is wrong with him is that he had the misfortune to be born with hairless hobbit feet and calves that totally bypass the ankle and proceed straight into footage, well that’s not really that big a deal is it? So our children will have to get ugly shoes from the special ugly fat feet shop, and will be ridiculed daily by mean children calling them Frodo Feet, that’s okay, it’s character forming. And to be honest I can live with that.

The big question now is what happens next? Yes it’s that awkward “how will they be with me now that we’ve had sex?” period, the one where we wait for what seems like an eternity to see if they will contact us or just cut and run…

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 😉