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

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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

39. Mr Big

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

36. They Think it’s All Over…

So last time I left off I’d strangely agreed to a third date with my Palestinian Premiership Guy.   And I’ll explain why now… although the second date had not been a raging success and conversation had been far from scintillating; it had gone well on the first date so I thought it only fair to give it another shot.

To be honest sometimes I fear that I don’t give the guys I meet enough opportunity to win me over or vice-versa even.  The problem is when you’re looking for love, who knows how long you give someone before deciding whether there’s something there or not?  Now granted sometimes you just have to see them enter a room and you know it’s never gonna happen, like when they’re rude and obnoxious from the start, have poor personal hygene, or just don’t look a thing like their profile.  But what about those other times, when they look ok, the conversation is fine but there’s no immediate spark?

Now in the course of meeting someone in the usual manner – through friends, work or going to the same activity or bar – you can get to know someone gradually.  You may not dirty-dancingfancy them, in fact you may not even view them as a prospective lover at all.  But time and circumstance allow feelings to grow and you eventually end up fancying the arse off them and imagining doing the horizontal salsa/bogle/conga-line (in fact just insert whatever dirty dancing you want here) with them whenever they glance your way.

I know this happens, I’ve even seen it happen in real life, but the thing is when you’re dating online, time just doesn’t allow.  The circumstances within which you meet are always artificial, you’re meeting with the sole purpose of interviewing for the prospective role of shag partner, life partner, or partner for the time being until something better comes along.  And for that reason you can’t afford the luxury of hanging out for the next few months just to see if you might end up crushing on them eventually.

So on that basis, I decided to work on a three date rule, if I was undecided after two dates 3rd Date Rulebut could see some vague possibility of fancying them, they get one more throw of the dice.  For Premiership Guy’s third attempt we decided to go to the park again but this time it was during the day and we organised a picnic, followed by the cinema.

It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining and he was looking good in a tight t-shirt again – I’ll give him this much, he knows how to work with his assets!  We chatted a bit about what we’d been up to since we last met, ate a bit and then lay down to enjoy the sun.  It was all very chilled like last time, and again just like last time, the conversation was flowing as sluggishly as the blood-flow of a clinically obese man having a nap after eating three burgers, five servings of fries and a gallon of strawberry thick-shake – on sedatives.

Having talked ourselves dry yet again within half an hour of meeting, he proceeded to try and get off with me in the middle of the park.  Now I’m no prude – I’ll even admit to having had al-fresco sex on a common, in the long grass in the middle of the day.  Slightly embarrassingly a dog walker came by at a rather inopportune moment, but being the troopers that we were (overly horny and young), we soldiered on.  But when it came to Premiership Guy in a very public park with no long grass in view… well let’s just say I’m not as young, and I wasn’t as horny for him at least.

The other problem was I was getting distracted by all the other hot guys in the park – not a good sign when you’re on a date.  Eventually when it was looking like I was about to doze off – which he didn’t seem at all perturbed by (in fact he took it as an indication of how comfortable I was around him rather than how mind-numbingly bored I was), we decided to head to the cinema.

I chose a comedy rather than anything too romantic or heavy, I’m not a fan of rom-coms and as much as I do enjoy a good drama, I felt like we needed to lighten the mood.   He did the gentlemanly thing and bought the tickets and I bought the snacks and proceeded to our seats.

The film was hilarious! I couldn’t stop laughing the whole way through, so much so that my sides were hurting from laughing so much.  The only thing was, every time I looked over at Premiership Guy he was barely even cracking a smile!  Now admittedly some of the humour was a bit crass in places, but still… not even a smirk or a slight giggle???

For me this was the definite final whistle.

If I can’t converse easily with a guy, the kiss feels passionless and we don’t even have theMichelangelo's David same sense of humour in the slightest? Well it’s a no–go for me, even if the guy does have the most beautiful green eyes in the world and a chiselled physique that would make Michelangelo blush.

So sadly I’ve called it a day with Premiership Guy, but it wasn’t for want of trying.

What’s next?  I hear you cry…

Well there are two more contenders – A primary school teacher, and a stockbroker… you couldn’t get much more polarised opposites if you tried!

I’ll tell you more 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 😉

33. Notes from Abroad

It’s been a while since I updated – a combination of reasons, mostly being made up of being sick, work taking over my life, and a two week holiday in Indonesia. Given it’s been a long break I’ve decided to do something a little different on this post. Instead of updating you on the dating project I thought I’d talk about a subject I was talking about whilst on holiday – sex tourism.

Now I’m not professing to be an expert on sex or tourism for that matter, but my holiday did get me thinking about how sex tourism is perceived differently for and by men and women. Whilst in Indonesia, I was lucky enough to be invited to a wedding of an English guy to an Indonesian woman. They’d been dating for several years and were finally getting married in Bandung, a city about two hours’ drive from the smog and congestion of Jakarta. They were totally in love and had a wonderful traditional ceremony – the groom even wrote and sang a song – yes of course I balled like the big romantic sop I am.

Heck I cried during the ceremony and I’d only met them two days before – I blame this on my age, it’s a well-known fact that as we get older, women weep earlier and earlier in the matrimonial proceedings. I figure in the next couple of years I’ll be crying when I get the invite!

Mixed relationships between Indonesian women and western men of any other race are not that unusual especially amongst the ex pat community – in fact it’s more of an anomaly if you’re a western man and not in a mixed race relationship. I specify men, as to be honest I saw so few foreign women out there and of those I did see in the cities, none appeared to be with Indonesian men.

It made me think about how mixed relationships in South East Asia are more common between male foreigners and females from the country in question. I sometimes wonder if this is partly due to gender roles being more clearly defined in South East Asia and Eastern Europe for that matter. It’s discussion I’ve had with my Romanian friend a few times, and one I’ll come back to in another post.

A couple of days after the ceremony, a few of us went to Bali where the Bride and Groom continued their week long celebrations. One night we were all chatting at a bar when the bride told me about the last time they’d been to Bali about a year before. She’d been sitting at a bar when her husband to be went to the bathroom. A “Bule” (foreigner) then came up to her and started chatting to her. After a short while he asked her

“How much?”

“How much for what, a drink?” she asked.

“Well if you’re doing what I think you’re doing, I’m asking how much for sex?”

The short version of what happened next is she told him not so politely to go have sex with himself and her boyfriend came back and punched him in the face.

We talked about this for a while and as we looked around the bars in the area you could see why the guy had jumped to the wrong conclusion – not about her of course. But there were a lot of couples that looked like they were more transactional than conventional holiday flings. It’s a fact in lots of countries relying on tourism for a large part of their economy, that sex can become just one more commodity along with the tours and souvenir shops. And it’s not just the men who are looking for a little something extra.

A day into my stay in Bali and a very good looking Balinese guy offered me his “services” for the duration of my trip. I politely declined after several appeals promising me that he was “small and hot as a chilli padi” (that’s a birdseye chilli by the way)… Things may be desperate at times but I’m not quite there yet. But it did get me thinking about the women who do go down this route.

It’s not the first time I’ve been propositioned like this either (do I reek of desperation without meaning to???), it happened several years ago when I was on holiday in Jamaica. I’d barely left the airport before a guy asked if I wanted a boyfriend for the week. In Jamaica these guys are known as “rent-a-dredds” and for the rest of the trip I saw plenty of “couples” where it looked suspiciously like the guy was being paid by the hour. I’ve also heard Turkey is well known for temporary transactional relationships for women and I’m sure there must be plenty of other well-known destinations.

As much as sex tourism doesn’t shock or surprise me, I do find it interesting how these relationships differ when it’s the man who’s “for sale”. Like I say I’m no expert but from what I understand, when the guy is the buyer it’s very clear that a sexual service is being paid for. When it’s a woman doing the buying, the payment is less defined taking the form of lending money for a “family medical emergency” or dinner, drinks and a bed of course, for the week. Men tend to buy sex, plain and simple, whereas women buy the pretence of a relationship – with sex included like a gift that comes free with every purchase.

Sex tourism services men and women alike, and I’m not here to condone or pass judgement on either the buyers or the sellers. Where there’s economic hardship and people with nothing else to trade but themselves, then prostitution in some shape or form will continue to exist. I guess I just find it interesting how the two sexes differ in their honesty about what they’re doing.

Is it any better to admit paying for sex outright than to dress it up as a “relationship”?

Does either party see it as prostitution or do both male and female tourists legitimise it as something else?

I also wonder if some female tourists even realise they’re entering into a transactional affair?

I’d love to hear your experiences, so leave me a comment below…

32. Pornstar Pool Party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleeping arrangements…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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