42. Crazy Horses: The Italian Stallion

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


41. Mr Big By Name…

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

Well the short answer is I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

38. Nice Guy Eddie

Ok so before you ask, I should warn you that I did not just have a date with Chris Penn Nice Guy Eddieor anyone else from the cast of Reservoir Dogs.  And neither was there a Mexican stand-off at the end of my date – though there was some tequila involved.

Nice guy Eddie is so named as the guy I had a date with is just that – a totally nice guy.  He’s actually a primary school teacher, one of his profile pictures is of him graduating, an extremely tall, slim black guy surrounded by a host of newly qualified white female teachers who all look quite delighted to have him in their midst.

Nice Guy Eddie (not his real name I hasten to add) is a date from the website, and thankfully none of his text-talk strayed into the borderline sexting of his ill-fated predecessor.  This one seems like a real gent.  He’s 40 years old, about 6ft 4 and relatively good looking without being so handsome that he’d be trouble – he also seems really sweet.

We arranged to meet in Shoreditch at a bar that’s usually quite rowdy on a weekend or Friday, but midweek it’s pretty quiet – in fact we’re one of only two couples in the whole place!

Nice Guy Eddie, is on time and true to form looks like his pictures which is always a relief!  He’s very tall indeed, slim build and a quirky dresser – he’s dressed smart-casual in jeans with a flat cap which actually looks pretty hip.  He’s grinning like a little boy when I meet him and straight away I feel at ease.

We go up to the bar where he orders a pint and I order my usual drink of Havana rum & coke, to which he looks at me all shame-faced and apologises for not ordering a ‘more interesting drink than beer’.  He’s so sincere and endearing that I can’t help but smile at his worrying about what I think of his ‘unimaginative’ drink choices.  I tell him it’s fine and we sit down to chat.

It turns out that I am popping his dating cherry as he’s never been on an internet date up until now.  I promise him that I’ll be gentle and we continue chatting.  Nice Guy has been single for about a year or so after a long term relationship went downhill – from the sounds of things his ex was taking advantage of his nice guy ways.

As we continue to talk I find out he has a big brother, who he tells me is very concerned about his going on dates with strangers… at times it feels like I’m out on a date with aCute Kitten naive 14 year old boy.  He’s so sweet and innocent, all enthusiasm and excitement which makes me really like him – I just get the feeling I like him in the way one likes cute fluffy kitten videos on youtube.  There’s a real temptation to say ahh in a cutesey voice before tickling him on the belly till he squeals.

Fortunately for everyone, before I give in to temptation he rushes off to the bar to get a more ‘interesting’ drink for us.  He returns shortly with Patron XO café shots…. I am rendered momentarily speechless, before swiftly knocking our shots back (which are pretty darned good I might add).

I’ve never done shots on a first date in my life and I swiftly advise Nice Guy that it’s not standard dating practice as some girls might assume he’s trying to get them paralytic before having his wicked way with him – the mere thought of which in the context of Nice Guy Eddie could only mean staying out past curfew or possibly jaywalking – he’s just so unbelievably……nice.

And not even in a cringey way, he’s lovely, boyish, charming and endearing – which unfortunately doesn’t really scream MANLY.  But I have to admit he’s great company.  The whole time he’s like an excitable puppy dog that keeps chasing his tail and looks totally delighted at the prospect of seeing snow for the first time – not what you’d expect of a grown man turning 40.  I’m beginning to see why his brother is so protective of him.

For the rest of the date, it’s almost like I’m giving him a lesson in internet dating etiquette, as he asks whether he’s doing things right or if he’s saying the right things.  I assure him he’s doing fine – and he is, just not the right things for me (which I keep to myself – come on, I can’t be mean to this guy!).

At the end of the night Nice Guy Eddie walks me to the tube and I can see he’s hesitating over the whole do I kiss her before I go dilemma.  I have to say as a woman, it’s actually quite nice not having to worry about that one, we can afford to just stand back and wait if we want.  But what he does next really threw me.

We go in for the hug and it’s clear he’s decided to forego the awkward first kiss.  He walks away about five paces, before running back to me giving me a peck on the lips and running away again.

And I’m just standing there like a girl who’s just been caught playing catch-kiss for the first time – totally bewildered and blushing like a twelve-year-old.

So that was Nice Guy Eddie – a thoroughly enjoyable date, just not sure if he’s gonna come out to play again or not – but I’ll give you an update on that next time, along with a tale of my next date with destiny.

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 😉

34. Division 1 to the Premiership

If you’re a regular reader you’ll know (and if not just read through some of my previous posts) I was seeing a guy who worked in the football industry as an agent. Well my next date, this time someone from the dating website, is a football journalist! He’s originally Palestinian and reports on all the premiership games for an Arabic TV channel. He’s about 5ft 9 and has the most amazing green eyes! He’s also pretty cute.

The online banter is not amazing but we seem to get along alright and we arranged to meet up at a bar not far from where I live. The bar he chose is pretty nice, quiet and spacious – there’s literally only two other people in the place. As for his appearances… well he looks very much as promised in that he’s quite athletic and toned – he plays a lot of football as well as talking about it for a living, and he trains at the gym even more than I do!

Premiership guy scores well on dress code too, smart jeans, a casual short-sleeved top and smart trainers – no monster shoes like Frodo Feet (big relief). And his eyes? OMG in real life they are even more beautiful, I could gaze into them for hours, which is kind of what I end up doing as we get to know each other. On top of that his eyelashes are as long and thick as mine are short and insubstantial.

He’s recently divorced and has two kids –that I knew about before we met (he was very upfront about that). The first date went of extremely well, conversation flowed easily and comfortably and the banter is much better than I expected. He’s really relaxed and refreshingly honest about what he wants from dating. Although he’s not long divorced he’s been separated for almost a year and is not looking for casual fun – or at least so he says.

We talk about religion and marriage – kind of important when you’re not religious and the other person is. He’s a non-practicing Muslim, i.e. he has the occasional drink, is not adverse to sex before marriage and doesn’t pray as often as he thinks he should.

We talk about relationships and marriage even – he brings this up along with kids as he wants to know where I’m at. I tell him marriage one day with the right guy and if kids come along great, but if they don’t I’m just as happy. He says he’d like more and that marriage is not that important to him (not surprising given his own marital status).

In fact we talk about a hell of a lot, for several hours and after devouring a sharing platter of bar food we end up going for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. We sit in the park chatting until the last tubes by which point I’m cold and the conversation has started to dry up – I really ought to have called it a night sooner but I was too busy staring at those hypnotic eyes.

He then walked me to the tube and gave me a very respectful kiss on the cheeks and we’ve agreed to meet up again soon.

Is it too soon to say I’m hopeful again? Probably yes but we’ll see in the next post…

32. Pornstar Pool Party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleeping arrangements…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

31. The Pornstar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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