....well, it's up on a well-known dating site. I'd love to post the link but something akin to compassion stops me. After all, it is a ghastly profile. I've always wondered about dating sites and just exactly what their purpose is. After all, from reading profile after profile, it reduces people to preferences, a restaurant menu, a do or don't. And nowhere is this better evidenced than on QIE's profile, where he's spent time creating a 17 question (there you go, there's your first clue) monstrosity of a questionnaire, designed to whittle down the ladies from maybes to definites.
'Do you believe yourself to be the creator of your own destiny (YES), or do you believe in fate (NO)?' he asks.
How I laughed at this one, knowing that he believed that his own intellectual game had been lowered by living with his ex-wife and that his lack of progress at work was due to the slathering, oppressive jealousy of his boss, rather than his own incompetence.
'Would you rather spend your time on an all-inclusive holiday (NO) or an adventure holiday (YES)?'
Sounds a nice, go-getting choice, designed to cut the wheat from the chaff and select only women who'd shop at Berghaus if they won the Lottery. Shame that he obviously failed to include another, more plausible option, however.
'Would you like to spend your time sitting uncomfortably next to me on the sofa whilst I try to persuade you to have anal sex by pointing out that I've already got the Anchor in (YES)?'
Sunday 23 March 2008
Monday 17 March 2008
Horoscopes....
....now, I must tread carefully here as one of my best male friends - and a reader of this blog - falls into this category, but I have a bone to pick with Piscean men. In fact, I'd happily eviscerate most of the ones I've met and reduce them to their fishy skeletons before tossing them out for the birds.
For they're the ones who've caught my eye, reduced me to jelly, said the right things (well, mostly), been inconsistently in contact, made me want them even more, lived out in the sticks in rural idylls, and then dumped me. No other star-sign can do this to me.....a Virgo who'd be too busy dusting to notice as I cheated on his pristine heart, the Aries who got tangled up on his own horns and ended up puncturing nothing more than hot air, the Cancer who'd emesh himself in his own tears with no room for my own....nah, those are the ones that I've been able to get shot of, both mentally and emotionally. But blokes born under the sign which encourages alcoholism, infidelity and hopeless (I was tempted to put 'ly overblown romantic' but nah....) gestures are always the ones who can make me think back with a burst of poignancy so bright that it'll rival the French's nuclear antics in the South Pacific.....but the great irony of this, is that this is a collection of things they've said and done
- Let's work out together in tight Lycra and I can see your vulva!
- proffered his mobile phone to me, whereupon I read a joke about
'how women can wax their bikini lines, underarms and legs, give birth, pierce their nipples, pluck their eyebrows and bleach unwanted hairs but they won't take it up the arse 'cos it hurts!!!!'
(this, I think, was his attempt to get me to do a Last Tango with him, and bless, he'd even bought the Anchor in preparation but that wasn't quite enough for me.....)
- told me that all women over 40 were to be written off
OK, so I know that's only 3 things but I'm feeling bitter, perturbed and disturbed today by the tsunami of crap I've taken from men....
(Growls......)
For they're the ones who've caught my eye, reduced me to jelly, said the right things (well, mostly), been inconsistently in contact, made me want them even more, lived out in the sticks in rural idylls, and then dumped me. No other star-sign can do this to me.....a Virgo who'd be too busy dusting to notice as I cheated on his pristine heart, the Aries who got tangled up on his own horns and ended up puncturing nothing more than hot air, the Cancer who'd emesh himself in his own tears with no room for my own....nah, those are the ones that I've been able to get shot of, both mentally and emotionally. But blokes born under the sign which encourages alcoholism, infidelity and hopeless (I was tempted to put 'ly overblown romantic' but nah....) gestures are always the ones who can make me think back with a burst of poignancy so bright that it'll rival the French's nuclear antics in the South Pacific.....but the great irony of this, is that this is a collection of things they've said and done
- Let's work out together in tight Lycra and I can see your vulva!
- proffered his mobile phone to me, whereupon I read a joke about
'how women can wax their bikini lines, underarms and legs, give birth, pierce their nipples, pluck their eyebrows and bleach unwanted hairs but they won't take it up the arse 'cos it hurts!!!!'
(this, I think, was his attempt to get me to do a Last Tango with him, and bless, he'd even bought the Anchor in preparation but that wasn't quite enough for me.....)
- told me that all women over 40 were to be written off
OK, so I know that's only 3 things but I'm feeling bitter, perturbed and disturbed today by the tsunami of crap I've taken from men....
(Growls......)
Thursday 28 February 2008
A few days later, he dumped me by text.
'I went out with my ex last night and we've decided to give it another go.'
I felt kicked, breathless, lost. I went and played some tinny heavy metal very loudly and cried my eyes out. I think I even did that thing where I slid down a doorframe, like they do in all the good movies. But in the end, I got on with it, washing, dressing, barely eating and wearing all black.
'Didn't see you there!' quipped a friend, bumping into me, all Sicilian Widow in black Gap and bad eye-makeup. Sainsbury's spoilt the setting, admittedly....the Trevi Fountain would've been more appropriate.
But then! Then, my friends, he texted me....
'Hi. How are you? X'
My heart leapt, raced and all the kind of other athletically impossibly stuff that is used widely by bad novelists. And me.
But I played it cool....I was mean and calculating and left it all of 11 minutes before I replied. I slept with my phone like we were brother and sister and living together in a trailer park. Clutched, it was, to my bosom, or failing that, my pocket. I lived for its bracing vibration. And then, 2 days later, it did just that as I pulled into Tesco.
'Hullo darling!' he said, 'this is just a welfare call!'
But I fell for it all and I went round the next day. He was shooting (darling!), and strode towards me once more with all that jerkish arrogance that I'd come to love and desire more than common sense would permit.
We snuggled together on the sofa.
'I don't want to lose you from my life now I've got you,' he said, pausing to stroke my hair.
Silence passed. A horse brayed somewhere.
'Would you like to go upstairs for a cuddle?'
Again, I leapt, a little too quickly for my retrospective liking. In fact, retrospectively speaking, I'd have liked nothing more to have splattered his cream jodhpurs in my tea (milk, one sugar), finished with a slap round his ruddy (bloody) face and a knee in the groin. But I was holding his hand as he led me gently up to the creaking eaves of his house where he made very bad love to me, and passed me a bottle of body lotion once we were done.
'Could you massage my back, darling?' he said, face muffled by the pillow, head on his beefy arms.
It saddens me to think that I cheerfully, hopefully, performed my best ever effleurage strokes for this bloke, but the lesson's learned.
2 days later, he dumped me again, this time it seems, for good.
'I've realised since seeing you that I'm not over my ex,' he put, 'but I'll always remember you fondly. Keep in touch.'
A week later, he changed his number.
'I went out with my ex last night and we've decided to give it another go.'
I felt kicked, breathless, lost. I went and played some tinny heavy metal very loudly and cried my eyes out. I think I even did that thing where I slid down a doorframe, like they do in all the good movies. But in the end, I got on with it, washing, dressing, barely eating and wearing all black.
'Didn't see you there!' quipped a friend, bumping into me, all Sicilian Widow in black Gap and bad eye-makeup. Sainsbury's spoilt the setting, admittedly....the Trevi Fountain would've been more appropriate.
But then! Then, my friends, he texted me....
'Hi. How are you? X'
My heart leapt, raced and all the kind of other athletically impossibly stuff that is used widely by bad novelists. And me.
But I played it cool....I was mean and calculating and left it all of 11 minutes before I replied. I slept with my phone like we were brother and sister and living together in a trailer park. Clutched, it was, to my bosom, or failing that, my pocket. I lived for its bracing vibration. And then, 2 days later, it did just that as I pulled into Tesco.
'Hullo darling!' he said, 'this is just a welfare call!'
But I fell for it all and I went round the next day. He was shooting (darling!), and strode towards me once more with all that jerkish arrogance that I'd come to love and desire more than common sense would permit.
We snuggled together on the sofa.
'I don't want to lose you from my life now I've got you,' he said, pausing to stroke my hair.
Silence passed. A horse brayed somewhere.
'Would you like to go upstairs for a cuddle?'
Again, I leapt, a little too quickly for my retrospective liking. In fact, retrospectively speaking, I'd have liked nothing more to have splattered his cream jodhpurs in my tea (milk, one sugar), finished with a slap round his ruddy (bloody) face and a knee in the groin. But I was holding his hand as he led me gently up to the creaking eaves of his house where he made very bad love to me, and passed me a bottle of body lotion once we were done.
'Could you massage my back, darling?' he said, face muffled by the pillow, head on his beefy arms.
It saddens me to think that I cheerfully, hopefully, performed my best ever effleurage strokes for this bloke, but the lesson's learned.
2 days later, he dumped me again, this time it seems, for good.
'I've realised since seeing you that I'm not over my ex,' he put, 'but I'll always remember you fondly. Keep in touch.'
A week later, he changed his number.
Tuesday 12 February 2008
Emergency....
....so, there was I, clutched in a beefy embrace and my heart pumping in my ears. He ushered me inside what was a little cottage, bracketed in all directions by fields and stables. A few hundred yards beyond his drive stood a rather proud looking, red-brick farmhouse.
'Oh, my parents live there!' he boomed, 'it's called Toad Hall!'
The idyll was shattered by that confession. And furthermore, by...
'My place is called BagEnd!'
OK, so let's rack up those clues....
- dodgy 'do you work out?' opening line
- bad coat
- patter of generic chat-up lines
- his hand on my bottom at the soonest possible opportunity that we were beyond the scope of the PCC
- his 'cousin' in a filmy negligee on his phone
- ribbons
- his sharing a plot of land with his parents
- a dog called Kaiser
- a house called BagEnd
Oh, and just to top it off, as I was dragged across a windy field to see his horses, he announced their names
'Black Bess and Starlight!'
Now, Black Bess isn't too bad. Sure, it lacks imagination and even the horse itself, chewing morosely on a carrot seemed to say,
'Don't say it! Just because I'm sodding black! My last owner lacked similar imagination!'
But my real concern was with Starlight....after all, this was a man who'd ridden the military tide through Borneo, Germany, Afghanistan. He was as hard as nails, 6'6, a military officer and a big-cheese in the local police force. Surely he couldn't be held responsible for giving his horse such a gay name?
I found myself in a stable, watching him throw forkfuls of straw in the air.
'My two passions!' he boomed (his default vocal setting), 'are riding and horses!'
I daren't ask for clarification....
We went back across the field, and he showed me his house. A sunken bath, scruffy leather sofas, an AGA and a battered piano in an alcove. I was slowly warming to his interior decor, he was making me a cup of tea when he revealed what really ratified, to me at least, that beneath the suited and booted exterior there may well have lain a butt just wiggling to be taken.
'Through there,' he jabbed a finger behind me, 'I've got a sauna and a hot-tub.'
I think at this point, had I applied to the police and been asked to take a simple aptitude test, I may well have been thrown out for such a poor score...
However, he was keen, it seemed, to prove that he wasn't actually gay at all. He'd pinned a pic of a leggy nurse to his fridge door and his tour of the house led me to his bedroom where Jilly Cooper novels and condoms lay on the bedside table. We lay down on the bed together and fumbled with each other for a few moments. Suddenly, he pulled back, looked at me and smiled broadly.
'We should work out together,' he suggested, 'and you could wear tight lycra so I could see your vulva!'
I don't think I said anything. I don't think I thought anything either, but I did feel the primeval visceral rumble of terror in my tummy...
'Oh, my parents live there!' he boomed, 'it's called Toad Hall!'
The idyll was shattered by that confession. And furthermore, by...
'My place is called BagEnd!'
OK, so let's rack up those clues....
- dodgy 'do you work out?' opening line
- bad coat
- patter of generic chat-up lines
- his hand on my bottom at the soonest possible opportunity that we were beyond the scope of the PCC
- his 'cousin' in a filmy negligee on his phone
- ribbons
- his sharing a plot of land with his parents
- a dog called Kaiser
- a house called BagEnd
Oh, and just to top it off, as I was dragged across a windy field to see his horses, he announced their names
'Black Bess and Starlight!'
Now, Black Bess isn't too bad. Sure, it lacks imagination and even the horse itself, chewing morosely on a carrot seemed to say,
'Don't say it! Just because I'm sodding black! My last owner lacked similar imagination!'
But my real concern was with Starlight....after all, this was a man who'd ridden the military tide through Borneo, Germany, Afghanistan. He was as hard as nails, 6'6, a military officer and a big-cheese in the local police force. Surely he couldn't be held responsible for giving his horse such a gay name?
I found myself in a stable, watching him throw forkfuls of straw in the air.
'My two passions!' he boomed (his default vocal setting), 'are riding and horses!'
I daren't ask for clarification....
We went back across the field, and he showed me his house. A sunken bath, scruffy leather sofas, an AGA and a battered piano in an alcove. I was slowly warming to his interior decor, he was making me a cup of tea when he revealed what really ratified, to me at least, that beneath the suited and booted exterior there may well have lain a butt just wiggling to be taken.
'Through there,' he jabbed a finger behind me, 'I've got a sauna and a hot-tub.'
I think at this point, had I applied to the police and been asked to take a simple aptitude test, I may well have been thrown out for such a poor score...
However, he was keen, it seemed, to prove that he wasn't actually gay at all. He'd pinned a pic of a leggy nurse to his fridge door and his tour of the house led me to his bedroom where Jilly Cooper novels and condoms lay on the bedside table. We lay down on the bed together and fumbled with each other for a few moments. Suddenly, he pulled back, looked at me and smiled broadly.
'We should work out together,' he suggested, 'and you could wear tight lycra so I could see your vulva!'
I don't think I said anything. I don't think I thought anything either, but I did feel the primeval visceral rumble of terror in my tummy...
Tuesday 5 February 2008
Deviating away, temporarily, from the Copper and Cuffs, an internet forum caught my eye last night. On it, the original poster was explaining a tale of a rather lack-lustre pursuant performance from A Bloke.
'But I've texted him,' she'd say, 'and got back "Hey babes!" What could that possibly mean?'
The thread ran on for far too much bandwidth and on each post, the (mainly) female cyber-pals would go
'That means he really likes you! Now, at 4.45pm exactly, you've got to pretend you've got another bloke on the scene to pique this other guy's interest further! Then, make your way down Oxford Street with half a lemon in your pocket - I read this in Cosmo, it must be true - and......'
or
'Right! Now, you've got to completely ignore him! DON'T reply to his e-mails. DON'T reply to his texts. Maybe accidentally let a mutual friend know you've got your eye on someone else and can be found at the STD clinics on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. And finally, key his car, steal his ID and get drunk. He'll realise then that you're The One!'
(blah-de-blah-de-blah-de-blah......)
Since when did women become so dumb? Just what happened to us? Since when did we decide that the only possible way that we could get the truth out of a guy would be to nick an Enigma machine, wait for a full moon and with a snippet of his hair for good luck, and his last text held in your palm, somehow extrapolate the truth whilst wolves howl around you and Tim Burton spikes your hair up into a punky mess....?
Suddenly modern dating etiquette would have it that all men are speaking Urdu through a funnel in an underwater shed. But in no other walk of life do we afford ourselves this same luxury of ambiguity.
Girl asks bloke: What do you want to drink?
Bloke tells girl: A pint of lager
Girl rushes to the toilets to text her best mate - 'He's ordered a lager! Surely he means a whisky? What's going on?'
Bloke chats up barmaid. Enjoys lager. Gets earful from girlfriend.
I'm a woman and don't like to do my fellow females a grand disservice, but it's time to throw away the Linguaphone and interpretative software and take a 'no' as meaning just that.....
'But I've texted him,' she'd say, 'and got back "Hey babes!" What could that possibly mean?'
The thread ran on for far too much bandwidth and on each post, the (mainly) female cyber-pals would go
'That means he really likes you! Now, at 4.45pm exactly, you've got to pretend you've got another bloke on the scene to pique this other guy's interest further! Then, make your way down Oxford Street with half a lemon in your pocket - I read this in Cosmo, it must be true - and......'
or
'Right! Now, you've got to completely ignore him! DON'T reply to his e-mails. DON'T reply to his texts. Maybe accidentally let a mutual friend know you've got your eye on someone else and can be found at the STD clinics on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. And finally, key his car, steal his ID and get drunk. He'll realise then that you're The One!'
(blah-de-blah-de-blah-de-blah......)
Since when did women become so dumb? Just what happened to us? Since when did we decide that the only possible way that we could get the truth out of a guy would be to nick an Enigma machine, wait for a full moon and with a snippet of his hair for good luck, and his last text held in your palm, somehow extrapolate the truth whilst wolves howl around you and Tim Burton spikes your hair up into a punky mess....?
Suddenly modern dating etiquette would have it that all men are speaking Urdu through a funnel in an underwater shed. But in no other walk of life do we afford ourselves this same luxury of ambiguity.
Girl asks bloke: What do you want to drink?
Bloke tells girl: A pint of lager
Girl rushes to the toilets to text her best mate - 'He's ordered a lager! Surely he means a whisky? What's going on?'
Bloke chats up barmaid. Enjoys lager. Gets earful from girlfriend.
I'm a woman and don't like to do my fellow females a grand disservice, but it's time to throw away the Linguaphone and interpretative software and take a 'no' as meaning just that.....
Monday 4 February 2008
OK, so I'd left the bar, The Copper wasn't with me (I'd shrugged him off thinking that despite the desire, he'd think me too easy were I to capitulate there and then....) and a smile was stretched wide across my face. I went home, thought intensely and euphemistically as an aid to sleep and woke up the next day to a text.
'Hullo gorgeous!' he put, 'fancy coming round to my pad?'
Oh God. The Pad. But I brushed that from my mind, got the directions and clambered - brushed, perfumed and nervous - into my car. Half an hour later and I still hadn't arrived. My phone bleeped:
'Hullo gorgeous! Are you lost? Look out for the ribbons!'
The what?
Slowing down the country road, I suddenly saw a rather curious bundle of ribbons tied to a gatepost. Nervously, I steered my car in, not knowing what to expect. A cult? The UK equivalent of Leatherface wheeling towards me? Or maybe a 6'6 man in jodhpurs, kinky boots and once more, that crocodile smile. If I'd have had a Sat Nav, it would've started bleeping at me furiously to reverse, but smitten by his buttocks (I have weaknesses....), I parked my car and got out, trying to emulate the girl in the perfume ad whose graceless beauty knows no bounds. Not even a Rover 200 and a shedload of mud.
'Hullo,' he purred, and the scene seemed set for perfection, until an Alsation bounded up to me from nowhere and began to hump my leg. The dog was named 'Kaiser,' and I can only but apologise to you, reading this, for thinking, 'How many more glaring pointers did she need?'
But I was young, smitten and easily persuaded. If I'd been a pensioner, I'd have probably given some tosser in a van 60K to tarmac my drive
'Hullo gorgeous!' he put, 'fancy coming round to my pad?'
Oh God. The Pad. But I brushed that from my mind, got the directions and clambered - brushed, perfumed and nervous - into my car. Half an hour later and I still hadn't arrived. My phone bleeped:
'Hullo gorgeous! Are you lost? Look out for the ribbons!'
The what?
Slowing down the country road, I suddenly saw a rather curious bundle of ribbons tied to a gatepost. Nervously, I steered my car in, not knowing what to expect. A cult? The UK equivalent of Leatherface wheeling towards me? Or maybe a 6'6 man in jodhpurs, kinky boots and once more, that crocodile smile. If I'd have had a Sat Nav, it would've started bleeping at me furiously to reverse, but smitten by his buttocks (I have weaknesses....), I parked my car and got out, trying to emulate the girl in the perfume ad whose graceless beauty knows no bounds. Not even a Rover 200 and a shedload of mud.
'Hullo,' he purred, and the scene seemed set for perfection, until an Alsation bounded up to me from nowhere and began to hump my leg. The dog was named 'Kaiser,' and I can only but apologise to you, reading this, for thinking, 'How many more glaring pointers did she need?'
But I was young, smitten and easily persuaded. If I'd been a pensioner, I'd have probably given some tosser in a van 60K to tarmac my drive
Thursday 31 January 2008
....in the heat of this bar, me and The Copper talked.
'In my line of work,' he yelled in my ear, so loud were the cheesy songs being played, 'I see so much grief and horror that when I meet someone,' - and here, he paused. He'd done this before but at the time, I thought it really was the thought of Me that had led him to look at me with love in his eyes. It was probably just beer, I now realise. '...like you, I don't want to let them go.'
You know, I should've heard the warning bells when he said 'someone like you.' Not 'you,' not even my name, but just a feint parallel. This parallel, I was later to discover went along the lines of....
a/ Pulse
b/ Full complement of limbs
c/ Susceptible to flattery
d/ Gender not really a burning issue but nice if (s)/he has long hair
I think I giggled. I may even have said something but he was intent on having me almost immediately and invited me home.
'Here's a photo of my pad,' he said. Again, I'm kicking myself for not noticing that a man who uses the word 'pad,' is almost always emotionally obsolete. He scrolled through his phone for a pic but accidentally opened one of a girl, long dark hair in what looked like a negligee.
'Whoops!' he laughed, 'She's my....cousin.'
I can only admit that my cognitive facilities, at that point, could've only been improved by a bayonet in the head.
The pic eventually appeared. It was a farm-house. My heart leapt.
'Here is a man who can love me! And he owns a farmhouse! Maybe he owns some ho-
'I own some horses, too,' he said, reading my mind, so transparent in its premature glory that the words probably scrolled across my eyeballs like subtitles.
And at that point, I think we kissed, he stroked my bum and I left the bar on a high.
No, people, this doesn't end here!
'In my line of work,' he yelled in my ear, so loud were the cheesy songs being played, 'I see so much grief and horror that when I meet someone,' - and here, he paused. He'd done this before but at the time, I thought it really was the thought of Me that had led him to look at me with love in his eyes. It was probably just beer, I now realise. '...like you, I don't want to let them go.'
You know, I should've heard the warning bells when he said 'someone like you.' Not 'you,' not even my name, but just a feint parallel. This parallel, I was later to discover went along the lines of....
a/ Pulse
b/ Full complement of limbs
c/ Susceptible to flattery
d/ Gender not really a burning issue but nice if (s)/he has long hair
I think I giggled. I may even have said something but he was intent on having me almost immediately and invited me home.
'Here's a photo of my pad,' he said. Again, I'm kicking myself for not noticing that a man who uses the word 'pad,' is almost always emotionally obsolete. He scrolled through his phone for a pic but accidentally opened one of a girl, long dark hair in what looked like a negligee.
'Whoops!' he laughed, 'She's my....cousin.'
I can only admit that my cognitive facilities, at that point, could've only been improved by a bayonet in the head.
The pic eventually appeared. It was a farm-house. My heart leapt.
'Here is a man who can love me! And he owns a farmhouse! Maybe he owns some ho-
'I own some horses, too,' he said, reading my mind, so transparent in its premature glory that the words probably scrolled across my eyeballs like subtitles.
And at that point, I think we kissed, he stroked my bum and I left the bar on a high.
No, people, this doesn't end here!
Wednesday 30 January 2008
Another One.....
Ooh, whilst raking through memories, I had to go for this one. This one's better than any of them so far. This one's a book. This one's a film. Hell, it's got its own sequel!
I met him on a car forum. Not the most auspicious of places, but amongst all the crap about exhausts and 'what does this button do?' there was a less salubrious place for the 'Sponsors' to chat away about everything and anything. And one rainy day, after I'd been a Sponsor for a while, I received a Private Message from this bloke. His girlfriend was also on the forum, but seemed quite a ballsy person so I'm assuming was used to her bloke ending PMs to girls with
'XXXX.'
I sure as hell wasn't, but he was cute - bleached blonde spiky hair, an abrupt, angry, funny manner and weird blue eyes that walked the thin line between madness and genius - or was it a stigmatism?
Within 3 hours of exchanging e-mails, he'd let me 'in so much further than anyone else before,' and we'd soon sped through the basic demographic exchange of information to his chequered, bloody and secretive military history. The next night we had a 5 hour MSN, the street-lights outside turning up their subtle blaze as night drew in on yours truly, furiously typing away into the lonely luminosity of the computer screen.
'I must go now, darling,' he typed at close to 3am. 'Think of me tightly, hold me close to you in your dreams.' I tottered back to my bedroom in a daze of something approaching love and lust. I awoke the next day to a text from him
'Good morning, my darling,' he said - nothing was to be short-handed, I later realised, nothing was to be cut out in his communication, other than the truth, naturellement - 'how are you?'
'Glowing,' I texted back simply - he said he was falling for my writing as much as anything, so I suckered it to him in one succinct word.
I got the 4 exes back and glowed a little more. Then I went downstairs and ate some Ready Brek and within a few minutes, was the only human being visible from the Moon....
You just know this one's got 'disaster' pinned all over it, don't you?
I met him on a car forum. Not the most auspicious of places, but amongst all the crap about exhausts and 'what does this button do?' there was a less salubrious place for the 'Sponsors' to chat away about everything and anything. And one rainy day, after I'd been a Sponsor for a while, I received a Private Message from this bloke. His girlfriend was also on the forum, but seemed quite a ballsy person so I'm assuming was used to her bloke ending PMs to girls with
'XXXX.'
I sure as hell wasn't, but he was cute - bleached blonde spiky hair, an abrupt, angry, funny manner and weird blue eyes that walked the thin line between madness and genius - or was it a stigmatism?
Within 3 hours of exchanging e-mails, he'd let me 'in so much further than anyone else before,' and we'd soon sped through the basic demographic exchange of information to his chequered, bloody and secretive military history. The next night we had a 5 hour MSN, the street-lights outside turning up their subtle blaze as night drew in on yours truly, furiously typing away into the lonely luminosity of the computer screen.
'I must go now, darling,' he typed at close to 3am. 'Think of me tightly, hold me close to you in your dreams.' I tottered back to my bedroom in a daze of something approaching love and lust. I awoke the next day to a text from him
'Good morning, my darling,' he said - nothing was to be short-handed, I later realised, nothing was to be cut out in his communication, other than the truth, naturellement - 'how are you?'
'Glowing,' I texted back simply - he said he was falling for my writing as much as anything, so I suckered it to him in one succinct word.
I got the 4 exes back and glowed a little more. Then I went downstairs and ate some Ready Brek and within a few minutes, was the only human being visible from the Moon....
You just know this one's got 'disaster' pinned all over it, don't you?
Got Me Thinking....
....someone did, from a website. She wrote about 'posh blokes' and it's got me thinking back to the ones which I dated, fresh out of a relationship. And, let's face it, this blog needs some non-teary momentum at the moment, doesn't it?
The first one (ominous opening words, I know), I met when I went to my local police station to give a witness statement. And I was met by this thing, this tall, brown-eyed man with a smile that crinkled like a crocodile's.
He thrust (the main verb of our relationship) his hand into mine (again.....) and said,
'Don't I know you from somewhere? The gym, perhaps?' I should've known there and then, ladies and gents, but I blustered and smiled and blushed and murmured something about 'Fitness First.'
'Ah, that explains it,' he said, eyes roaming my body which almost melted under his gaze.
We went into a little room, where he, long thighs nearly touching mine under the table, took me swiftly (no sniggering at the back, please) through the process. Finally, he said
'I'd never let anyone hurt you,' as I'd mumbled something about not wanting to get my face kicked in by a group of vigilantes.
Two weeks later, I was in a bar when in he walked, all swagger and bad coat (30-something man not quite relinquishing his youth to his past). He saw me, his eyebrows shot up and he again thrust that hand into the air.
I, knowing I looked cute, sauntered over to a midway point. The floor between us was empty. He raced up, like a Labrador, squeezing me in huge arms.
'Darling! I thought I'd never see you again!'
To be continued, folks.....
The first one (ominous opening words, I know), I met when I went to my local police station to give a witness statement. And I was met by this thing, this tall, brown-eyed man with a smile that crinkled like a crocodile's.
He thrust (the main verb of our relationship) his hand into mine (again.....) and said,
'Don't I know you from somewhere? The gym, perhaps?' I should've known there and then, ladies and gents, but I blustered and smiled and blushed and murmured something about 'Fitness First.'
'Ah, that explains it,' he said, eyes roaming my body which almost melted under his gaze.
We went into a little room, where he, long thighs nearly touching mine under the table, took me swiftly (no sniggering at the back, please) through the process. Finally, he said
'I'd never let anyone hurt you,' as I'd mumbled something about not wanting to get my face kicked in by a group of vigilantes.
Two weeks later, I was in a bar when in he walked, all swagger and bad coat (30-something man not quite relinquishing his youth to his past). He saw me, his eyebrows shot up and he again thrust that hand into the air.
I, knowing I looked cute, sauntered over to a midway point. The floor between us was empty. He raced up, like a Labrador, squeezing me in huge arms.
'Darling! I thought I'd never see you again!'
To be continued, folks.....
Settling Down....
.....though not with one man, you understand, though that, paradoxically, is my truest desire. I'm just scared, so scared, to walk away from someone. Despite my duplicity, I'm a coward when it comes to hurting people, to cutting the slack from their life to mine and setting them free. So, one hand I have QIE, the other, My Proper Boyfriend and on the third (can I make it a foot?), I have The Manager. And if I could chop bits off one, add them to another, and then stretch my hands inside their minds and, again, tweek (GSOH from QIE, urgent compassion from The Manager, innocence from MPB), then I'd be happy.
Well, I wouldn't. That's an outrageous lie. I'd then meet another man and go, 'Ooh, it wouldn't hurt to have a taste, would it?' Kid in a candy store comes to mind, but if they did and he was above the age of consent, I might even have a go at him, too. I really don't understand why I have no boundaries. I'm an affection junkie, loving the way that I can inspire love in others but am slowly realising that - and I realise you read this for insights into a wild sex life so I appreciate you may be bored to tears by this Jezza Kyle confessional; apologies but tough shit - it's only until I turn the locus of my self-esteem from out to in, will I ever sort out this problem.....
Well, I wouldn't. That's an outrageous lie. I'd then meet another man and go, 'Ooh, it wouldn't hurt to have a taste, would it?' Kid in a candy store comes to mind, but if they did and he was above the age of consent, I might even have a go at him, too. I really don't understand why I have no boundaries. I'm an affection junkie, loving the way that I can inspire love in others but am slowly realising that - and I realise you read this for insights into a wild sex life so I appreciate you may be bored to tears by this Jezza Kyle confessional; apologies but tough shit - it's only until I turn the locus of my self-esteem from out to in, will I ever sort out this problem.....
Monday 28 January 2008
A Confession
I'm sitting here crying. There. God, I want to quit the games and the lies and all the bullshit. But I suppose if I did, you folk would be lumbered with a blog about Finnish politics. Or someone buying a new dog. If you want to comment, by the way, please do. And I mean that. I like the feeling I'm writing to someone, to people who read and form opinions and if any of you have advice, or observations, or just something to give back, well, at 00.08am, and feeling tearful and bad, I'd appreciate it.
Sunday 27 January 2008
Guilt
The guilt is getting harder to manage. I didn't think it would, as long as I had my car, my iPod, a suitably convenient stack of imagined places to throw into texts to Bloke A, Bloke B, Bloke C, but this weekend, when QIE, who's rapidly becoming less Q and I and E, grinned at me and said,
'I'd have a child with you in a shot,' I, all hair and incredulous smile, felt the dam(n) inside me burst. Sure, he was a bastard the first time round, and even this time, he'd not shaved in 2 days leaving me with a prickle of stubble whenever he kissed me, but he'd let me drive his Audi, Goddamnit! And read to me in bed when I was too tired to fuck and simply wanted to be snuggled in someone's arms...he read me Enid Blyton, he read me The Faraway Tree (the original not the non-Fannied one). And then he folded the book back into its ragged, red covers and took me gently.
Afterwards, I cried. And he's too clever to think that he was simply bad in bed and so began an unravelling of my conscience, but only into the safety of another lie. I can blink back tears like Meryl Streep and even inside me, I can feel similar swathes of emotion to hide the real black churn of guilt and even possibly, self-loathing. Talk meandered into the evening, I calmed, he theorised and settled on a friend of his.
'Phil has such a capacity for self-deception,' he said, as he told me about this bloke's marriage, the sham that it is, the lack of sex and love and purpose that seemingly inevitably diminishes between two people over the years. And I nodded, ripping the skin from my fingers with increasing viciousness.
Sorry folks, the absence of a conscience may have proven entertaining for so long, but even this party is slowing down. But to be followed, no doubt, by drama of epic proportions. Stay tuned but perhaps, and for the right reasons this time, bring the Kleenex.....
'I'd have a child with you in a shot,' I, all hair and incredulous smile, felt the dam(n) inside me burst. Sure, he was a bastard the first time round, and even this time, he'd not shaved in 2 days leaving me with a prickle of stubble whenever he kissed me, but he'd let me drive his Audi, Goddamnit! And read to me in bed when I was too tired to fuck and simply wanted to be snuggled in someone's arms...he read me Enid Blyton, he read me The Faraway Tree (the original not the non-Fannied one). And then he folded the book back into its ragged, red covers and took me gently.
Afterwards, I cried. And he's too clever to think that he was simply bad in bed and so began an unravelling of my conscience, but only into the safety of another lie. I can blink back tears like Meryl Streep and even inside me, I can feel similar swathes of emotion to hide the real black churn of guilt and even possibly, self-loathing. Talk meandered into the evening, I calmed, he theorised and settled on a friend of his.
'Phil has such a capacity for self-deception,' he said, as he told me about this bloke's marriage, the sham that it is, the lack of sex and love and purpose that seemingly inevitably diminishes between two people over the years. And I nodded, ripping the skin from my fingers with increasing viciousness.
Sorry folks, the absence of a conscience may have proven entertaining for so long, but even this party is slowing down. But to be followed, no doubt, by drama of epic proportions. Stay tuned but perhaps, and for the right reasons this time, bring the Kleenex.....
Tuesday 22 January 2008
....and there's more
After sex, (I'm tempted to put 'post-coitus' but, er, no....), we went to the pub. I looked quite cute, my hair straightened, but still substantial, still Sienna Miller jagged. Big green eyes. Long lean body in jeans and an off-the-shoulder top. We went to his local, a low-ceilinged country affair into which you expect Chief Inspector Barnaby to come, head politely bowed under the beams, a tight smile, bright eyes and a warrant card. But no, those (barring the latter) belonged to QIE as he returned to our table clutching my perennial favourite and a pint of lager for himself. We chatted away about literature, about work, about all those things which ringfence the real horrors of quiet chats in pubs between couples.
'You want reassurance, don't you?' he prodded. I'd chosen to tuck my feet in their white, pony-hoof trainers beneath me like a little kid. The hair was ripe for playing with, for drawing childish curtains across conversations that I really didn't want to have.
'No!' I replied, trying to be 'cool.'
'Yes, you do,' he chided, grinning at me. He has a look which we call 'sideways, incisive.' He did it then. He does it now in my mind, Goddamnit. And like Pavlov's dog, I crumbled a little bit, sniffing through a resistance to tears that,
'I really like you.....and.....I thought we were together.'
This massively ironic statement coming from the girl with The Rude and Immoral Blog. I know, I know and I know again but, well nothing, really. There's cock-all defence for my behaviour and I know (x 3) it more than you lot reading it. I'm trying to write a pithy defence, but it would only be defending my ego which, to be honest, loves this.....from the gawky one at school to the one with a man in every county. At least that's how it feels and my tyres are wearing thin with the effort of Driving Miss Crazy.
Anyway, the upshot is that after his marriage broke down (3 years ago), and his last girlfriend dumped him a week before they were due to move in together (1 year ago), he's feeling a little wary. And all this after a gentle slagging of his friends, middle-aged married men, like himself, who, unlike himself, don't have the 'two things between your legs' necessary to get out of difficult situations. He'd given me this bleating rant as I sat there modestly, smiling, thinking that whilst he might be shit hot at getting himself out of ruts, he doesn't half fuck around when it comes to getting into something challenging.
We walked home. It wasn't quite dark, despite the time. The church bells rang and an owl hooted. We rounded the corner of his road and he put one arm through mine.
'You're special,' he said, 'I miss you when you're not here and I think about you a lot.'
He also wanted sex that night. I denied him, rolled over onto my beating stomach and mimicked sleep until, come 2am, it finally got to me and I surrendered myself to his contented snores.
'You want reassurance, don't you?' he prodded. I'd chosen to tuck my feet in their white, pony-hoof trainers beneath me like a little kid. The hair was ripe for playing with, for drawing childish curtains across conversations that I really didn't want to have.
'No!' I replied, trying to be 'cool.'
'Yes, you do,' he chided, grinning at me. He has a look which we call 'sideways, incisive.' He did it then. He does it now in my mind, Goddamnit. And like Pavlov's dog, I crumbled a little bit, sniffing through a resistance to tears that,
'I really like you.....and.....I thought we were together.'
This massively ironic statement coming from the girl with The Rude and Immoral Blog. I know, I know and I know again but, well nothing, really. There's cock-all defence for my behaviour and I know (x 3) it more than you lot reading it. I'm trying to write a pithy defence, but it would only be defending my ego which, to be honest, loves this.....from the gawky one at school to the one with a man in every county. At least that's how it feels and my tyres are wearing thin with the effort of Driving Miss Crazy.
Anyway, the upshot is that after his marriage broke down (3 years ago), and his last girlfriend dumped him a week before they were due to move in together (1 year ago), he's feeling a little wary. And all this after a gentle slagging of his friends, middle-aged married men, like himself, who, unlike himself, don't have the 'two things between your legs' necessary to get out of difficult situations. He'd given me this bleating rant as I sat there modestly, smiling, thinking that whilst he might be shit hot at getting himself out of ruts, he doesn't half fuck around when it comes to getting into something challenging.
We walked home. It wasn't quite dark, despite the time. The church bells rang and an owl hooted. We rounded the corner of his road and he put one arm through mine.
'You're special,' he said, 'I miss you when you're not here and I think about you a lot.'
He also wanted sex that night. I denied him, rolled over onto my beating stomach and mimicked sleep until, come 2am, it finally got to me and I surrendered myself to his contented snores.
I've Found Religion....
....well, I haven't actually and I doubt that even if I had, any of them would take me, but after a weekend which has left me feeling, by turns, confused, guilty and horny, I now at least know how a Catholic priest must feel
I stayed with Proper Boyfriend towards the end of last week and, once more, had explosive sex all over his house. The more I see him, the more I want him - an unusual trend in a relationship, admittedly, but a nice one. And then I kissed him goodbye and buggered off up North to frolic with QIE. I rolled up late and he'd finished a 12 hour day so we didn't do much apart from sleepily take off our clothes and, at some point between his sofa and his bedroom, have sex. It wasn't particularly horny but it was strangely comfortable....him and I, ghostly moonlight pooling on the floor of his flat as we went through the ritual. He knows what to do to me to make me squeal and though he comes quietly, I have (cue poor German accent....) 'vays ov making him talk.'
The next day, he woke up early to go to work and I had the run of his flat. Resisting the temptation to peer through his life contents, I did however use his laptop (with his texted permission) and found a photo entitled
'Hannah Hartley Black Stockinged Fuck,' amidst a few of his daughter, his workmates and an aeroplane backed with a glorious, dying sunset.
It would be facetious to say that you don't know a man until you've been through his hard drive but to be frank, ladies, you don't.....the oldest bloke I've ever loved is my dad and I doubt that he sits there, ostensibly 'looking at his investment funds,' whilst scrolling through Thai Brides, keeping my mum at bay with cheerful replies to her domestic chatter, but it does make me wonder.....(cuts thought stone dead)
He came home at 6.30pm.
'Hey honey, I'm home,' he jested, walking up the stairs, and we kissed in the hall before moving the foot to his hall mirror where we undressed each other. I'm 6'1, he's shorter, his head just in the crook of my chin, his hands on my breasts, us both pressing up against each other, capturing the visuals of the moment. And then to bed, where we spent 90 minutes reacquainting ourselves with each other. He ripped an old shirt to pieces and tied me to the bed, before I, giggling, wrestled myself free and, sitting atop him, gave him the choice of being blindfolded, gagged or tied. His big blue eyes widened in surprise, but it's amazing what a day of flat-bound captivity does to a girl's sex drive. We compromised on blindfold and bindings.
'Christ,' he murmured, through the maze of my hair, 'I've missed you......'
I stayed with Proper Boyfriend towards the end of last week and, once more, had explosive sex all over his house. The more I see him, the more I want him - an unusual trend in a relationship, admittedly, but a nice one. And then I kissed him goodbye and buggered off up North to frolic with QIE. I rolled up late and he'd finished a 12 hour day so we didn't do much apart from sleepily take off our clothes and, at some point between his sofa and his bedroom, have sex. It wasn't particularly horny but it was strangely comfortable....him and I, ghostly moonlight pooling on the floor of his flat as we went through the ritual. He knows what to do to me to make me squeal and though he comes quietly, I have (cue poor German accent....) 'vays ov making him talk.'
The next day, he woke up early to go to work and I had the run of his flat. Resisting the temptation to peer through his life contents, I did however use his laptop (with his texted permission) and found a photo entitled
'Hannah Hartley Black Stockinged Fuck,' amidst a few of his daughter, his workmates and an aeroplane backed with a glorious, dying sunset.
It would be facetious to say that you don't know a man until you've been through his hard drive but to be frank, ladies, you don't.....the oldest bloke I've ever loved is my dad and I doubt that he sits there, ostensibly 'looking at his investment funds,' whilst scrolling through Thai Brides, keeping my mum at bay with cheerful replies to her domestic chatter, but it does make me wonder.....(cuts thought stone dead)
He came home at 6.30pm.
'Hey honey, I'm home,' he jested, walking up the stairs, and we kissed in the hall before moving the foot to his hall mirror where we undressed each other. I'm 6'1, he's shorter, his head just in the crook of my chin, his hands on my breasts, us both pressing up against each other, capturing the visuals of the moment. And then to bed, where we spent 90 minutes reacquainting ourselves with each other. He ripped an old shirt to pieces and tied me to the bed, before I, giggling, wrestled myself free and, sitting atop him, gave him the choice of being blindfolded, gagged or tied. His big blue eyes widened in surprise, but it's amazing what a day of flat-bound captivity does to a girl's sex drive. We compromised on blindfold and bindings.
'Christ,' he murmured, through the maze of my hair, 'I've missed you......'
Tuesday 15 January 2008
Better Late Than Never....
....where was I? At the pub, shaking myself dry? Possibly. Probably. Oh, and that was the weekend where I'd discovered that G+T trounced my usual red wine for taste, price and immunity to hangovers. So he'd bought a bottle in, plus the tonic, plus a single lemon in the fridge. But sod it, we were at the pub, his golden stoned place was at least a twenty yard splashy dash away so we hunkered down there to drink. Joined by another couple, we chatted, sometimes politely, sometimes veering towards politics....
'Name me a famous redhead who's NOT a tosser,' he challenged us at one point
'Thatcher,' I replied, remembering her hair being aflame, her mouth issuing terse statements.
'No fucking way!' he spluttered, 'don't get me started on that woman!'
Back to X Factor and Strictly Come Dancing then.....
Back to his flat. It was dark. He lit a fire (open, roaring). It got a little lighter and warmer around its stony hearth, above which was suspended an ancient tribal knife that he'd brought home from his own boy's adventure story. 19 years old. The Sudan. Pictures of him, in flares and a light shirt, a casual moustache and even more casual hair. We shagged on his sofa, the leather an intrusive companion to our intimacy. My legs wrapped round his waist, us cradled together, his hand supporting my neck as I gasped into the barrel of his chest....
And then? And then, I went home. Not immediately after the sex, granted. We spent the next day together, too. Again back to the pub, met some of his friends and gassed about things I'll probably never experience. I felt approving eyes on me as I went to the bar, the loo, as I scampered myself up comfortably in his lap, throwing cheeky asides into the conversation. He stroked my hair and looked slightly disquieted at this, his own tender action. And then, kissing him goodbye, I went home...
'Name me a famous redhead who's NOT a tosser,' he challenged us at one point
'Thatcher,' I replied, remembering her hair being aflame, her mouth issuing terse statements.
'No fucking way!' he spluttered, 'don't get me started on that woman!'
Back to X Factor and Strictly Come Dancing then.....
Back to his flat. It was dark. He lit a fire (open, roaring). It got a little lighter and warmer around its stony hearth, above which was suspended an ancient tribal knife that he'd brought home from his own boy's adventure story. 19 years old. The Sudan. Pictures of him, in flares and a light shirt, a casual moustache and even more casual hair. We shagged on his sofa, the leather an intrusive companion to our intimacy. My legs wrapped round his waist, us cradled together, his hand supporting my neck as I gasped into the barrel of his chest....
And then? And then, I went home. Not immediately after the sex, granted. We spent the next day together, too. Again back to the pub, met some of his friends and gassed about things I'll probably never experience. I felt approving eyes on me as I went to the bar, the loo, as I scampered myself up comfortably in his lap, throwing cheeky asides into the conversation. He stroked my hair and looked slightly disquieted at this, his own tender action. And then, kissing him goodbye, I went home...
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