That's Life

Sorry again. This time I‘ve been on holiday, or at least out of town. Spent most of it with my family, visiting other family members or attending family functions. So now I‘ve done my duties, till Christmas at least. And I‘ve gotten rid of the guilt knot that‘s been rolling up in my tummy since last Christmas and can spend as much time this summer lazing about with my friends.

To wrap up how things ended with Carl though; we did meet once again.

He texted me the following evening and asked how I was doing. I gave him the perfect opportunity to get involved in a a little flirty-dirty text conversation by telling him I was about to get into a bubble bath, which I was. But he just told me to enjoy my bath and bid good night.

I wasn‘t all that disappointed, I really rather wanted to have an early night in than give sex with Carl another go.

But still, I wasn‘t willing to give up after one, not-so-great time so I called him a couple of days later and suggested we‘d go to a cafe that night. Which we did and it was rather nice.

And exactly just that, nice. We talked but there were no sparks, I didn‘t long to kiss him or touch him, even though we showed each other affection when we greeted each other. I sensed something was off.

Then he started to open up. He told me about his marriage, which had ended a year and half before but had been bad for the past five years and the end had been sudden and somewhat cruel. Not the least for his young children, whom he had solely looked after for the most part since.

So, Carl explained, he was finding it extremely hard to be intimate with me; he‘d been badly burnt and was still recovering.

I saw he was very uncomfortable talking about this and felt sorry for him. So I just leaned forward, touched his arm, looked him in the eyes and said ‘So what you’re saying is; we’ll never be more than friends, right?’

Never have I seen anyone so relieved to hear that old, over-used phrase. So, we kept on chatting and finished our teas. Then gave each other friendly pecks as we said goodbye and promised to be in touch soon.

I was feeling only a little melancholic as I walked home from the cafe. Carl was a good man, a great ‘candidate’ because we had so much in common. He was cute and funny too. So why didn’t we fall madly in love with each other? What was missing?

I only managed to walk two blocks though when, passing a pub, a young man (well, younger than me) addressed me. He was cute and looked harmless so I stopped to say hi in return. We introduced ourselves and he, obviously a tad drunk, said he worried about a beautiful woman walking home on her own after dark.

There was no way I was going to allow him to walk me home so I said I was a big girl and could take care of myself.

He still insisted I’d let him know that I’d arrived home safely and practically forced his phone number upon me.

I thought he was cute and agreed, continuing walking home thinking how funny this evening had been. First, I sort of got dumped by a man 17 years my senior and a few minutes later, someone in his early twenties had tried to pick me up!

I’d be all right.

Not...Great

Sorry it‘s been so long, I’ve been terribly busy lately but also...I guess I’ve been too frustrated to want to share with you the great disappointment. Too disappointed to want to admit my newest failure.

After the fabulous date, it was obvious Carl really liked me. And I liked him in a way that I found him interesting, kind, cute, sweet, intellectual, funny, surprising, impressive and he sure could kiss! Yup, he turned me on. I was very excited about all this.

So, I was certain I’d hear from him soon again and decided not to seem clingy or pushy by contacting him first.

Then two days passed, without a word. By the third day I forgot about being lady-like and texted him to see how he was doing? (Any man should know that translates into: Why haven’t you called me???)
But he just said he was fine, and how was I myself?

So I admitted I had been wondering if I’d ever hear from him again. He called right away, explaining nervously how he’d been trying not to seem too keen and keep his cool. We laughed it off.
And then he suggested a movie date the following night which I accepted, even though I had an early meeting the morning after for which I needed to prepare well. I didn’t care, I wanted to see Carl.

I had almost finished prepping for the meeting when it was time to run to the cinema where I met Carl, looking all stylish and cute, ready with the tickets like a true gentleman.
I gave him a lingering kiss because he just looked so adoreable there and we gazed at each other, knowing exactly what awaited us after the movie.

Which is why I didn’t pay much attention to it but concentrated more on stroking and squeezing Carl’s hand resting on my thigh.

As soon as the movie was over, we were at his place and headed straight for the bedroom.

It was...good. He was attentive and considerate and fairly passionate...but he didn’t say a word or laugh or anything. There was a certain lack of intimacy and afterwards he got up and put on a robe to go downstairs to get us something to drink.

That was considerate of him, but I could have gone for a few minutes without getting a sip of water, instead I would have liked to cuddle a bit and be silly, as you do. But he didn’t offer that at all, he didn’t take the robe off again and just sat on the bed, chatting. Chatting!

Yes, I had told him I had that early morning meeting and couldn’t stay overnight, but I didn’t expect him to want me out right away. There was something very awkward about this.

So I just got dressed and left, and the long, deep kiss in Carl’s doorway didn’t make up for the fact that I was leaving only 20 minutes after climaxing. And I didn’t feel any intimacy at all.

Dangerously Fabulous

So, last Saturday was the big date.

I was absolutely fabulous wearing that new dress as I strutted into the Sushi place Carl had picked. He was waiting there with drinks ready, at the best table in the house and had already ordered the tasting menu. I was impressed, he took care of everything! And he was looking very handsome in a dark suit and a dress shirt but without the tie.

The night turned out to be absolutely fabulous too. The food was exotic and tasty and Carl, not so nervous any more, was a dream company. I was amazed at how well he fitted the description of the perfect man I had so often preached about to my friends. He‘s smart, witty, educated, well-read, philosophical, a little nerdy, curious about everything, talented, artistic, musical, interested in languages and last but not least; funny. He‘s great at telling stories and I‘ve hardly ever laughed so much on a date before.

It even occurred to me that maybe this was it; maybe I‘ve found him? That was around the time Carl recited Shakespeare‘s sonnets after listening with enthusiasm to me explaining how my BA thesis had been about proving that Romeo and Juliet really isn‘t a love story.

So, I guess life with Carl would mean a lot of stimulating conversations. Exactly what I‘ve been looking for!
It turned out to be a long date. When the restaurant finally closed, we went over to Carl‘s place for some tea.

Obviously, no tea was consumed...but some saliva I guess. Yes, he‘s a great kisser as well. But that was all we did, I managed to tear myself away from him and go home, thus maintaining my ladylike manners as is my new technique.

I can tell you that the dress certainly did its job, though.

Got Myself a New...Dress!

And then...we met for lunch. I simply glided into the somewhat fancy restaurant that Carl had suggested, looking fabulous, and kissed him on the cheek as he shook my hand. He looked terribly nervous, which I thought was just charming.

We had soup and fish and talked and talked. He divorced three years ago and says he‘s not been dating that much as he‘s also busy looking after his two young children. Yes, bugger, he‘s nearing fifty and yet he has such young children, staying with him every other week. Oh well, I decided not to let it put me off though.

He turned out to be very intelligent and highly educated, both an academic and an administration type AND a hobby musician and writer! How perfect a combination is that?

I tried to seem not too impressed though, appearing to be a little reserved and modest (a new technique I‘m experimenting with). So I ignored several opportunities to show how witty I am and neither joked or teased him as much as I would ordinarily do, if I wasn‘t trying to impress a man.
I was just suitably passive and humble, fought the urge to pull out my purse when the bill arrived and allowed Carl to pay, as he seems to be one of those rare, old fashioned gentlemen.

Then he drove me home before going back to the office, said he‘d really like to see me again and asked whether I‘d have dinner with him this weekend. I of course accepted, as I find him very cute, very interesting and very charming. Then I gave him a feather light kiss on the lips and hopped out of the car.

I couldn‘t stop smiling for the rest of the day, called a couple of girlfriends and described the date to them in detail and then went shopping for a new dress. Yes, this man deserved a new, expensive dress for our proper date, no doubt about it.

Wound up buying a short, green patterned cocktail dress with spaghetti straps. Dead sexy. Hope Carl doesn‘t have some sort of a heart condition, this dress will most definitely cause a rise in his blood pressure...

Late that same evening I received a text message from Carl: 'Thank you for that kiss in the car. It was sweet, so are you. Good night.'

Aaaaaw...

Getting Excited

Things usually happen when you least expect them.

Last Thursday night I went out with my friend Hannah. We‘d been so busy lately that we had neglected each other and so decided to go out for dinner and afterwards we went to a pub as there was still so much we needed to talk about.

At the pub however, I noticed a group of men, celebrating the birthday of one of them. But it wasn’t the birthday boy who caught my attention, but one of his mates. I’m not sure why, he’s quite ordinary but with big, blue eyes and a kind smile. And distinguished grey hair.
I watched him for a while. He was too engaged in conversations with his mates for me to be able to approach him. It was a very definite mid-week guys’ night out, an occasion when women need to absolutely stay away.

But I pointed him out to Hannah, who grinned and said ‘I know who he is!’

It turned out she couldn’t remember his name but she knew he’s the chief executive of a certain regulatory authority. And when I asked her how she knew she took a sip of her beer and casually replied: ‘My aunt dated him for a short while last summer.’

I almost choked on my drink. Was my attraction to older men turning my friends’ mothers and aunts into competition? Isn’t there something obscure about that? Hannah laughed at my expression and explained that her aunt was her mothers’ youngest sister and quite a babe, so it wasn’t as if he’d been dating a knitting granny-type wearing reading glasses and an apron. Which was exactly the image I’d gotten into my head as soon as I heard the word ‘aunt’.

I was intrigued and so when I got home, I did some research. After all, I am a journalist, I have my resources. I found out his name, Carl, and no evidence that since the time he'd dated Hannah’s aunt, he’d gotten engaged or married. So I was fully in the right to contact him, I thought. The worst thing that could happen would be he not being interested and/or already involved with someone.

So I just sent a short message to his office e-mail address:
‘Hello there. I saw you at the pub earlier tonight but you seemed to be having such a good time with your mates that I daren’t interrupt. But you caught my eye. You can find out more about me If you google my name. And if you’re interested after that, I’m open to meeting up, for a cup of coffee or something. Otherwise, I apologise for taking up your time and bid you a good life.’

There, how could anyone not be flattered at receiving such an e-mail? I went to bed quite pleased with myself, but not really expecting anything.

The next morning, he had already replied. In fact, he had replied at 2am: ‘Hello there. I’d be more than delighted to meet you. How about lunch tomorrow? My phone number is ...’

Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me

Of course I wasn’t bad in bed, how absurd of me to even think that. I’m great in bed, I know it!

Not only have I been told so many times but they also keep coming back for more. My ex-lovers seem to find it very hard to let go completely. Even if they’ve fallen in love with someone else and are quite happy in a new relationship, they still slip once in a while and call, text or message: ‘Dreamt of you last night’ or ‘I just saw someone wearing a pink scarf and it reminded me of your pink corset’ (a bit far-fetched, wouldn’t you say?)

And sometimes I bump into them somewhere and they suggest there and then we take a spin for old times’ sake. Or call within 12 hours to say how nice it had been to see me, how good I looked and how they had just remembered that time we were in the shower together and...

So yes, I seem to do that bit right.

I’m also a great kisser; everybody says so. And by everybody, I mean everybody. Even my girlfriends. Because girls sometimes French kiss each other, yes, just to check it out and rate each other or even give advice on how to improve.

I wish guys would do that too, there’s hardly anything more disappointing than the apparently perfect guy ending your date with a terrible kiss. And you can’t say anything because you don’t know him that well yet; you don’t want to crush him, poor thing.
But the thing is, the bad kissers are usually the ones with the greatest confidence! They go in there, fill your mouth with their incredibly fat tongue, count all your teeth with the tip of it and then try to see how far down your throat they can reach. Once they know that, they start whirling it around, as if they’re trying to froth up your saliva, mixing in a fair amount of their own.

And then finally they withdraw and look down on you ever so proud, thinking that your silence means you’re overwhelmed by their passion and struggling to compose yourself. Which is sort of true, you need a moment to recover from a horribly bad kiss while thinking whether this guy’s worth trying on for longer.
If they’re as old as the men I usually date, it’s practically hopeless. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

When I was in my twenties, though, I fell hard for a forty-year-old divorcee. Expecting him to have enough practice after a long marriage I was somewhat disappointed with his kissing skills. He was good at everything else, but he just wasn’t a great kisser, despite having such tempting, kissable lips. He wasn’t exactly a horrible kisser either so I hung on. After all, I was in love.

Soon into the relationship - as I was trying to enjoy one of the perks about it: canoodling - he explained to me rather firmly that he didn’t particularly like kissing. I was baffled; how can anyone not like kissing? But no, he didn’t see the point in just kissing for ages without it leading to sex, or sexual intercourse that is.
And I realised, he was being serious. He had never kissed me passionately except as a part of a very short foreplay, followed immediately by removal of clothes. Which was probably why he was such a lousy kisser, he’d never taken the time to practise.

For a while, I managed to convince myself I could live without all that kissing. As long as I had this (what I thought then was a) wonderful man in my life who could satisfy me in the bedroom, I didn’t need kisses. Kissing was overrated. It was juvenile, just something teenagers do for hours on end while refraining from having sex. We were grown-ups, we didn’t need to suck on each others’ faces all the time, that’s just silly.

So I accepted the terms; no kissing unless sex was to follow within a quarter of an hour.

I lasted for about two months. By then I had started gazing at men’s lips everywhere around me, pouting subconsciously, longing for a good, deep, loooooooooong kiss. I got obsessed about lips, they’re colour, texture and shape, moist or dry, whether they were kissable or not, what they would feel like and how they would match mine. I even found myself gaping like a fish out of water in public, not grasping for air but for a kiss, any kiss.

That was it. I’m a great kisser and I need to be with a great kisser or no one at all. Simple as that.

Smooch!

What Did I Do Wrong?

Where should I start? We kept messaging each other and on Thursday, I had become a little restless. Knowing he was back in town, I invited Jonathan over to dinner.

Which was all very nice, the food was good and the atmosphere cosy, we talked and talked...and eventually I kissed him, because I needed a snog badly. And it wasn‘t a bad snog at all. Jonathan even pointed out what a great kisser I am, something I‘ve often been told but actually, it takes two so obviously he wasn‘t too bad at it himself.

In fact, we were so good at it that we didn‘t stop until noon the next day, as we both had Good Friday off work. And he only had to hurry home because of his dog, otherwise he would have been up for round four. But he had to go, thanked me for a ‘wonderful night’ and gave me a long, sensual goodbye kiss, saying ‘I‘ll call you tonight’.

My phone was not busy, silent or out of battery on Friday night, yet there was no phone call. Eventually, around 11pm, he texted asking how I was doing? I truthfully replied, ‘Tired’ so the second message was simply ‘Good night!’
I thought it was a little strange but since we had already agreed that this could never become anything serious, I didn‘t get too bothered about it.

But then, I didn‘t hear from him at all.

Jonathan works in IT so he‘s always online, either on his computer or his phone, plus he‘d sent me e-mails or text messages a few times a day since we started chatting. Now there was nothing. And no belated phone call.

Again, strange but didn‘t ruin my day, or weekend. I went out with friends last night, had a lie in this morning and then went over to my sister‘s for a big Easter brunch. No messages from Jonathan, not even to say ‘Happy Easter!’

This evening, I finally caught him online. Without further adoo, I asked him whether it was his habit to stop entirely talking to a girl after having slept with her. ‘No, no, it‘s nothing like that. I just don‘t know how to act, you‘re the first woman I‘ve been with since the divorce.’

WHAAAAT??? He had assured me otherwise when I asked him in the beginning, remember? I didn‘t know what to say so he kept going:  ‘Also, I‘m not ready for a relationship but in any case, I don‘t think online chatting is the best platform to discuss this.’

I was absolutely flabbergasted. I couldn‘t even begin explaining to him how he had exposed himself as a liar.
So I just reminded him that I wasn’t expecting a relationship out of this, that it had been clear from the beginning that we were just having some fun together, but I’d found it strange not having heard from him since he left my apartment.

Then I signed out. If he wants to talk to me again he’ll have to contact me first.

But I wonder, did he think I was that bad in bed?

First Date: Check

So, we kept on chatting. A lot. He told me where he works and as it happens, I know one of his colleagues so of course I contacted her immediately to ask her about him. She gave him her highest recommendation, said he was a really nice guy, sweet and easy going, and encouraged me to go on a date with him. Which I did.

We went out for dinner mid-week, at a cosy Italian place. Nothing too formal or overly romantic, very relaxed atmosphere. Jonathan turned out to be no monster at all, a little too thin for my taste perhaps but healthy looking and presentable. The conversation over dinner was very entertaining and I discovered to my delight that he‘s one of few who‘s familiar with my favourite musician, Neil Finn! He sure scored a few points there.

The weather was so lovely that after dinner we popped round to his place to collect his dog and went for a walk with it. It was all so casual and relaxed, didn‘t really feel like a date. In fact, I didn‘t have any butterflies or sense any fireworks. BUT...that‘s what usually gets me into trouble with men so I definitely think it‘s worth giving this one a chance. Besides, he‘s around my age and I really should try to associate more with those, it‘s not like all the older ones have proved to be so great.

So, I‘m determined to see him again. And he wants to. Unfortunately, he went out of town for a week, but we stay in touch via text messages, quite lively ones too.

Simply must tell you about some of the messages I‘m still receiving through the dating site. Yet another 18 year old wrote and said he really wants to experience being with an older woman! He then described himself in some detail, stating he has a 7.1 inch penis!!! Out of curiosity I did think about it for a few seconds, but he blew his chances by referring to me as an older woman.

The same day, I received a message from a 52 year old who stated both there and in his profile description that he only wanted younger women. I didn‘t even reply to him and got into a really bad mood after reading that.

Why is it that one man so desperately wants to meet a woman 20 years younger than him, without having a clue what she looks like, what sort of a person she is or whether she‘s intelligent enough, mature enough or funny enough to be compatible to him? Meanwhile, other men just can‘t get pass an age gap of 15 years, 13 years, even just 10 years, despite having gotten to know me very intimately? I‘m beginning to seriously wonder about that excuse of theirs...

New Friends Too...with Benefits

Back to virtual life though. I’ve been spending time on that dating site again, sifting through the idiots to see what I would find.

I found one who’s really into pregnant women...no hope for me there. Another one hadn’t been laid for eight months and said he was exploding, poor thing. I didn’t find that very appealing; probably a recipe for a complete, but short, disaster – such as those that were all too frequent during adolescence.

But then, I bumped into one who’s my age, divorced, no kids, loves animals and is a bit of a farm boy at heart. Doesn’t smoke and says he doesn’t party much. Sounds like a good guy. We started chatting and I quickly found out that the marriage had been very short; based on a hasty, ill-contemplated decision, he said. Isn’t that a bad sign? A man who gets too easily carried away when he falls in love, a romantic dreamer not in touch with reality. My commitment phobia instantly kicked in. This man must NOT fall in love with me; I wouldn’t be able to trust a word he’d say in that state!

The fact that he doesn't have any children also bothered me. I asked him straight out whether he wanted to have kids in the future. ‘Oh yes, I’m old-fashioned that way, I want a wife and kids and a good family life,’ he replied. That was it then.

I told him I had no plans of ever having kids. He didn’t say much but when I asked him whether he wanted to stop talking to me therefore, he said ‘no’. So we’re still talking. He’s not going to be Mr Ever After but we might be able to have some fun for a while. His name’s Jonathan.

It turns out he’s very recently divorced. I have no interest in being yet another man’s practice partner while he gets in the game again so I had to pry and asked Jonathan if he’d already, y’know, gotten things out of his system? *wink wink* He thought it was funny, but understandable, I’d ask. And assured me, he had actually been in a woman’s bed since the divorce. Thank God.

So I’m going to keep on chatting with him. He’s intelligent, witty and sounds kind. We might not be destined to be together but maybe we can enjoy each other‘s company for a while, if you know what I mean. *wink wink*

A New Flat = New Neighbours

Well, the most obvious resemblance between me, Carrie Bradshaw and Bridget Jones is that I work in the media too. Not so glamorous though, I’m a reporter at the domestic news desk of a daily paper.

And even though I occasionally get to write about something I find interesting, I’m more often trying to muster up enthusiasm for some death defying decision that may or may not be taken in some local council. At those times I'd much rather write about Saif Gaddafi, whom I find disturbingly good looking by the way.

But alas, it’s a paid job at these hard times, and I’m rather good at it so I can’t complain. And it’s going to look nice on my CV. I guess this blog serves as an outlet for my need to write about something other than politicians arguing over incredibly petty things.

I also tried to glamourize my life a little by moving into a new flat, in a little trendy neighbourhood. I love my flat and the fact that now I have a spare room-slash-home office. I’ve been doing some interior designing and now find my home so cosy that I need a really good excuse to be bothered to go out at all. On good days though I also enjoy going for a stroll in my new neighbourhood. It’s quite old and distinguished, and quiet despite being within a walking distance from a very busy high street. And the people here are friendly, smiling and greeting as I pass them. They’re also terribly healthy it seems, they walk, jog or bicycle and buy their groceries at the farmers' market, carrying them home in reusable canvas bags.

It seems that many artists live here as well, musicians and painters and a handful of actors, maybe to no surprise ‘cause we’re close to a theatre district too. Now, if I were vain I could drop a few names that are somewhat well known, but what sort of a neighbour would I be then?

However...I have discovered I have a neighbour who makes my heart beat a little faster. We’ve passed each other in the street three times and he’s started smiling and nodding as he goes by. I know who he is. He's the front man of a band that was quite successful when I was a teenager and he still has a boyish, rockabilly look that makes me a little weak in the knees. He must be in his late forties now though, but is still incredibly handsome. Of course he has a wife, a well-known actress - what else - slightly older than him and they’ve been together over twenty years, according to the tabloids. One of those rare, long-lasting, happy showbiz relationships. Oh well, good for them.

I’m still gonna enjoy those moments when we pass each other in the street and he gives me a big smile and raises his eyebrows above the forever cool ‘80s shades. Aaah...

True or False?

Some of my friends have started teasing me, saying I’m becoming a Carrie Bradshaw or Bridget Jones or something. Others worry that my career as a writer will end before it really starts because I’m copying that kind of literature and will never be taken seriously as a writer.

Therefore, I want to make a statement: Carrie Bradshaw is a fictional character! I am real, I exist! My life can sometimes be a little too eventful or colourful or what have you and I can see how that sometimes resembles that of a TV character but in no way do I ever try to imitate Carrie Bradshaw’s life. At times, my life has also been a little bit like a pathetic imitation of Bridget Jones’ life, now that I think about it. But I’m sure the reason for this is that Sex and the City and the Bridget Jones’ diaries were written by women and we, women, often have similar stories to tell. We find ourselves in similar circumstances and wonder about similar things, at least when it comes to men.

I did enjoy watching Sex and the City though, and often found I could easily put myself in the shoes of any of the main characters, but there was one thing I found absolutely unforgiveable. The writers had these four independent, intelligent, successful women, wind up with a guy; all four of them had a boyfriend/husband and were all beaming as they walked down a street in the last scene in the last episode; happy at last. 

I was furious. All through the series the fact that it’s quite all right, fabulous even, to be a single woman, had been emphasized over and over again. Finally, I thought, the message to women was changing. But nooo, it’s obviously only OK to be a single woman till the end of the movie or the TV series, then you better run and find someone before the curtain falls!

I promise you, I’m nothing like Carrie Bradshaw; there will be no curtain and no despair. As I’ve said before; if love comes along, then it will. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I just want to have a fun life!

Also, I obviously don’t earn as much as Carrie per word because I’m too busy making a living to keep having lunch with my friends, sitting in cafés, go shopping or visit galleries in the middle of the day, or attend restaurant and club openings mid-week. It would also never occur to me to spend 350 pounds on a single pair of shoes and I don’t think I’ll ever manage to persuade anyone to pay for a huge poster with my face on it on the city buses.

No, I’m real. One of the obvious signs of that is my ex-lovers who have suddenly decided to make contact again, to see how I’m doing, telling me how much they enjoy my blog and then, with a nervous chuckle, ask: ‘It’s not all true is it? I mean, you’re making all this stuff up, right? You write fiction, right? It’s not like you’re gonna mention that thing that happened with me...y’know, that weekend when we were at the cottage...?’

The Last Ever One Night Stand

And another month has gone by.
Well, after finally fully recovering from the flu, it was time for packing. Have spent the last two weeks cleaning, painting and unpacking. Not done yet, but getting there.

Anyway, also started chatting online a bit more with this guy I know vaguely, Tom, a friend of a friend. He lives quite a bit away, moved for his job and is often bored at night. He’s very funny and we’ve often exchanged awkward stories about our dealings with the opposite sex. But sometimes we’ve become rather intimate, in the way that we’ve confided in each other about well, private matters. I just found it amusing and relieving to share these things with Tom, not ever expecting to see him in person. I’ve told him horror stories about awful lovers I’ve had and we’ve asked each other very personal questions. Somehow, it felt all right to answer honestly questions like: 'What’s your favourite position?' or 'What’s the one thing that always turns you on?' – so I actually told him about the secret spot on my body where if I’m kissed there, I completely lose might and would collapse on the floor if the one kissing me wouldn’t be holding my upright. And other things, intimate things. For me this was just talk, in order to kill time or something and I had no intention of seeing this guy at all.

But a few nights ago, I received a phone call. It was Tom. He was in town and in the area and would it be OK to drop by for a cup of tea and have a look at the new flat? I knew I’d feel guilty if I’d said no, after all our weird, intimate talks, so I just said 'Yes' and made us tea. He sat for hours and we had a nice chat ‘n all but it was getting late and so I started to sigh and badly hide a yawn, to imply he was just about to overdo my hospitality. That’s when he announced that he hadn’t really sorted out a place to stay overnight and since it was well after hours, well...?

I’m so terribly co-dependent that I felt rude not to allow him to stay but, having just moved and not bought a sofa bed yet, I could only offer him the other side of my Queen sized bed. I made him promise to behave though. A promise which he of course didn’t keep and for some reason, I decided to go along with it, who can refuse one night of passionate, casual sex with a handsome, trustworthy guy?

However, Tom's moves in the bedroom were anything but passionate, or enticing, or surprising for that matter. He never seemed to act on impulse but rather came across as mechanic and meticulous. Everything he did was as if he was following a recipe and I realized he had cautiously studied everything I had ever said to him in our chats, memorized it all and was doing it all to me, in the order I had told him. But I didn’t feel as if we were having passionate sex; I felt as if I was a prop he needed to be able to follow a script. There was no impulse, no giving and receiving, just Tom putting on a performance to try and please me and impress. I didn’t like it at all.

It bothered me that he had actually ‘studied’ me like a possible opponent in a football match. He never asked me what I wanted to do or whether I enjoyed what he was doing; just assumed he knew exactly what I liked.

So I faked it, for the first time in years, turned away and went to sleep. Got up early to shower, before Tom would get any ideas and told him I had some work to finish at the office (it was Sunday) and had him drop me off there. Haven’t seen him or heard since. Mind you, I blocked him.

It's Not All About Looks

I got the flu!

Horrible, horrible flu. And I had no one to look after me so I experienced those rare moments where I cursed myself for being single. A boyfriend might actually be useful at times like these – to go to the pharmacist‘s for me, make me some tea, bring me more tissues and stroke my forehead gently. Then again, would a boyfriend actually do all that?
I remember a friend of mine being more than a little unimpressed when her boyfriend refused to visit her while she was sick, as he didn‘t want to catch the bug himself.

Anyways, I looked in the mirror this morning and was glad again about the fact that I live alone, I don‘t want anyone to see me in this state. Give me a couple of days, allow me to expose myself to some daylight...and have a shower, and I‘ll be fabulous again.

Talking about being fabulous, there‘s one thing about the notion about looks that makes me absolutely furious. And this time I‘m not talking about the demand for us all to be on the verge of being anorexic, having at least C cups boobs, glowing of fake tan and blinding people with our shiny, white teeth. No, I’m talking about the notion that any woman is grateful for any attention and compliment she gets for her looks.

As if we don’t know it ourselves when we look good and when not. As if other people’s opinion is the only way we can know for sure if we’re hot or not.

According to this confusing BMI thingie, I‘m apparently on the wrong side of my ideal weight margin, quite a bit far from it actually. And I don‘t need padded bras. But I try to keep fit so that I at least can run for the bus without fainting and walk up a few flights of stairs without being sweaty and out of breath when I reach my destination. Yet, when I look in the mirror I see a good looking, healthy woman. And when I dress up and put on make-up, to bring out my beautiful, blue eyes or to make my kissable lips even more kissable, I see a beautiful woman in the mirror, I can see it for myself. I know how to dress so that my curvaceous body looks its best and so, when I go out after having spent abundant time on my hair, make-up and outfit, I simply know that I’m drop-dead-gorgeous and sexy-as-hell. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble!

Therefore, a compliment from some drunk, drooling stranger in a bar doesn’t do anything for me, I don’t need a verification from the likes of him to know I’m a knock-out.

And, as I’ve stated before, men can never hide their interest, we sense the looks as soon as we walk into a room, even though we appear to be completely oblivious. We know when guys want nothing more than get their hands on us because we look gorgeous, and sometimes we even let them, if we’re in the mood.
But when I’m getting to know a guy, really trying to get to know him to see if there’s any potential there for us, in other areas than just the bedroom, I don't need to hear compliments about my looks, there's plenty of time for those later. If I meet a man in a bar or a party and within ten minutes he says something positive about my looks, he’s lost his chance. Of course I already know that he likes what he sees (or he wouldn’t be having this conversation) but if he really thinks I’ll be flattered if he pays me a compliment based on my appearances, he probably thinks I’m either very shallow or have a really low self-esteem.

Am I really supposed to think more of him and be grateful if he likes my hair? Well, he’d better because I spent ages getting it just right! Does his opinion matter all that much? Is he some sort of an expert or a stylist? No.

Some of my friends and family members also often bring my attention to the fact that some guy thinks I’m cute. ‘You know, Steve’s friend, Charlie, saw you at that meeting the other day and says you’re really cute. Do you want me to give him your number?’ Why on Earth would I want that? Do Charlie and I have anything in common at all? You have no idea? Oh, you don’t know him that well? I see. Sure, send me on a date with someone who could be an alcoholic, a gambler, a drug dealer, dangerous or a total loser...just because he thinks I’m cute. Why not?!

Lines such as ‘You’ve got the craziest eyes I’ve ever seen’ or ‘Damn, you’re hot!’ don’t actually do anything for me. If, however, after a short conversation I get compliments for being smart, witty, clever, funny, intelligent, interesting, articulate...well, then we’re on the same page! That’s when I get flattered and give the guy a little bit more of my time and attention, that is if I find him intelligent, funny and interesting too.

The Unpopular Girls

I hope you don’t think I’ve met Mr Wonderful and been busy canoodling instead of blogging. Far from it.

But what with the Christmas season I’ve been going out on the town a little bit more than usual. Although I haven’t given up on the dating site, I got a little fed up reading all those messages from pervs and invitations to dildo-clubs, threesomes or offers to become playmates for married men. So I decided to give the bar scene a little more chance.

However, charming drunk men are indeed a rare sight.

I enjoy socialising and talking to people though, both men and women, without any agenda. But if I happen to engage in a fascinating conversation with some guy, a wife or a girlfriend usually appears by his side and drags him away while attempting to kill me with her stare.

My friend has a similar story to tell. She’s living with someone but he’s not keen on going out much so I often go out with her and we have a good night on the town together – two women without a ring on their finger.

When we enter a place, we do notice the attention we get from the men in there, but it quickly drowns in the antipathy we sense from the women in there.

The single women see us as an unwelcomed competition and the others certainly have no intention of befriending us! I often feel like the unpopular contestant in The Bachelor in these circumstances. Yet, usually all we want to do is have some fun - as my friend isn’t single anyway - and not looking for men at all, especially not those who are already taken!

But it’s a strange feeling, sitting by a table in a bar or a club feeling as if you’ve got leprosy. The women totally ignore us except when they ‘accidentally’ bump quite firmly into us as they squeeze past us in the crowd, the non-single men glance at us nervously and at the most dare to give us a completely-non-flirtatious smile for a nano second, just to cheer us up a bit, before looking panicky around for the ‘supervisor’.

The single men however usually sit together in groups. A single man sitting on his own in a bar doesn’t stand a chance except perhaps, occasionally, with drunk, female versions of themselves.

But those who go around in small flocks often make sure they sit at the next table from us but are so busy being all macho and funny to their friends that they sit for way too long drinking and mustering up the courage to approach us. Still, they keep peeking at us, but look away as soon as we return their look, trying so hard to be subtle even though it’s always obvious that they've noticed us.

Men are simply hopeless at hiding their interest, just so you know.

I and my friend hardly ever have enough patience to wait for them to come over to talk to us so we stand up to leave for the next place. Then they suddenly look up with an expression of fright and regret and ask loudly ‘Oi, leavin’ already?’.

We just give them an icy smile and sail by. On our way to the door we pass a few women who can’t hide their relief when they see we’ve put our coats on and appear to be leaving on our own, just the two of us. Then they suddenly become ever so friendly, patting our shoulders and backs as they push us towards the door.

Yup, that’s usually what going out on the town means for us single girls.