Baffled By My Own Sex

Do you remember NVQ? The guy I really wanted to talk to unencumbered by all the other people who were sending me messages? Well, we did communicate further, or that is to say, he did. I’d given him an opportunity -- by sending him my hotmail address -- to continue the semi-meaningful exchange we’d begun on the dating website.

Why did I bother? What a tosser! The next three messages from him remained on the website, and guess what he sent me? Links to other female members to show me what "horrors" he had found roughly in my age group.

Two things strike me about this.

1. Exactly what pleasure did this bring him? 
2. Why do the women feel the need to exhibit themselves in such an overtly sexual manner?    

One lady, whose boobs must be at least a size 48 ZZ, displays her wares almost to the full, braless, just a bit of fabric covering her nipples, which means that technically she can’t be removed off the site for nudity. The next wears a low cut leopard skin dress and, in a feline stretch forwards on what looks like her kitchen table, is showing all her bounty and licking her lips. Another straddles a motor bike wearing nothing but a teeshirt and thong and drinking from a beer bottle.  

Judging by the main sections of their profiles, which are well written and witty, these are professional, intelligent women. In fact, I kind of like the sound of them! They could be my new best friends! And if they want to market themselves in this way, who the hell am I to judge?

However, HOWEVER, what the hell possessed them? Their concluding paragraphs, which demonstrate a -- to me -- incomprehensible level of outrage, invariably rant at all the men who pass lewd, suggestive and /or disgusting remarks. They finish their profile by saying time-wasters and players need not apply.

Eh? What? Ladies, what did you expect?

How on earth can you imagine that such photos won’t invite unfavourable comments? Have you lost all your faculties? A decent guy is unlikely to get in touch; the what-seemed-a nice guy (NVQ) will forward your pics to other women like me: the guy who is after one thing and one thing only or who just wants to take the piss might contact you with a “Great tits!” or “I’d like to get between those two puppies!”

I just don’t get it. Can any readers enlighten me, please? 

Orgasmic!

My friends kept nagging me to buy a new gadget to awaken my feminine juices to their full capacity. So I have done. It's keeping me very, very busy. Take a look at this. 

Cool, eh?

Own up! Who thought I'd bought an altogether different gadget?  

Fooled ya! Oh and by the way...

My juice cup doth truly runneth over. 

I Should Have Said No

The doorbell rang: I was still in my PJs. To answer or not to answer – that was the question. I peeked out from behind the dining room window curtain.  Stella. This was quarter to nine on a Saturday morning for God’s sake, and I was neither mentally nor physically prepared for such an untimely visitation.


"I can see you," she said, "Open the door."

She was in her running gear and strode straight past me into the kitchen; I closed the door and schlepped after her. She deposited the usual two hot cross buns in the toaster and switched the kettle on.

"I’ve been thinking. What you have to do," she said, “is change your attitude.” I saw her wince as she spotted me wiping away the Exxon Valdez-like oil slick that was formerly my mascara sliming down my face. Weeell, I don’t care - it’s my weekend, my face, I can do what I want in my own house. Neh, neh, neh, so there. Who invited her anyway?

 “What attitude is that then, Stella?” You’d have thought that by now, what with the coiffure, threading and lasering, she’d be satisfied, but no.

“You’re not going on enough dates, and I know the reason for that. If you were in a Constant State of Readiness (What is this? The D Day landings?) you’d feel better about yourself and be open to more flirtation and suggestion. You’d feel clean, fresh, fragrant, most importantly prepared." I wondered if she'd overdosed on this; she was displaying something of the rabid evangelist in her missionary proselytizing ; or horror of horrors,Tony Robbins.

I must reiterate - Is there anything more annoying than someone who imagines she has some deep insight into the depths of your psyche purely on the basis of having attended a course on shoving candles in people's ears? Perhaps she thinks with a little wax removal, she can slide through the tympanic membrane into the eustachian tube and peer into all my defence mechanisms.  

“So I’ve booked you in for a Brazilian. “ she said.

WHAT? I hadn't seen that coming. “Stella,” I said, “I don’t need a Brazilian. I am perfectly happy with all current depilatory arrangements in my nether regions, thanks ever so much."

“Yes, you do need one.  It’s very unattractive to have stragglers."

‘STRAGGLERS?! I BEG YOUR PARDON! I’ll have you know I’m very tidy when it comes to down there.” Well, I am - but in a sort of 1960s hippy meets post-modernist hommage-to-Haile Selassie-and-his-Rastafarian-acolytes kind of way. 

What can I tell you – sometimes I’m bored on those cold dark winter evenings, and it beats macramé by a long chalk.

"Bette" she said. "Come on – you’ve made so many positive steps in the right direction. It’s a challenge." She makes it sound like it’s one of those A Hundred Things To Do Before You Die lists. How anybody can compare witnessing the majesty of the Grand Canyon to having your pubes ripped out is a mystery to me. Oh merde – now I’m going to have this on my brain all day.

“Anyway, come on. Stop bibbling on," she said, “and get dressed. First the Brazilian, then the Ploughman’s.”

Eh? What’s one of those? I’ve never heard of one of those. Must google. Is it like those kids who have furrows shaved into their heads? Ooer, can you really do that on your floofie too? Well, I never.

She looked at me like this. 

‘The Ploughman’s, you knobhead. The Ploughman’s you promised me for letting you use my story.

Oh I seeeeee!

Such language though! From that I instantly deduced she’d been spending quality time with her children. Well, as you can imagine, I thought her name-calling quite unnecessary. After all, the juxtaposition of two adjectival nouns (or is that noun adjunct thingies?) in afore-described manner would allude to a similar taxonomic origin, donchya think? Or quelque chose comme ca. Is there an English teacher dans la maison?

Anyway, the upshot of all this, my dear followers, is that (foolishly) I succumbed. 

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman with an Airline Ticket

Look what I got in the mail in response to this, this, this, and this.

Dearest Cuz B, 

I fear that woman Stella is getting far too much attention on your blog. I think I too should have my day in the spotlight; after all, it's been a while. Who is this Stella to you? I've known you for nearly 50 years, and what have you done for me so far? Absolutely nothing. Where were you when I needed a second pair of hands to provide terminal pillow comfort for my mother? An ocean may divide us, but may I remind you that you would have spent the first five years of your life stark naked had you not had the good fortune of being on the receiving end of all my hand me downs. I bet Stella never gives you any clothes. (Actually, Dani - she does. I am almost fully clothed by the House of Stella, but anyway...)  

So, Cuz, (I do wish she wouldn't use these vulgar Canadian abbreviations) here's my story, and unless I see it print, you will not be getting free board and lodging next year. You have been warned. 

Mike and I started chatting on Compuserve – innocent at first, but over the weeks we both came to the realization that we enjoyed each others’ company and minds (isn’t that always the way it starts!) Like you, I looked forward to the evening and weekend rendezvous online, and in between realtime messaging, we emailed each other. As we ventured 
into our third month of online acquaintance (and up until that point it basically was that; like-minded folks enjoying each other’s company), Mike asked if he could phone and we could talk in realtime.

That became a weekly habit – he usually called me as I just couldn’t afford long-distance phone calls. We exchanged photos… he was nice-looking enough, single, a year or so older than me, never been married. He had moved back home to look after his aging mother (I know, I can hear you saying “whoa” – in 
hindsight, yes that should have rung warning bells) and lived just outside of London in a small town which sounded just like one of those 
little villages where Miss Marples would have prowled about, knitting and solving murders. 

After six months, Mike suggested we meet. We were at the 
‘declaring our love for each other’ stage; really, the mind does play 
bugger when you don’t have to see a person on a daily basis. He offered to pay for my ticket… I was flabbergasted! After all, we’d been talking weekly for 
several months now… he was eager to meet me, I was definitely feeling 
this was a go. He had a good job (I’d checked him out) and all was 
above board – he was who he said he was, he worked where he said he worked, he earned a good salary; I had photos of his home, his village, his friends, him. I booked the flight for a month from the day I said yes – he paid for 
it. 

I started dieting and did all the usual things a woman does, i.e., body lotions daily, getting sleep, highlights in my hair, trying out new makeup, just like you’ve 
mentioned.

We continued our daily online conversations – the excitement of meeting, planning, dreaming, cooing, anticipating. We were both whipping 
ourselves into a mini frenzy over the upcoming encounter!) 

I was flying out on a Tuesday morning…. so the week prior, our conversations became quite heated – the heavy breathing was almost intolerable. But from Thursday onwards, I didn't hear from him. He missed the Friday chat too, until I finally tried calling him on Saturday. I thought something terrible had happened to him. No answer. I thought of calling his Mum… but figured she would have 
called me if he’d been in an accident (she knew, after all, that a 
guest from Canada was visiting the following week).

Saturday nothing. Sunday nothing.

At this point I was a mess. I couldn’t think straight, I was puffed up 
like John Merrick… red faced, blotchy, eyes almost swollen shut from 
crying. I tried calling his mother, no answer, his best mate, no answer. I had to go into work that Monday morning as I had to transfer my work to another person who was subbing for me while I was on vacation. I 
arrived at work – a sombre, pathetic-looking ghost of my usual jolly self, and checked my email).

“Dear Dani, I met someone at the pub on Thursday – really like her and we ended up together. I’m in love. Sorry. If you still want to come over, fine… but you can’t stay here. Mum doesn’t think it’s 
appropriate for a single woman to be staying in the house. M”

He’d sent that email to my work address! Not only did he fuck me over by shagging the first skank he met at the pub… he didn’t even have the 
decency to call me or send that heart-felt email to my home address. 

I phoned him from work. The conversation was short… to the point. 
“Errr… uhm… oh, I didn’t notice I’d sent it to your work. Ooops, no 
wonder you kept sending me those emails. Paula is moving in – so, I 
won’t be able to spend much time with you when you come and I can’t 
pick you up from the airport either, Paula thinks…”

I hung up on him.

About a week later I got an email (at my home address this time)  asking if I could return the money he’d spend on my ticket. I sent him a terse reply (to his office address) saying I’d cashed in the ticket and was hiring a lawyer.

I never heard from him again. And he never came back onto Compuserve  either. I actually changed the destination and flew out to Miami, Florida… to  visit with a chap who I knew from online – and before you say anything, Cliff is gay, a dear friend (still is) – and he was the first person I called after this fiasco. He was the one who said, “Come to Miami, I’ll show you a great time!” I did! And he did! 

I saw the Florida Keys, went down to Key West…. drank margaritas like there was no tomorrow, met his friends (all of them wonderful and precious)…  did the Miami club circuit. I was the belle of the ball down there…  surrounded by 5 fabulous gay men  for a whole week who wined and dined  me. And the best part? They all chipped in and paid for a 5-star hotel room for the night for me, complete with a hunky cabana boy (paid escort for the night) who taught me a few new moves! So… there you have it! A pathetic dating story but with a happy ending! D

You've got to hand it to her, haven't you? She's got class. 

From now on I accept all IM requests from people living a thousand miles away; I've never had a cabana boy. 

The Unfathomable Mystery of the Disappearing Prophylactic

Here it is - the one you've been waiting for. It's not strictly an internet dating story, well it is, but it isn't - Stella met this guy on the internet, so by my reckoning it counts. Oh and by the way, she'd like me to make clear that this is someone she's been seeing for some considerable time, and the brief glimpse into the website last week was just to show me someone who'd sent her a weird message. Most pleased we got that straight.

On Friday afternoon, while I was gently snoozing on the sofa with the Royal Wedding on for background noise, she phoned me from the doctor's.

'Oh my God! I think I could be pregnant!'
'What? WHAT?'
'I'm at the surgery getting the morning after pill!'

It transpires that she and Monsieur Merveilleux, after a night of mattress mambo, fell asleep in post-coital bliss, having not bothered to dispose of the condom and mucky contents thereof. In the morning when they woke up, they tried to find it. Nowhere! The duvet and pillows were all examined and subsequently stripped; they got on their hands and knees and went through every inch of carpet, under all the furniture, into the wardrobe; they scrutinised the walls, ceiling and window panes to see if it had stuck to one of them (I know what you're thinking - so, was I! What is she like?!? What exactly were they doing to produce such a wide range of possibilities? Actually, I don't want to know.)

Finally, they gave up the search. The condom had vanished!

Well, clearly there was only one place it could be, and as soon as he left, croissants and cafe having been served, she probed within. Nope! Nothing!

Five hours after the first phone call, she contacted me again.

'I'm at the hospital. Something's wrong.'
'What's the matter?'
'I'm really not comfortable and there's a bit of a rubbery pong,' she said.

It's difficult to know what level of sympathy to display when faced with such a comment, so - you know - I burst out laughing.

'Not amused, Bette. I'm at the gum clinic, ' she said. Eh? What? Why would anybody go to the gum clinic to have a condom removed? Where does gingivitis come into this?

'Not the gum clinic, you moron,' she said. 'The GUM clinic - Gyno-Urinary Medicine. Bloody hell, Bette. Where've you been for the past 40 years?' Clearly not in the same places as you have, Stella!  More's the pity...

Stella explained she had already thoroughly inspected within, and that her investigation had proved fruitless. An extremely competent and diplomatic nurse asked whether Stella and partner had (perhaps) been drunk the night before, and had (perhaps) failed (perhaps) to make appropriate use of a johny in their frenzied rush for rumpy pumpy.

'Madam!' said Stella, prickly with justifiable indignation. 'Are you calling me a tramp and a lush?'  Sorry - no, she didn't - it's the story teller in me... I can just imagine her saying that though!

Anyway, the nurse made her drop her kecks and spread 'em. A three minute rummage later, during which Stella said she thought the nurse's digital (in the original sense of the word) attempts to chart a course to her liver nearly made her faint, the nurse exclaimed 'Bingo! Got ya! It's hooked right right behind your cervix. Nobody could have found that.'

Once the offending item was removed, the nurse then asked Stella whether she'd also like to be tested for STDs while she was there. Such serendipity! A BOGOF opportunity! Those of you who know Stella know that she is Freebie Queen; two minutes at the Clarin's counter and she's managed to bamboozle the assistant into giving her a carrier bag full of samples.  Stella unsurprisingly accepted.

My dear friends, family and followers, I am pleased to report that she is clean as Kim and Aggie's u-bend.

Oh, finally, a little aside - Stella, you really are a brilliant mate for letting me tell this story. Ta, you old trollop. I'll stretch to a Ploughman's.   xx :)

Multitasking

The proper way to write a blog is to make it short and snappy and not bore the pants off the unsuspecting fooIs friends you've managed to con into reading it. Hi guys and gals! 

This appears to be rather long, so you may want to sign out now; I've had three cupfuls of finest French and gone into overdrive. I blame it on Stella; it’s her fault. She was round here on Friday night with a hilarious tale of her latest adventure with a condom – she's even allowed me to spill the beans in the interest of literary art my blog. Typical Stella. But for the mo', let’s get back to me, me, me!

She wanted to show me the photo of a guy she’d received an email from on the website, so we logged in using my account so I could check him out. By the time we'd found Stella’s new conquest, four new messages arrived in my inbox. Since she and I were chillin', no need to yack, I responded immediately. I’d penned two replies when another five magically materialized. Stella, meanwhile, was observing, mouth agape.

‘How do you do it?’

‘I've absolutely no idea. None.’

She can confirm (because she saw) I say nothing suggestive, nothing untoward - actually nothing remotely interesting! My initial responses usually resemble job rejections. You know, thank you for your interest. Unfortunately we have no vacancies at present because

a.       I am old enough to be your mother.

b.      I am old enough to be your grandmother.

c.       You live much too far away.

d.      I couldn’t possibly spend my life with a man covered top to toe in tattoos.

e.      I couldn’t possibly spend my life with someone who drinks like a fish.

f.        I couldn’t possibly spend my life with someone who looks as if they are about to croak, and I might have to bring toileting facilities to their bedside. (That is, of course, unless said person would like me to call the solicitor in for some immediate Will and Testament revision.)

The responses are possibly better phrased, but you can’t fail to grasp the gist. However, do these people give up? Not on your nelly!

A few of you dear unsuspecting fools friends have seen me up close and personal and know the truth, recent beauty treatments notwithstanding.  I can only imagine that the pics  Stella took concealed all the warts, whiskers, open pores, wrinkles, thread veins, crow’s feet, marionette lines and baggy bosom, belly and bum. It’s not that I’m pug ugly (Oh God, revealing moment of crushing vulnerability – perhaps I am!), it’s just that by no stretch of the imagination can I be described as pretty; so what draws them? Stella thought the same - I could tell, kept scrutinising me, thinking 'That ragged old bint is eight years older than me and look at the state of her! How can this possibly be happening?' 

In the end, she buggered off leaving me to field on my own, and I dealt with correspondence for two hours.  One rather nice man piqued my interest, but in order to keep the conversation going with him (on a very light level – actually a proper exchange of views and anecdotes, as opposed to mindless drivel), I obviously had to stay logged in.

When I opened my Hotmail account on Saturday evening I saw – wait for it - 51 – yes, you heard me – 51 – new messages of which 41 came from the website, one day; and this is because while I went to the convent, I withdrew my profile; so what with new guys coming on the scene, old guys resurrecting themselves, I ended up typing at the rate of one of Barbara Cartland’s secretaries.  Of course, not all of them were proper approaches; some were those 'Musslykok fancies you, wants to meet, thinks you’re a hot babe' tags which anybody with an ounce of sense deletes without even opening. 

I logged in to answer the nice guy’s (let's call him NVQ) email in the evening and hoped he might be there; then one of the half-way-OK bunch IMed me – too young, I’m not interested, but funny.  In another moment of reckless masochism, I replied, mainly to see if he was as sharp with no time to compose a response; he wasn’t. In the cyber flesh, he was lol man.  

Within fifteen minutes, NVQ is logged in, I’m IMing with funny-ish Cougar Chaser and, because all the others I responded to yesterday see I’m there, they send me more irritating messages. By this time I’m juggling about 9 conversations, and can I remember who is who? Can I fanny! 


That’s because I am so ancient I’m on the verge of Alzheimer’s; so I forget I've just been talking to Chap A about cooking and launch into something about rugby, and vice versa with Chap B. Chap C has just told me about his job and I reply with something about organic veg. Then I'm also 'nursing' the sweet, gentle guy who is  lonely and merely wants some cyber TLC; why do these people make me feel as if I have to provide this social service single-handedly? Isn't there some kind of agency that could be called in? Oh yes! Almost forgot - chap F is persuading me to revoke all previous emails stating I won't go on  a date with him because he's convinced if only we met yada schmada. And the bottom line? I only really want to talk to one of them, NVQ!  

The upshot of this malarkey is that I’ve sent NVQ my hotmail address, not my real one – just the one I reserve for dating and explained exactly why i.e. a much condensed version of this blog. Only when I pressed the send button did I realise I probably sound so firmly wedged up my own jacksie that he's unlikely to reply.

And then I’ll have to go on that sodding website all over again. Ugh.

I’ve just realised what the experience reminds me of  – walking through a souq. 
Never mind - Stella's condom story is keeping me buoyed. ;) 

Cauchemar! Kate Middleton - you have been warned...

Mon Dieu! What a nightmare! 

Before I went to the convent for my little vacation from internet dating I made an appointment. The whole exchange was super easy. OK - the guy was a little too old for me perhaps (have we been here before?), but not as old as Lettuce Man. It boiled down to ‘Your profile and pics sound and look nice’ from him, and a not quite so effusive response from me, but I was intrigued by the laconic three sentence description of himself. And then ‘Shall we meet?’ from him. 'Not immediately possible,' I said. He said ‘No problem.  Let’s meet as soon as you get back.’ How easy was that? Date sorted with none of the usual same-old, same-old preamble.

Upon my return from the convent, I emailed in the morning to check it was still on – two weeks is plenty of time to forget or change your mind after all. No response. By the time I got home from work there was still no reply. So, since I was un peu fatiguee, I dropped on the sofa, switched on the telly and had forty winks, but something possessed me to check my emails half an hour before the time of the date; he’d finally answered. Of course, he was going to be there! He was really looking forward to it! He had been thinking of nothing else for the past two weeks!  And here was his mobile number! By this time, I was not in date mood. Let's face it - how often am I?  Still, blergh, uh, the over-abundance of Tigger-like exuberant exclamation marks made me feel I shouldn't ruin his day; if he was going to make the effort to be there – his journey was far longer than mine – and since noblesse oblige, I’d better make an appearance. So I texted him I’d be there a little late, smeared on some alluring lippy and added the customary spray of Soir de Paris. 

The venue was a coffee/shop/wine bar/eaterie place. He was instantly recognisable as I walked in, not because he looked anything like his photo, but because he was the only solitary middle-aged bloke there. Sister Therese, who was my old English teacher, frequently lamented my lack of descriptive ability, and I'm afraid nothing has changed over the years. I’m stumped as to how to describe his face. But I’ll give it my best shot; superimpose a giant red spider’s web on a lard-covered sack of potatoes and you’ve kind of got the picture. In front of him were the remains of a pint of Guinness.

He offered me a drink (mine was a coffee) and bought himself another Guinness. And then, dear followers, began the long, slow torture. I swear I have never worked so hard. There was a reason for his laconic profile; he had next to nothing to say and, even when pushed, cajoled, encouraged, had only one topic - his local hostelry and inmates thereof and even that was all monosyllabic. Now, you may have noticed I’m not someone who struggles with talking bollocks and networking, so I carried on valiantly doing the decent thing by trying to bring him out of himself. After all, I’ve done psychotherapy courses! I am Anna Freud, see me roar. Lord! The effort! The labour! I could feel every sinew, cartilage, vein and artery start to calcify which all culminated in some kind of weird flashback or maybe a flashforward, I don't know – a vision of all my teeth cascading into my cappuccino.

I was desperate, desperate I tell you, to leave, but years of etiquette training made me offer to buy him the quid pro quo beverage. He went for another Guinness. And he would shortly be driving back to his house a good hour away. Ping! PING! PING! PING! As I sat down again, I realised what had made my teeth fall out. The answer was as plain as the W.C. Fields nose on his face. 

He was the carbon copy of my ex husband - in looks, personality and drinking habits. Why hadn’t I seen it immediately? I struggled on for another fifteen minutes, and then I really, really couldn’t do it anymore – I thought I might have to fish out the empty Grab Bag of Walker’s crisps I had in my coat pocket and start panting into it. I made up a crap excuse about not wanting to be wandering around alone in the city centre at night and said I had to go.

He came outside with me and said he would really like to see me again because... we seemed to have so much in common! Erm, WHAT? Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Don't laugh. Don't shriek. Don't be cruel. Deep breaths. 

Meh! 

And then I just couldn’t be arsed for a second longer; I told him I couldn’t possibly meet him again because he reminded me too much of my ex husband. Yes, I did. ‘There’s no need for that to be a barrier,’ he said amiably, taking my hand in his. ‘After all, you fell in love with him once.’

I was on the point of gagging by now. Yes, once I did. When he was a fun, interesting, nice-looking, go-getting, adventurous young man, which was before he too discovered the local pub on a nightly basis and became somebody I no longer recognised. 

Lock up the drinks cabinet, Kate. 

Next!