Tuesday, 16 February 2016

Ginger Man and the Teddy Bear

So, Friday night.  I find myself in a Spanish tapas bar on North Street with a short ginger bloke with a beard.  I know, right?  How did this happen?  Have standards slipped that badly?

The thing is, we met on Tinder, and hit it off straight away.  We'd met for a quick drink in the Lion and Lobster the week before and stayed talking and laughing for 4.5 hours until I had to run for my bus.  (Incidentally, there's nothing like catching the 700 to Littlehampton at 11.30pm to realise you no longer live the rock and roll lifestyle - well, not that I ever did... but it really is full of some very strange people, most of whom get off in Portslade.)  And, even though he is undeniably short and ginger, he does have lovely brown eyes (a personal weakness of mine) and looks pretty fit.  He's also 5 years younger than me, which seems to be a theme at the moment.  So, lots of potential, ladies.

After a week of making each other laugh by text (and a couple of pics of him in the bath with some strategically placed foam - nice pecs, phwoarrr) we arrange to meet for dinner and have a great evening eating tapas and making each other laugh even more.  We are getting on so famously that he orders another bottle of fizz and we head off to Bar Valentino for cocktails, then back to his flat in Hove. He introduces me to his gorgeous 16 year old daughter and then starts a DJ set in his living room.  I like the music, no idea what it is, but it's good.  Apparently, that makes me candidate for Girlfriend of the Year and he says I've got to come and meet his mate next weekend and we can all make jam together.  (I think that's what he said, but he didn't look like someone who'd boil up a vat of soft fruits on a Saturday night.)

Eventually, after a home-made Manhattan (like I haven't already had enough alcohol - don't worry, Ginge, I'd sleep with a herd of buffalo at this stage), we head off to bed.  Now, I'm not sure whether I am going to be sleeping with him on this date (I know I used to be a slapper but it's only officially Date 2 and I'm a good girl now) but the quantity of alcohol consumed means I definitely won't be getting to my own home without a very expensive taxi so, even if I end up on the sofa, I'm  not going anywhere else now.  Luckily, I had taken the precaution of a good deforestation session and was wearing some decent underwear.  Nicely sexy, but not too "take me now, big boy".  I'm not sure he is expecting me to stay the night either (could he really get that lucky?) but he is absolutely lovely, telling me how he really, really likes me, and that he thinks this relationship could really have longevity, and how I am even more attractive in person than I am in my photos.  Well, swoon..... how often are men that articulate when it comes to a bit of verbal foreplay?  I am in heaven...  an alcoholic induced heaven, admittedly, but still, get it where you can, girlfriend.  Next he tells me I have nice tits, and starts passionately kissing and sucking them.  I'm getting nicely turned on by now, too.  He has a really fit body as he plays a lot of rugby and he is beautifully dominant in bed, pinning me down with my hands above my head, before working his way down my body.  Fairly soon (or did I just pass out for a bit?), I realise he's going down on me, which I think is really nice, but I really am just too pissed to be aware of all the finer nuances of sensation.  Not that it matters, any finer nuances disappear completely when he jams what feels like his whole hand up my cunt and starts thrusting it really hard.  Christ Almighty, what is he doing down there?  It feels like he's going to end up punching a hole in my uterus!  It really hurts and I start pushing him off.  I think he thinks me pushing him off means I'd come (idiotic man) - so we both just fall asleep.

The next morning, I feel like hell.  Massive headache, dry mouth, detached retinas etc etc.  Ginger wakes up and jumps on me for Round 2 and I half-heartedly respond, or as much as I can do with eyelids stuck together and a throbbing head.  At least, something's throbbing but it definitely isn't my genitals, or his by the looks of it.  Eventually, he sort of loses interest and falls off.  Again, I notice he hadn't got a hard on, but then, if he feels anything like I do, I can't really blame him.  We chat for a bit about what we're going to do for the rest of the weekend, and feeling a bit bad about my lack of effort in bed, and also thinking that his valiant attempts deserve a calmer, more civilized environment to pay off,  I invite him to mine for dinner later and suggest we can go to bed nice and early and play with each other.  He accepts, makes me a fantastic breakfast (of mushrooms, tomatoes, chorizo and fried eggs if you must know) and I head home.

Later I get a text from him saying that he is in the bath after his rugby match and has hurt his leg, but would be over as early as possible as he wants to see me again as soon as he can.  Rather startled by his desire to see me again so quickly, I rush to the shops to get some food and manage to tidy up, remove any embarrassing items, and prepare as much of dinner as possible before he turns up an hour earlier than planned. I meet him at the station and the poor man is really hobbling due to his leg injury (these rugby types are so rough - I wonder if he'll invite me to watch next time? yummy!).  So, instead of a romantic evening in bed exploring each other's bodies at leisure, I spend the next few hours running around after him - going to the chemist for painkillers, massaging his feet, bringing dinner in on a tray, spoon-feeding him dessert, mopping his fevered brow - and then, to cap it all, we have to watch the football highlights!!!  For fuck's sake, I mean, I know the man's in pain, but I'm not his bleeding mother! (Mental note: men 5 years younger might start to think I am their mother if I'm too nice to them.)  I stupidly think it's all over after the first ten minutes, but no, that's just the first match, there's more to follow.  I fall asleep.

Several hours later...well, it feels like it... he wakes me up saying it's all over now and we can go to bed.  I show him the way and I head off to clean my teeth.  While idly brushing my molars I suddenly remember that, in my rush to clean up before he turned up, I had forgotten a couple of embarrassing objects that were still in my bed from the night before.  Whoops.... oh dear!  What could they be, I hear you say?  Handcuffs?  A vibrator?  A Black Lace novel?  My secret journal of steamy fantasies?

Ha ha ha

This is how uncool I now am...

This is what happens to single middle aged women....

Item 1 - A pair of brushed cotton pyjamas..... and....

Item 2 -

wait for it........


Monday, 15 February 2016

Down, but not Out

Well hello again,  what a long time it's been.  Over 4  years of madness and mayhem and here I am back again, only this time writing from a flat overlooking the sea at a secret location between Brighton and Worthing.  So not really Brighton Blonde anymore then, more like Nearly Brighton Blonde.

When I last wrote, MM and I had just moved in together and I was busy shagging Lucky Jim and Sam the Surveyor.  Well Lucky Jim soon fell by the wayside and Sam kept on performing for a very long time.  A Very Long Time being roughly 4 years, start to finish.  Unfortunately, it also resulted in the end of my relationship with MM and almost the end of Sam's relationship with the poor woman he was sort of, but not really, living with.  Yes, dear reader (if I still have any), polyamory has a dark side.  Sam and I eventually both left our partners, moved in together, 6 months later he then went back to his partner (mine had, very sensibly, found someone new), then he started seeing me again (more fool me), we ended up back together, only to be followed by him bailing out, YET AGAIN!!!, and going back to his long-suffering ex.  With whom he is still, presumably, with.  Who knows?  He sent me a "Happy Valentine's Day, sweetie" message yesterday, so maybe he thinks he can circle in for another go.... erm, no thanks - not without a frighteningly expensive amount of therapy, "sweetie"!

Well, that was 3 months ago and let's face it, I had it coming.  I hear WAGS all over the country cheering and stamping their feet, saying "Serves you right, bitch..."  And, of course, it does.  The only caveat I very tentatively mention is that Sam was on a site looking for an affair... He was going to do it anyway.

Fast-forward and I am back dating again, but, read my lips - NO ATTACHED MEN.  It helps that I am now single and therefore looking for an actual relationship this time, it also helps that I got severely burned, have had to pay for months of therapy (well, there's a reason I always go for emotionally unavailable men) and have a 52 year old sex drive, rather than a 48 year old sex drive - which, believe me, makes me slightly pickier when it comes to who I jump into bed with.  Unless I end up in a Spanish restaurant on a Friday night with an IT consultant with sexy brown eyes, and 2 bottles of fizz and 6 Manhattan cocktails.  Which I did last Friday...  More on that to follow...

(Ooooh it's good to be back - I do like writing amusing smut.)

Sunday, 4 December 2011

An Ethical Slut?*

Well, the Sunday Times has done it again - not just one article on polyamory/sleeping around, but two!  (MM reckons that now that The News of the World is no more, the ST are utilising a gap in the sunday morning "sex with your breakfast" scene.  If it's in the Sunday Times (albeit the Style section, which gives it some cachet) then our lifestyle choice is becoming quite routine amongst the middle classes.

 "The More the Merrier" examines the ethics behind polyamory, which is based on open and honest relationships between all involved parties and, "What it Feels Like to be the Other Woman" is an irritating self-involved piece from some woman who goes round finding married men on websites (oops, that sounds a bit like me).  It's a pity my current tri-partite involvement reflects the "Other Woman" relationship model, rather than the "More the Merrier" one, but it's not for lack of trying.  It's just that most people are not cool about their partners sleeping with others.  Both Jim and Sam are happy to sleep with me, but neither would be happy for their women to sleep with someone else.  Although Sam did at least try swinging when he was with his ex.

So, how ethical am I being, really?  I am completely honest with MM - and we often discuss our relationship and sometimes we discuss the jealousy he occasionally feels about me sleeping with others.  (Interestingly, he is just as often jealous because, being a woman, it's usually easier for me to get laid than it is for him -so it's not always possessiveness, just the far more prosaic "it's not fair"!)  Nevertheless, I can't get away from the fact that the other women in my lovers' lives don't know and I do feel bad about that.  Not bad enough to stop, though.  The only way I can justify it is that both men were looking for an affair and if it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else.  The other thing I have noticed as well is that for Jim, at least, he seems to be happier in his marriage than he was when I met him.  He was talking about leaving her within the next year but now they are looking to move house together.  I don't know whether seeing me has relieved some of the frustration and unhappiness he was feeling, but I do hope so.

All in all, things have settled down nicely for me - I see Jim and Sam alternately, usually one in one week and the other the week after. Affection is a big part of it for me and both are affectionate as well as good lovers.  I like to hear about their lives and they hear about mine.  I want them to have a nice time with me, and they want me to enjoy myself too.  None of us are falling in love, but I hope that we are becoming friends as well as lovers.  I know I'm a slut, but I like to think that, on the whole, I'm an ethical one.

*"The Ethical Slut" is a 1997 guide to "infinite sexual possibilities" by Dossie Easton and Janet Hardy.  I must read it...

Sunday, 27 November 2011

The Chandelier, the Sofa and the Avocado Bathroom

Having had a nice time with Lucky Jim, I turn my attentions to Sam, who has assured me that I won't get better than him.  It's an intriguing promise, and I do wonder if he realises quite how many men he is up against (I'm not in triple figures yet, but approaching my half-century, and I haven't had to complain about poor performance very often). Unfortunately, before our intended date I wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare where he has turned into an evil axe murderer and I am running for my life.  As I lie there with my heart pounding, I wonder if my subconscious is trying to tell me to steer well clear of him, but then put it down to good old Catholic guilt warning me that I will be punished for trying to sleep with 3 men in the space of a week.

Nevertheless, after we meet in the same Ditchling pub again, and he suggests I follow him back to his place in my car, I make sure I get his address and text it to MM, just in case I end up being a bloody corpse somewhere in Sussex - at least he'll know where to start searching for the body.  Once I'm in his house I watch for anything suspicious - the first being that the house looks like something out of the 1950s and he obviously doesn't live there, judging by the lack of furnishings, personal items, etc.  Well, he has already told me he only stays over when he's working late...or "entertaining" (nice to know that in these economically strapped times "working late" can still mean a bit of illicit shagging).  He doesn't double lock the door behind me, so I take that to be a good sign.  Next he pours me a glass of chilled white wine and he has a beer - I watch him like a hawk and grab the wine off him before he can tip in some Rohypnol.  Next we move into the sitting room (vast empty space, harsh lighting, with one ancient red velveteeen sofa and a pile of cartoon DVDs - sign of paedophilia?).  I am wearing a short wraparound dress with stockings, suspenders and high heels (well, not vertiginously high because I had to drive..) and it doesn't take long before we are snogging passionately on the sofa and he has his hands working their way up to my stocking tops.  I realise he isn't going to need any Rohypnol to get me into bed because I can't wait to get off the narrow, uncomfortable sofa and into somewhere with more flattering lighting.  I'm worried I look like Camilla Parker-Bowles before the makeover (after the makeover would be bad enough...) and although I don't mind keeping my eyes shut when being passionately grappled with, I was having to keep them firmly shut to avoid the 400 watt bulbs in the overhead "chandelier" lasering my retinas.  I love men, I really do, but how is it they are completely oblivious to their surroundings when getting a woman into bed?

Rather than ask for a pair of goggles (for me) and a blindlfold for him, I suggest we move to the bedroom and he leads me upstairs to a massive freezing cold bedroom, where the windows are wide open.  Bloody hell, how am I supposed to get my kit off in sub-zero temperatures?!  He apologises and shuts the windows - meanwhile I am shivering under the duvet refusing to take anything else off until he warms me up a bit. Which he does..... quite a lot, in fact.  He has a very slow, gentle way of making love, which is really rather nice.  In fact, we end up having sex for over 2 hours, with me coming 3 times, before he finally lets himself go and has a very long, satisfying, climax.  Nice stuff!  I have a lovely post-coital glow which lasts right up to when I have to go to the loo and find the nasty avocado bathroom - yes, honestly, it really was avocado. I didn't think anyone actually still had one - it should probably be listed.  Being an intermittent shag, rather than a meaningful relationship, I don't have to worry about his taste in furnishings - but, still, I feel for any other women who may pass this way.  Then he explains the house is due to be demolished and so nasty sofas, laser beam chandeliers and avocado bathrooms will all make way for a new development and earn him lots of dosh.

I make it home in one piece, and congratulate myself on finding 2 very nice men who are great in bed and just what I am looking for.  And both of them seem keen to see me again.  Being an upfront sort of girl, I have told both of them about the other - on the basis that it will make them more competitive and I will get more attention as a result.  I know - it's appalling, manipulative behaviour, but it seems to work - they both want to see me next week - in fact, they are both edging to be first on the list.  Now I have to ensure I share myself out fairly, as well as ensure MM doesn't miss out on his oats either.  I know I'm being greedy,so  could all this end up being more than I bargained for?

Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Lucky Jim and a Night at the Casino

I call him Lucky Jim because he seems to like a flutter and, from what he tells me anyway, seems to do quite well. So, a night out with him at the casino should be a bit of fun.  MM isn't too happy about it, though. He's quite happy for me to have sex with whoever I like, but he's not so keen if I actually get on well enough with them to have a night out with sex not necessarily on the agenda.  I sort of see where he's coming from but I could do with a night out with an attentive man, I've been working hard and need a break.

I decide that I may well end up wanting to have sex with him so I might as well dress for the part.  It's a warm evening, so I'm not going to bother with stockings etc.  I wear a silky, black wraparound dress that MM bought for me last Xmas.  It flatters my figure and shows a flash of thigh if there's a gust of wind (always a likelihood in Brighton), and I think it's a good look for the casino with a pair of black strappy stilettoes.  No knickers, which makes me feel a little kinky - especially with the ever-present danger of a big gust of wind.

We have arranged to meet at another Cricketers - the one in Brighton this time.  The taxi drops me off just in time and I see him standing in the doorway.  He looks surprisingly good in a sort of gangsterish sort of way.  Better than I remembered him looking, anyway.  We cosy up on one of the red plush benches and chat away.  I feel good seeing him again and just feel really relaxed with him, like I've known him ages, rather than it being our second date.  We head off to the King and I for a Thai meal and all through the meal I am aware of him looking at my cleavage when he thinks I can't see and at my legs when I get up.  It really is a bloody good dress.

Eventually we make it into the casino and agree we'll each put in £20 and see how long it lasts us.  He has a go at Blackjack but that's a bit hardcore for me - I just go on the Roulette.  A lot of the time we are standing watching the poker tables and every time we stop and stand, his hands find their way onto one part of my body or another.  At one point, he is stroking my arse through the thin fabric of my dress and then more or less has his hand between the top of my thighs from behind.  God knows what the punters on the table behind us are seeing, but I hope it's not putting them off their game.  Jim has quickly worked out I'm not wearing any knickers and he's having trouble keeping his hands from going all the way up my skirt.  He's also having trouble walking.  I have now realised that I actually fancy him quite a lot and my pussy is soaking wet, so walking is becoming increasingly uncomfortable for me too.  When he whispers in my ear, "what do you want to do next?", I have no trouble saying  "I want to go back to your hotel and go to bed with you".   He agrees that's a good idea.  Luckily, the hotel is about 20 paces away so we manage it without too much discomfort.

When we get to his room, I insist on making a cup of tea.  Don't know why, really, it's probably a bit of a passion killer, but I think we are both feeling a little bit shy all of a sudden.  He  lies down on the bed and I go over to him and start kissing him.  He slowly unties my dress and I take it off, followed by my bra.  He caresses my nipples then starts licking them, which drives me crazy with desire.  I undo his jeans and take his erect cock into my mouth and start to give him a blow job which he loves.  Then he puts his hand onto my wet pussy and starts rubbing my clit.  I am really turned on and it doesn't take long for me to come really hard against his hand.  I am desperate to feel his cock inside me.  I climb on top of him and guide him in.  It feels great and I start to move up and down and then, suddenly, he comes!  I can't believe it and neither can he - he is really embarassed and I am amazed. I think it's about 30 years since I experienced premature ejaculation and I am rather flattered.  Don't know if that's the appropriate reaction, but I rather like the fact that he is so turned on by me that he couldn't hold it in.  He has his hands over his eyes and won't look at me for about 5 mins, saying "god, I'm really sorry, that hasn't happenend since I was about 17.."  I tell him I think it's great.

After a hug and a chat and a cup of tea, I say I'd better be getting home.  He walks me to the taxi rank, apologising again, despite me saying there's no need, I had a great time.  In the taxi on the way home, I am feeling rather smug that I made a man come before he was ready (fortunately, having managed to get one orgasm in already for myself) and, came out of the casino with £6 more than I went in with.  So, all in all, Lucky BB.

Saturday, 29 October 2011

Coming thick and fast

Men, that is, not orgasms.  I realise it's 2 whole months since my last post, but that doesn't mean I've had another dry spell.  It does mean that I have been rather busy - work has gone mad, MM has moved in with me (well, we thought 10 years together was a good sign) and both my sons have dropped out of uni/college and decided to lie around in bed all day (well, not the older one, he has actually got a job).  So, the homestead is seeing rather a lot of male occupants while I'm out at work fighting bedbugs/cockroaches and other property-related problems.  Still, I've managed to find time for a bit of illicit naughtiness - though god knows how, most of my friends have stopped talking to me because I haven't rung them back for weeks.

It seems obvious that Aussie Bloke has dumped me (par for the course..) but good old illicitencouters.com is still alive and buzzing.  I decide that I've been too picky so far and that weeding blokes out on the basis of their photos and how witty they are on paper isn't necessarily the best way of finding a lover.  So, I go for the bulk-buy option and basically agree to meet anyone who can string a sentence together and doesn't live too far from Brighton.  So following Prep-Man, and ITMan, I meet, in quick succession, the following:
  1. an accountant (monosyllabic)
  2. a dentist (uncannily like my ex-father-in-law)
  3. a food-stylist (just no)
  4. a hygiene product salesman (strangely, maybe..)
  5. a print consultant (no, I didn't know they existed, either)
  6. a surveyor (thank god, at last, YES!)
I never thought I would get to the stage of getting fed up with being wined and dined by attentive men, but I really was thinking of giving up and taking up crochet instead, until I meet number 4, Jim - the man big in bog-rolls - at The Cricketers in Berwick.  I have on my normal pulling outfit of skinny black jeans and blue T-shirt and denim jacket. (doesn't sound much but it does make me look about 10 years younger).  I park up and am about to get out the car when this guy comes up and is grinning at me like a maniac. I realise it's Jim.  He looks his age (older than my specified max of 49) and, well, he would be the first to admit he's not handsome.  Let's just say he has an interesting face.  Still, if I've learnt one thing from all these dates I've had recently, it's that I can talk to anyone for an hour at least, usually two, and I can still have a good time, even if I never want to see the guy again.  So, I mentally plan to give him at least an hour, maybe a bit longer and then make my excuses.

Well, 3 hours later and we're still gassing away like we are long lost mates.  Jim is from up north and I feel instantly at home with him - I sometimes forget how different southern men are from those north of Watford Gap and I do sometimes really miss the open and direct men I used to take for granted.  The trouble is, I still don't fancy him.  So, when he asks me if I want to see him again, I realise I definitely do, I just don't know if I want to snog him.  As I'm in an open and direct frame of mind, I tell him this.  He is a bit gutted.  Actually, I am a bit gutted I don't fancy him, cos I really, really like him.  After a bit of huffing and puffing from him about how women always say looks don't matter and it's personality that counts and here I am being all fussy about his looks, I eventually agree to meet up with him next week for a no strings evening of fun at the casino and see where it takes us (into debt, probably, knowing my luck.).  Just to double check, I snog him on the way back to the car to see if there is any stirring in my loins.  There isn't, but there is a definite stirring in his so I leave him to it and head off home.  Don't want to be out too late because I have 2 more dates tomorrow (well, I'm getting fed up with it all, so I'm doing one at lunch, one in the evening to get them out the way, then I'm giving up for good.)

Lunchtime date in Henfield pub was OK, he definitely thought he was in with a chance and looked quite amazed when I said no.  Men are so sweetly egotistical it's quite funny.  But I am feeling a bit guilty about saying no to so many nice men, maybe there's a better way of doing it, but I don't know how.  I am a bit more hopeful about my evening date with Sam, the Surveyor, because we have had ongoing flirty texts for quite a while now.

I meet Sam in a pub in Ditchling (could write a pub guide with all this dating) and I like what I see straightaway.  He is tall and well-built, with a big smile and a big hug.  I feel instantly at home with him and we get on really well.  So well, that we start chatting about the website and what a good idea it is.  I see out of the corner of my eye that the guy on the next table keeps looking over at us and I remember I am supposed to be discreet.  I tell Sam we are being listened to and the guy gets up and goes outside.  We fall about laughing and start chatting about something else.  Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather - this guy comes back in and comes over to us and says "I do hope you don't think I was eavesdropping, but I couldn't help but overhear some of your conversation and, well, I'm quite interested in this website you were talking about, and I wonder if you would be good enough to let me have the web address?"   I go bright red, but being the obliging sort, write the address down for him on a beer mat and he heads off - straight home to his laptop, no doubt.  Sam is killing himself laughing and I am apologising, saying "I'm sorry, that was probably my fault, I can get a bit loud, I'm not being very good at being discreet".  Fortunately, he seems to think it's hilarious, which is a relief (Henry, take note...).  Anway, IE probably have me to thank for another customer in East Sussex.

After another drink Sam and I decide to go.  We have established that we would both like to see each other again.  I am looking forward to a nice snog in the car park.  He holds my hand on the way there and then, yes, we have a great snog.  AT LAST someone I fancy.  In fact, I actually say that out loud which surprises Sam - he can't believe I am so picky that I have had 8 dates in a row and he is the only one I fancied (or maybe he was being genuinely modest - nah, that theory goes straight out the window when he tells me I won't get better than him!!!!). 

At least the week has ended well.  Lucky Jim and Sam the Man are on the final shortlist.

Sunday, 28 August 2011

All Clear

Aussie Bloke carries on texting me for a few days after our last meet up but, within minutes of the wife getting back from her trip, he stops.  I send a few texts over the following week and he always replies, but the momentum has gone and, having gone from at least 5 or 6 texts a day from him, I am down to virtually none.  I suppose it's to be expected but, still, it would have been nice to be prepared.  I send him a text at the end of the week saying "you are a bit quiet with me these days, do you still want to keep in touch?".  I get back "yeah, sorry, been a bit hectic since they got back" which isn't a resoundingly positive response so I decide to leave him to it for a few weeks.  Maybe we'll see each other again at some point, or maybe it was just a "while the wife is away" fling.

Anyway, all is not lost because, out of the blue, I get a text from Sexinsussex, asking how I am.  I am excited that he might finally be out of the dog house and be able to meet up again.  In fact, like a Pavlovian response, I start getting moist down below as soon as we start texting back and forth.  Text chemistry is a funny thing - there was hardly any with Aussie Bloke, but loads in person.  Sexinsussex has it both ways.  Compare "Hi, what u up to?" (AB) with "would be nice to have my hard cock inside you" (SiS) and you'll see why I start salivating when I hear from SiS.  Unfortunately, he is still "being watched like a hawk" so doesn't feel able to meet up again just yet.  Am hoping he manages something soon though - after two blow jobs and a hand wank (for me) I want the full monty with him at some point.

Also out of the blue, I get a phone call from Mr EPC asking if I want to meet for lunch.  Now, that is a surprise - 4 months after shagging me senseless he finally rings as if nothing ever happened.  Luckily, he is the sort of person I can verbally abuse and make laugh at the same time, so we end up chatting for a while and agree to get together the following week.

Meanwhile, I have been back on IE chatting away to various chaps.  There are certainly a few fruit cakes on board.  Read this charming exchange with Pandects...

(Him)  "That's the main problem. Because the women don't pay, they just dabble. The whole thing is so distorted. Not sure why I bother with it. The last woman I met was telling me all the things she was going to do with me. When we met, she bottled it completely. Pathetic."

(Me) "Maybe she just didn't fancy you in person? It happens, the chemistry has to be right. Don't get bitter - I know a couple of men on here who are doing OK, so maybe lighten up a bit!"

(Him) "Fuck off"
Then, the following exchange with Cinnamon Toast:

(Him)  Am I your type, yes or no? It would be presumptuous to be too prescriptive. It would be wonderful if you had an optimistic outlook though. Together we could then take down the collective trousers of Misfortune and Pessimism, damn their respective eyes, and warm their heels from here to Putney Bridge, stopping off for refreshment on the way. Hurrah ! If you like what you read please mail me, and we can chat some more.
(Me) Liked the profile - very funny! Shame Nottingham is so far away, Been in the midlands for long? (I assume not, as you still sound quite chirpy and cheerful.)
(Him) I'm 50 quid an hour. And I don't do kissing. Or anal.
(Me)  sounds very cheap - I get £130 an hour, which would leave you in debt I'm afraid. And you'd have to add in the travel costs, as I don't bother leaving the balmy south coast. 
(Him) Do you take cheques ?
(Me) Certainly not! The sort of low life prepared to pay me £130 for an hour of ho-hum sex is likely to ensure funds have mysteriously disappeared from his account by the time the cheque attempts to clear. 
(Him)  Been there before, eh, pet ?
I'm still not entirely sure he wasn't joking...

Unfortunately, it is now holiday season and everyone seems to be going away, so IE is a bit bereft of talent.  Another problem is that the Sunday Times has just had an article featuring IE, so the place is awash with the type of man who reads the Sunday Times.  Now, I have nothing against Sunday Times readers, I read it myself.  I suppose I am politically more inclined to read The Observer, I just find it a bit boring.  Much better to read about how the underclass are tearing the country to shreds and we are all being overrun with immigrants while doing an excellent job in Afghanistan, than it is to read a load of mealy mouthed do-gooders blaming the riots on bankers - even if I am more inclined to agree with the latter.  Anyway, when it comes to bonking on the side, I would rather go for a Sun reader and they all seem to be on holiday.

Hence I find myself on a Thursday evening in a seedy pub in Brighton (because he is less likely to bump into anyone he knows there) with a deputy head from a prep school.  Followed by lunch the next day with a top IT consultant who has a degree in Maths from Cambridge.  Both lovely chaps - PrepMan being quite fanciable I guess (but not to me) and the IT Man being very witty and good company but completely unfanciable.  There's no getting away from it, to get me wet quickly you have to work with your hands.

So, all in all, my diary is back to being clear of bookings.  Which is a shame, because I finally get the all clear from the clap clinic and am raring to go again...