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...