When The Messer Becomes The Messee

After eight weeks apart, Mr.S.P. finally returned to the sand pit. Although, by now, I’d lost almost all interest in him. I no longer fantasized about our lazy mornings in bed, instead, I was back to being busy with my own life - Ramadan was finally over and my social calendar was filling up quickly. But that didn’t stop me from seeing him.

I’d only been back in Dubai for a few hours, after a jaunt to India, before Mr. S.P. asked me out for coffee. I agreed. That evening, he picked me up from work and we went for dinner at a restaurant in a mall nearby.

Mr. S.P. was stressed. He’d had a hard first day at work and seemed to turn to me for support and advice. I was feeling forgiving, so I let him bang on about his job for a very boring 90 minutes, until he ordered the bill. As soon as the bill came, he asked if we could split it.

Ordinarily, I’d have no problem with this at all, however I felt a bit used – we’d barely spoken for six weeks and now, when he finally asked to see me, he bent my ear about his job and then wanted to split a 150 Dirham bill. Not only that, but he didn’t even offer me a lift to the metro station. I’d have declined anyway, but I felt he should have at least offered. His audacity, quite frankly, astounded me.

I smiled gracefully, gave Mr. S.P. a peck on the cheek and walked to the metro station in the blazing heat. With every drop of sweat that rolled down my forehead, I was sure I had no interest in Mr. S.P. anymore. But, I wasn’t going to just fade away into the background. I was going to play him at his own game…

Since our meeting that day, I’ve been texting Mr. S.P., asking him when we would be catching up again. I’ve asked him the question seven times over the past two weeks. No, not because I’m desperate – I actually have no interest in meeting him again – but because I want to see how long it takes him to say no. So far, Mr.S.P. has made out that he would like to catch up but that he’s busy with work / looking after his son / watching the rugby / seeing friends / sleeping, all of which are really pathetic excuses.

I hope he’s squirming, hoping I’ll soon stop sending him messages when I realise he doesn’t want to date me. But I’ve already realised that he doesn’t want to date me, but I’m not going to stop. Well, not until he finally admits he’s not interested. That’s if he even has the balls to do so. I suspect he doesn’t. I love knowing that he thinks I’m still into him when, in reality, I think he’s actually pretty gutless and a bit of a user.

At least, after one more text message from me asking to catch up, Mr.T.B. did let me down honestly and gently. I have far more respect for him now, and if I do bump into him, I’d be happy to have a chat, rather than give him an evil glare and bitch about him to my friends. After all, word gets around quickly in this city.

Some of my friends think Mr. S.P. is still married. I haven’t ruled this theory out altogether, as there are circumstances that make this feasible. After all, it was a summer fling and Mr. S.P. never arranged an evening out with any of his friends. In hindsight, it is a little suspect, but married men in Dubai are so good at covering up their tracks, I’d never really know. Most of them convince themselves they are single, which makes it even more difficult to spot tell-tale signs.

This totally puts me off having a serious relationship in Dubai, because the guy is probably either already married, or will cheat on me. I’m not sure I’d be happy in putting my heart and soul into something that can so easily fall through. I think I’m in a better position as I am; young, free, single and able to escape the clutches of any lying, cheating scumbag.

Ramadan Revelry

Most people in the UK would probably think Dubai during Ramadan is like spending an entire month in a Nigerian prison – insufferable. Perhaps for some it conjures up images of arid land, where pilgrims walk miles across the desert for a sip of water at sunset. But once the sun goes down, this couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Everyday, at sundown, the city comes alive. Lebanese restaurants are packed with Arabs eating meat kebabs and smoking apple sheesha. Malls are filled with Filipinos in their fast-food restaurants. And pubs, of course, are crammed with parched Brits who fill up on pork and beer.

Whilst this doesn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary, there is one thing missing that takes the buzz out of the city – music. There are no club nights, karaoke sessions or gigs during Ramadan, meaning most nights out are abruptly cut short by midnight, when pubs and bars throw out the drunks and shut the doors. But, there is a silver lining…

Ramadan is when most house-parties come alive. But these aren’t just any old house parties. No, these parties compensate for lost time. They go on all night and sometimes all day, there are themes, DJs and enough duty free booze to open up a Thresher’s. Dubai expat parties, during the month of Ramadan, are as close as you’ll come to reliving the debauchery of your university’s fresher night, which is why I, as a seasoned expat, seek out these soirees.

Of course, when an event invitation to a friend’s housewarming party popped up on Facebook, I immediately penned it into my diary. I then called Miss. E.D., telling her she would be coming with me. It didn’t take much persuasion, after one look at the attending list, she agreed and, later that week, we delved deeper and had a good look at who would be attending.

Scouring through Facebook profile pictures, Miss. E.D. and I discussed who we had our sights set on. There were three categories of men; ‘abso-fucking-lutely’, ‘wouldn’t kick him out of bed’ and ‘not with a barge pole’. Thankfully, not many of the confirmed attendees fell into the latter category, so we thought we were onto a winner.

On the day of the house-warming party, our girlfriend, Miss. G.G. called us saying she had broken up with her boyfriend. In our minds, the best comfort we could offer her was to invite her along to the party. After some initial hesitation, Miss. G.G. agreed, and so the three of us met at a local bar before heading to the house-warming.

I’d made little preparation for that evening. As sod’s law has it, every time I make an effort, I never get lucky, but if I leave my legs to look like cacti, and throw on the only dress on my floor that doesn’t need washing, I’m guaranteed to pull. After Mr. S.P. had told me to date other guys, and with so many hotties in attendance, I just had to risk it and hope I wouldn’t get too carried away by revealing my legs to one of these eligible bachelors.

As the three of us reached the 33rd floor, we could smell the cigarette smoke and hear bursts of laughter over loud house music. We knew we had the right place. I walked in first and spotted Mr. O.C., my friend who had invited us. I’ve known Mr. O.C. for almost ten years; we lived together in a million pound, six bedroom house in an affluent North London suburb for two years, when we were students. We used to have the most raucous parties that, seemingly, half the university would turn up to, so Mr. O.C. was well aware of what I could get up to.

After greeting us and showing us to the fully-stocked kitchen, Mr. O.C. introduced us to some of his friends. They were friendly guys, but they weren’t the ones we had our eye on. So after a few minutes, we moved back into the kitchen to refill and meet some new people.

I’d had my eye on one particular guy all evening, Mr. T.B., but I was feeling too shy to make a move. Mr. T.B. is Mr. O.C.’s flat mate. He was tall, stocky and had a smile to die for - exactly my type of man. I begged Mr. O.C. to introduce us but, when he brought over Mr. T.B. to where the girls and I were, I couldn’t say anything, which is not like me at all. After a minute or two of idle chit-chat amongst all of us, Mr. T.B. left us to it and I wanted to face-palm. Instead, I opted for another drink.

Several vodkas later and too many meet-and-greets to count, I noticed Miss. E.D. chatting to a toned, blue-eyed man in the corner of the kitchen. She was looking right at him, giggling, and I pretty much knew then that I probably wouldn’t see much more of her that evening. And I was right.

With Miss. E.D. having left the party with a beautiful stranger, I decided to look for Miss. G.G. I walked around the apartment five times but I couldn’t spot her. Had she gone home? I then looked for Mr. O.C., but I couldn’t spot him either. I helped myself to more vodka to compensate being alone.

From here on in, it becomes a little hazy, because the next thing I remember is snogging Mr. T.B. I don’t think much time had elapsed between looking for my friends and sharing a kiss with Mr. T.B. And I have no idea how we even started chatting, let alone snogging. All I remember are his hands sliding down my back and over my bum. Fuck. Bloody Spanx. It was then Miss G.G. reappeared with a huge grin on her face, but I didn’t stop to quiz her, I ran straight to the bathroom, pulled my Spanx off and asked her to hold onto them for me. I then reassumed lip action with Mr. T.B.

Shortly afterwards, Miss. G.G. left the party. I had no idea what time it was, nor did I care, I could have kissed Mr. T.B. all night. Despite being a big guy, he was incredibly gentle and his kiss was so moreish. In fact, it was close to perfect – not too aggressive or too soft, no teeth, excessive tongue action or drool, just perfect, affectionate touches. A few minutes later, Mr. T.B. suggested we go to bed, to which I agreed.

We went into Mr. T.B.’s bedroom and, there on his bed, was one of his friend’s completely sparked out. We managed to wake him and move him to a sofa in the living room, so we could snuggle in bed. And we did. Mr. T.B. was so cuddly; I just wanted to squeeze him. But then the effcts of the alcohol set in and I started to feel a little queasy. I immediately got out of bed and sat on one of the three sofas in the living room. I was too scared to go back to Mr. T.B.’s room in case I was ill, so I ended up passing out on the sofa.

I woke up a couple of hours later to my breasts being groped. I then felt the presence of someone else on the sofa with me. Was it Mr. T.B.? I opened my eye just enough to see who it was... It was Mr. T.B.’s friend who we’d moved from his bed to the living room. Still being out of it, I didn't say a word, I just shut my eye and nodded off back to sleep.

I woke up in the morning to find Mr. T.B.’s friend sleeping on the floor next to the sofa I was on, rather than on one of the other two sofas available. I got up, stepped over him and crept back into Mr. T.B.’s bedroom to retrieve my clutch bag. Mr. T.B. was awake. He looked at me, smiled and made a space for me in his bed. I explained to him I’d crashed on the sofa and then we picked up where we left off – snuggling.

We cuddled for hours, watched DVDs, chatted and ate pizza in bed. It was the perfect day. And Mr. T.B. was such a gentleman; he didn’t try to fuck, finger or grope me. I held him tight and decided he was definitely someone I wanted to see again.

Several episodes of Only Fools And Horses later, at about 8pm that evening, Mr. T.B. and I became a little more passionate. There was some seriously heavy petting for a while and then, despite my protests due to being in between waxes, I ended up fully naked.

By this time, the Only Fools And Horses DVD had come to an end and was now back at the menu, playing the theme tune on loop. Yes, I had sex to the Only Fools And Horses theme tune. Mr. T.B. and I laughed about it. It could have been worse, I suppose. It could have been Star Wars.

Despite having only known him a few hours, I was already smitten with Mr. T.B. There was something about him that made me think that this could actually go somewhere. He was so attentive, asking if I was warm enough, if he could get me another drink, if I wanted a Panadol etc. Something I found very rare in Dubai’s men. Perhaps because he had lived in the sandpit for less than a year, he had not yet adopted the Dubai Dickhead Syndrome (DDS). I hoped he never would.

Even though I didn't want to leave Mr. T.B.’s bed, it was time to go home, and he very kindly offered to drive me back, instead of leaving me to grab a taxi - another very sweet gesture. On the way to mine, Mr. T.B. and I decided we’d head to a juice bar before saying our goodbyes. We sat and chatted some more, sharing our juices (FRUIT JUICES!!!) with each other. Then Mr. T.B. asked me on a date…

I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him all over, but I refrained and coolly accepted his invitation. We finished our fruit juices and continued our conversation. As we left the juice bar, we swapped phone numbers and agreed to meet in a few days time. I was super excited. I gave Mr. T.B. a farewell kiss and headed back upstairs to my apartment, totally elated.

Over the next couple of days, Mr. T.B. and I exchanged text messages. On the second day, he sent me a text telling me he’d call me later that evening, which I assumed was to arrange our date. I stared at my phone until he called. We had a little chat and then Mr. T.B. said;

“I’m sorry, I can’t make it tomorrow.”
“Oh, ok.”
“I’ve got a lot on and my friend arrives from Australia on Thursday, so I need to prepare everything.”
“Ok, no worries, hon.”
“I might be around over the weekend, but if not then maybe sometime next week.”
“Ok. Well, I’m off to India on Tuesday but hopefully I’ll see you before then.”

Gutted.

I knew this meant he didn't want to see me, but I desperately held onto the hope that I’d see Mr. T.B. over the weekend. But, when I text him on Thursday afternoon, asking him how he was and if he was around, I received no response. And, two weeks later, he still hasn’t responded.

I’m not sure why, but his rejection stung. I was convinced he was different. And he’d asked me out on a date at a non-obligatorily moment. We were mid conversation, so it wasn’t an ‘I’ve-got-nothing-else-to-say-before-I-leave’ incident, surely?

I wracked my brains trying to figure out what happened between the juice bar and the phone call, but I could think of no reason. It’s terrible form for a guy to ask a girl out and not follow through. If you don’t want to go out on a date with me, do not ask me out, no matter how awkward the ‘goodbye’ moment is. Now, I’m forced to dwell on why you decided to change your mind and if I should contact you again, rather than just filing you away into the ‘Good One Night Stand’ memory.

So, guys, don't be so gutless and man the fuck up. Us girls will think more of you if you say 'thanks, but no thanks', rather than building our hopes up and then leaving us to come crashing down. And you wonder why we turn into emotional psychos. Jeez.

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

After the genital warts episode, I didn’t get to see Mr. S.P. and he has since jetted off to a Mediterranean island for eight weeks over the summer. That means he’d be away for the same amount of time as we had been dating. So, now what happens? Is our affair over? Do we date other people or are we holding out for a romantic reunion in two months time? I didn’t know what the etiquette was in this situation, so I left the decision down to Mr. S.P., which wasn’t my wisest of moves. Never leave a relationship decision to a man, you will always be fucked over.

With our relationship still a little tense after our argument about the zit on his penis, and Mr. S.P. not paying me the attention he had done when we first started dating, in my mind, I was ready to call it quits. I didn’t fancy the idea of waiting around all summer to get laid. And I was fed up with Mr. S.P.’s constant accusations and moaning, so I decided now was the time to call him and end it.

Dialing his number, I was nervous. I didn’t know what to say, as I didn’t want to hurt him and I didn’t want to leave things on a bad note. When he answered, my stomach sank. Luckily for me, Mr. S.P. is incredibly chatty, and he talks about everything and nothing for a long time. I let him take the lead on the conversation, until I was ready to say what I had to say.

“Umm, yeah, I need to talk to you about something… This isn’t really working. I mean, it’s just not great timing, is it?”

There, I’d said it. The worst part was out of the way. Now all that was left was the second worst part - his response.

“But we get on great, don’t we? And we have a really good time together.” Said Mr. S.P.
“Well, yeah, we do, but I just feel like… I’m putting pressure on you. And I don’t want to put pressure on you.” I replied.
“Oh no, you don’t pressure me at all. But I can see where you’re coming from. Look, I think you’re a fabulous girl – you’re smart, kind and really fun. Let’s keep in touch over summer and see what happens when I get back, ok?”

I wasn’t sure that was what I wanted, but I figured he could be a good back up plan, so I agreed to keep in touch and meet up with him upon his return. Ok, it hadn’t been quite the dramatic break-up I was expecting, but at least we knew where we stood. Until I realised I had no idea where I stood at all. Does “keep in touch” mean we’re dating other people? Does that mean I’m just his back-up option and that he’s not that bothered about me at all?

The next day I decided to chat to Mr. S.P. on instant messenger and ask him outright where we stood. I told him I wasn’t ready to drop our relationship just yet, that I liked him and I wanted to continue seeing him when he came back. I asked if he felt the same and told him I needed to know because, if he doesn’t, I won’t dwell on it all summer. I’d just done a complete 180. From wanting to dump him so that I could see J over summer, to desperately holding onto his leg, practically begging him to love me.

What was wrong with me? Was I acting this way because I couldn’t have him? Is it because I wanted him to really want me? Whatever was going on in my strange mind, I just needed an answer. Unfortunately, Mr. S.P. stuck to his last word and said we should keep in touch and see what happens in September. There was no ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m really going to miss you’ during our IM conversation, leaving me pretty clueless about his feelings.

I decided I’d date other guys in Mr. S.P.’s absence. I’d show him I was over our affair, firmly back on the dating scene and desirable to other men. When we next spoke on IM, he asked me if I’d been on any dates. The truth is, I hadn’t, as I just hadn’t found anyone worth dating, but I so desperately wanted Mr. S.P. to think I was slipping away, that I told him I was. He quizzed me about the man I was supposedly dating – how old he is? How many dates had we been on? Had we kissed yet? I made up answers for each and every question, none of which provoked a reaction from Mr. S.P..

I lost it and told him to stop asking questions about my date. When he asked why, I told him I felt uncomfortable about it. After all, we hadn’t officially broken up. But Mr. S.P., as usual, blamed me.

“Well, you’re the one dating, not me.” He sniped.
“I’m only dating because I thought you weren’t interested anymore!”
“Relax, enjoy and we’ll speak when I return.”
“How can I possibly relax and enjoy myself when all I can think about is you? Either I wait for a reason or I don’t wait at all.” I snapped.
“Oh, well that’s pressure. So date this other guy.”
“Thank you. Good. That’s all I needed to know.”
“Sorry, I don’t do pressure.”
“That’s ok, I don’t do stringing along.”

I was appalled that Mr. S.P. thought I was putting pressure on him and that he continued to treat me as if I were disposable. Even though I wasn’t dating anyone else, at this point, I really wished I was. I was sick of being made to feel like I needed an explanation, and I was pissed off that he could so easily disregard my feelings that way.

We agreed we’d discuss it when he came back to Dubai, so I made it my mission to find other guys to date in the meantime, and if I happened to meet someone I wanted to be serious with, I would drop Mr. S.P. like a bomb waiting to go off. After all, he was the one who told me to date other people, although I still don't understand why. Perhaps he's testing me to see how far I'll stray and how comitted I am to him? Perhaps he's just not that into me and doesn't want to continue dating me? Or maybe he does like me but genuinely feels bad making me wait eight weeks for him? Whatever the reason, I'm not waiting around to find out and if I'm still single when he returns, then he's a very lucky man.

Warts and all

Mr. S.P. and I had been dating for two months and, although we hadn’t had the exclusivity chat, I was fairly certain we were both serious about one another and that I’d soon be changing my Facebook relationship status to ‘In a relationship’, despite Mr.S.P. and I not even being Facebook friends yet.

It had been more than two years since I last had a boyfriend, and it felt quite strange transitioning from referring to Mr.S.P. as ‘this guy I’m seeing’ to ‘my boyfriend’. Nevertheless, I was smitten with Mr.S.P. and I was ready to swap my alcohol-fuelled nights out with the girls for long love-making sessions with him.

As a new couple, we had been very careful when it came to contraception. Mr. S.P. was so worried about any accidents that if his member so much as brushed my thigh, he’d start panicking. One day, during a particularly vigorous session with me on top, I pulled off Mr. S.P. to switch positions, when he noticed the condom had split. Rather than taking it off and putting a new one on, he stared at it in disbelief and immediately stopped our passionate embrace.

To Mr. S.P., this was a nightmare come true. He ranted obsessively about how he'd definitely impregnated me, that I'd have to take the morning after pill and how we'd have to abstain until we changed our method of contraception. I had to explain that it was highly unlikely I was pregnant, as he hadn't climaxed and I was at the least fertile time in my cycle. I also told him I wouldn't be taking the morning after pill as it isn't available in the UAE and that we didn't have much choice but to use condoms as I'm allergic to the hormones in the contraceptive pill. Mr. S.P. vowed celibacy if that was the case, stating that he'd rather be sexless than have any accidents.

This led us to our first argument of our relationship - I felt he was being irrational, and he felt I was being careless. With both of us being far too stubborn to agree upon a solution, I rolled over to one side of the bed and he the other. I soon realised I had effectively let him win.

Mr. S.P. rolled out of bed, pulled on his shorts and T-shirt and told me he was going to the shop to pick up some ingredients to make breakfast. As soon as I heard him shut the door behind him, I took the opportunity to make sure he didn't ignore my point of view...

I pulled out the little sexy nurses outfit that was in my overnight bag and slipped it on. I fixed my hair and make-up, put on red fishnet stockings and finished the outfit with my red high heels. I knew it wouldn't be long before Mr. S.P. would be back from the convenience store, so I sat provocatively on a ledge at the top of his stairs. Two minutes later, I heard his key in the door.

Mr. S.P. called out and I asked him to come upstairs as I needed his opinion on something. I heard him making his way up the stairs, so I pushed my chest out and pulled my stomach in. The second he clocked me, I could see his eyes light up an I'd knew I'd won. I stood up and gave him a twirl, he hot-footed it up the last flight of stairs, said "wow" and grabbed me by the waist. He pulled me in and kissed me, before making me twirl for him again. He led me to the bedroom, pushed me onto the bed and began kissing my neck. I'd definitely won. He pulled out the condoms, slipped one on and slid inside me before I could even muster the words "fuck me".

Still in my outfit and heels, the sex was incredibly passionate. I could see how excited Mr. S.P. was and it didn't take much longer for him to come. Although I didn't have an orgasm, I was just pleased to have had my way. Men are so predictable, that it took little thought or effort to make him change his mind. We joked about it afterwards but that wasn't the end of it...

A few days later, Mr. S.P. came over to my place for the night. Strangely, we didn't have sex that evening but, at the time, I put it down to tiredness and being in a real relationship, where your libido drops and sex dwindles. After all, he is seventeen years older than me. I went to sleep thinking I'd get my fix in the morning.

As soon as I woke up, I started giving Mr. S.P. little kisses, hoping that his morning glory would turn into something more pleasurable for both of us. But he had other ideas and turned away, mumbling something about needing a lie in. I wasn't happy. Was this pay back for my art of seduction that I had meticulously planned the other day? Was he really that worried about it? Or did he just feel he could now stop pretending to act like a guy seventeen years his junior to keep up with me?

I sat up in bed and began reading my book, but after half an hour of page turning whilst running out of time before I had to head to work, I decided enough was enough and headed into the shower. As soon as I emerged, Mr. S.P. told me we need to talk and that I wouldn't like it. I immediately thought he was going to dump me, and so I embraced myself for the inevitable.

"I think you've given me genital warts" were the words that poured out of Mr. S.P.'s mouth. He then continued to tell me how he could have only got it from me, as he'd not slept with anyone else. I stood in front of him; wet, naked and open-mouthed. The first thing that popped into my head was that I hadn't noticed that I ever had genital warts. Then I realised, I didn't have genital warts. I'd only been to the doctor to be tested for STDs two weeks earlier and I was given the all clear.

When I told Mr. S.P. about my trip to the gynaecologist, he quizzed me about what, exactly, I was tested for. When I told him I had several tests but I wasn't sure what each one was for, he flipped.

"Oh that's just so typical of you, isn't it? You go to the doctor to get tested and you don't think to ask what you're getting tested for!"

It was at this point I wanted to slap him, but I turned away and counted to ten before giving him a piece of my mind. Mr. S.P. continued to the lay the blame on me and then he told me to look at him whilst he was talking to me. Was I eight years old being told off by my dad? It certainly felt like it, but I guess this is what I get for dating a single-dad who is almost two decades my senior.

Mr. S.P. then demanded I inspect the 'genital wart', pulling away the duvet and grabbing his member. I rolled my eyes, asking myself what the hell I was doing and why I, a girl who had never had genital warts, was inspecting my new boyfriend's penis for a suspect zit. I agreed to take a look, but there was nothing except a small red dot on the shaft. It certainly wasn't a wart and it didn't look like a sore. Yep, I'd been accused of giving Mr. S.P. genital warts when all he had was a bloody zit on his cock. If this is what a relationship is, I don't want it.

Being the hypochondriac that he is, Mr. S.P. moaned and moaned about this tiny spot as though it were terminal cancer. There was nothing I could say or do to reassure him, so I let him bang on about it, whilst I remained silent. I'm sure this was his way of punishing me because the condom broke. It was him trying to point out how careless I am, how mature he is and how we must abstain. Obviously, we didn't have sex that morning (the accusation of me giving him genital warts totally ruined the moment) and I wouldn't be seeing him for another eight weeks, as he was heading to Europe for his summer holiday, so it was going to be a long, dry summer in the desert for me!

Funnily enough, a couple of weeks later, Mr. S.P. told me the 'genital wart' had miraculously disappeared without treatment. I didn't receive an apology though, but it's definitely something I'll be bringing up when I next see him. I refuse to be a scapegoat for every health issue he has. I might be careless, but I still have my health and my youth on my side...

Third Time Lucky

I’d tipped my wardrobe upside-down searching for the right outfit for my third outfit with Mr. S.P. I wanted something playful, flirty, flattering and sexy. I opted for my, incredibly short and low-cut, navy wrap dress that has little red polka dots on it. Teamed with red heels and red lips, I was fairly certain this was the outfit that would stay in Mr. S.P.’s mind.

With my hair in curls and smouldering, dark eyes, I felt confident. Perhaps it had been Mr. S.P.’s perusal of me that had given me an extra boost. I felt excited and I prayed that, on this date, there would be chemistry. If there wasn’t so much as a quick snog, I thought, I wouldn’t continue seeing Mr. S.P. This was the third, and final, chance.

In the taxi, I kept checking my hair and make-up. Dubai’s summer heat made it incredibly difficult to look flawless after stepping outside for more than half a minute. I also wondered what Mr. S.P. had in store for me on this date. He’d asked me to bring a bikini and comfy clothes with me, which made me think we might be dipping into a pool or that he’d booked an evening at the spa. Neither of those guesses were right…

As the taxi approached the hotel, I finally felt a flutter in my tummy. I savoured the feeling, fearing I may not feel it again for a while. I walked into the restaurant and coolly took a seat at the bar. Mr. S.P. hadn’t arrived yet and I was aware that most of the men in the bar were staring at my cleavage.

I ordered a white wine and, as soon as I put the glass to my lips, Mr. S.P. appeared. He looked cute, with a huge smile on his face. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a compliment on my outfit. I don’t think it was how I looked that made Mr. S.P. smile, I think it was more that I had the confidence to wear the dress in the first place.

As usual, I was immediately comfortable in Mr. S.P.’s company and we chatted without stopping, only pausing to order another wine. Several vinos later and we were famished. We relocated to a table by the window and began studying the menu. Three courses and several more glasses of wine later, and we were both having a great time together.

I begged Mr. S.P. to let me in on what we’d be doing in the next part of our date, but my begging was futile. We did, however, decide it was time to move on to the next part of the date and the suspense was killing me. As soon as we’d hopped into a taxi and Mr. S.P. had told the taxi driver where to go, I knew we were going to Mr. S.P.’s place. But why did he tell me to bring a bikini?

When we arrived at Mr. S.P.’s, he poured me a drink and told me to put on my bikini and wait downstairs until he was ready. At this point, I had absolutely no idea what was happening. It was the first time I’d been to his place and, as I changed into my bikini, I looked around and noticed how immaculate and neatly placed everything was. Then I heard my name being called from upstairs.

I walked up the marble steps and onto the landing. Mr. S.P. took my hand and led me to the bedroom. Bearing in mind we hadn’t even shared a kiss, I was wondering what to expect. As I took a step into his room, I could see he had filled it with candles. Whilst, admittedly, I did find it a little corny, it also filled me with delight. No guy had ever made that much effort for me before and I was really touched.

On the bed, Mr. S.P. had laid out a massage mat and he’d lined up all his massage oils on the bedside table. He asked me if I was ok and then told me to lie down on my front. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel awkward, which must have been something to do with the wine. Mr. S.P. let me choose some music to play from my iPhone, and then he began to massage my back.

His hands were warm and soft and his touch was gentle but effective. As his hands worked my body, I felt it tingle. As soon as he unhooked my bikini top, I knew I wanted his hands to explore the rest of my body. And as he caressed me, I drifted off into an ethereal state. It was quite possibly the best massage I had ever experienced.

As soon as Mr. S.P. had finished, I pulled myself up. His groin was level with my face, but he leant down and we finally shared our first kiss. Whilst it was most certainly passionate, he wasn’t the best kisser I’d ever come across. What pops into my mind when I think of that kiss is... teeth. After a minute or two, Mr. S.P. was lying on top of me and I was feeling the full force of his kissing. I pushed him up by his chest to control the force, which seemed to help, and we shared a slightly more delicate kiss.

I was already topless from the massage, so I felt it was only fair to pull Mr. S.P.’s t-shirt off. His body impressed me. Despite his slender frame, he was perfectly toned without having overdone it. It was very sexy, and when he pushed his chest against mine, I immediately knew I wanted to have him.

I continued to strip him, until he was completely naked and I received, yet another, pleasant surprise. Mr. S.P. may have not been the 6’3” guy I’d normally go for, but he most definitely made up for his shortcomings. I could not have been more pleased with the result when I pulled off his boxer shorts.

Mr. S.P.’s length and width were exactly what I would have hoped for and, just like his apartment, everything was clean and tidy. I could have squealed and clapped with delight! However, I managed to contain myself, instead showing my appreciation through the act of fellatio. And Mr. S.P. loved it.

Mr. S.P. then returned the favour, and I’m fairly certain I expressed my appreciation just as much as he had to me. Four minutes and one orgasm later, I was aching for him, but he had other ideas and teased me with his fingers instead. He flicked his tongue over my nipples and watched as I arched my back in pure pleasure. Enough was enough. For both of us. Mr. S.P. leaned over to his top draw and pulled out a condom. As soon as he’d put it on, he was sliding inside me.

Initially, Mr. S.P.’s size made it a little uncomfortable, but I soon became used to it and the sex was fun, caring and adventurous. It was all going so smoothly for the first time you sleep with someone, perhaps even too smoothly. There were no bumped heads, bitten lips or bruised thighs. But, as usual, my love-life cannot be without drama and, as Mr. S.P. flipped me over, I noticed blood on the sheets. At first we ignored it, but then it began to look like a murder scene.

I rushed to his bathroom to wash off and wondered what the hell was happening. It couldn’t possibly be my period, that was still another 10 days away. Had his size torn me? Had I developed polycystic ovaries? What was going on? Every time I stopped bleeding, Mr. S.P. and I would have sex again but then I’d begin bleeding. Again.

It was frustrating, irritating and, not to mention, embarrassing. Eventually, we gave up and decided to just snuggle in bed instead. It was still nice, and Mr. S.P. made sure to reassure me that it hadn't put him off me. He was concerned about my wellbeing though, which made me fall for him a little bit more. I was now completely smitten and so I decided to go to the doctor, to make sure everything was in working order, before the next time Mr. S.P. and I would get into bed…

Take Two

I’d come to the agreement with Mr. S.P. that I’d organise our second date. I wanted to give him a taste of who I was. No, pick your mind out of the gutter, I didn’t mean it literally. That would come later…

The first part of my second date with Mr. S.P was dinner. He picked me up from work in a taxi, and as I slid in next to him, I felt my tummy do a little flip. Was this the first sign of chemistry between us? I kept looking at him the entire journey, and I came to the conclusion that I did fancy him, but in more of a I-want-you-to-fancy-me kind of way, rather than the intense urge to rip his clothes off.

At dinner, conversation flowed and, yet again, I was intrigued by Mr. S.P. Tucked away in a quiet corner, we sipped wine, shared food and exchanged accidental, but electrifying, touches. Despite living very different lives – me; the eternally single, twenty-something, party girl with a flair for words and him; the forty-something, divorced, doting father with a passion for science – we seemed to have so much in common. Perhaps our commonalities come from our Mediterranean/British genes or the similarity of our upbringing, despite the age gap. Whatever it was, somehow, it had me hooked.

As a modern day woman, I paid for dinner. I wanted to. For a man to pay is expected but when a woman pays, I think it shows a lot more. I am financially independent, I’ve worked hard to be able to afford these luxuries, I have a generous nature, I do not take men for granted and I do not want you to think I will jump into bed with you because you buy me dinner. I like to start as I mean to go on and, in my mind, paying for a date shows that I’m an equal. There’s plenty of room for chivalry, but at no point do I want to feel that if I need to flee this relationship, will I feel bad for doing so because of all the expensive dates you’ve taken me on, without me doing anything in return.

After dinner, we strolled over to the mall. Mr. S.P kept frantically trying to guess what we would be doing next, but I decided to keep him guessing. It added a bit of mysteriousness to our dates and kept them fresh. It was only when he saw the ice rink that Mr. S.P realised what we would be doing. Now, I’m no pro on ice, but I’m no rookie either, so I figured I wouldn’t embarrass myself too much. Mr.S.P didn’t lag too far behind me when it came to ice-skating skills, although it took him far longer to get used to it than I did. We chased each other around the rink, gave each other rides and I even tried to teach him how to skate backwards. It was great fun, and after the bottle of wine at dinner, we both had enough dutch-courage to give it our best shot without being too drunk to stand up on skates.

We’d been skating for just over an hour and both of us had worked up a sweat, so we decided we deserved a well earned drink. Back in our regular shoes, we jumped in a cab and headed off for the third and final part of our date. Luckily, when I told the cab driver where to take us, Mr. S.P still had no idea where we would be going. I led him upstairs in Emirates Towers and into a small, smoky room with TV screens. Yes, I took him to karaoke!

Anyone who knows me will tell you I love karaoke. It’s entertaining for everyone; the amazing singers who show off their talent, the drunk group having a laugh and the non-participants who can’t help but sing along anyway. Mr. S.P. was pleased with the discovery of a new bar and he laughed at my confidence and creativity. I sang. Twice. And I think my self-assurance was attractive to Mr. S.P.

At the end of the evening, as we walked towards the taxi rank, Mr. S.P. slipped his arm around my waist. That was the most physical contact we’d had and, in a way, it was incredibly intimate without it being intimate at all. I reciprocated by putting my arm around him and tilting my head onto his shoulder. I felt so close to Mr. S.P. but the chemistry was still missing and it was then I questioned if I could continue dating Mr.S.P. There would definitely be one more date, as we had already agreed that it was his turn to arrange something, but beyond that, I was starting to think it might be a lost cause.

At the taxi rank, we wished each other goodnight. I desperately wanted to find out if there was any chemistry between Mr. S.P and I and so I tried to give him a peck on the lips, in the hope it would leave me wanting more, but he turned his head slightly so I ended up kissing him on the cheek. It was disappointing.

In the taxi, on my way home, Mr. S.P. sent me a flurry of text messages telling me how much of a good time he had. This was then followed by a phone call when I made it home. Now, I don’t know much about men, but I know a guy is keen when he follows up after a date like that. I’m not going to lie, it was nice and I was flattered, but I felt bad that I didn’t feel the same way. I wanted to feel like ripping his clothes off, I wanted to feel as though I couldn’t keep my hands off him and I wanted to feel that I wasn’t seeing him enough but, the truth is, I didn’t feel any of those things. All I could do was hope that our third date would finally set sparks flying…

Take Me Out

As some of you may know, I have recently been catapulted back into the dating game. It’s been a long time since I’ve been part of a courtship. Too long, actually.

I’ve been a member of a dating website in Dubai for almost a year now, but it had never proven to be fruitful. I found the guys to be either too sleazy or unable to communicate properly, and I certainly had no interest in meeting any of them. Then, out of the blue, a couple of decent guys popped up. Firstly, there was a very good looking guy in his forties, who I began exchanging messages with. He was refreshingly open and honest and his smile blew me away. Then there was the Dutch finance manager, who I engaged in some online conversation with. I found his brooding looks and well written messages very attractive. Both the guy in his forties, Mr. S.P., and the Dutch guy, Mr. P.C, asked me out. This is what happened:

My first date was with Mr. S.P. We’d arranged to meet up at a date-safe venue for dinner and a few drinks. Nothing fancy, but still quite nice. I was so nervous but very excited to meet Mr. S.P. We’d chatted online and over the phone a lot and seemed to get on well, so I was fairly certain conversation wouldn’t run dry.

As I waited outside the restaurant for Mr. S.P., I wondered if I'd recognise him and if I would still fancy him. The second I saw him, I instantly knew it was him. He looked exactly like he did in his photos. But, for some reason, I didn't feel that thunderbolt. We greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek, and Mr. S.P. complimented my outfit – a tight black and green belted dress, accompanied by killer black heels. As we walked into the restaurant, I told myself to give this a chance, that everything was exactly as I expected and that the butterflies would come eventually.

We sat down for dinner, and I instantly felt at ease in Mr. S.P's presence. He asked so many questions that, by the end of the evening, I felt he knew my whole life story and more. But, despite getting on so well, the zsa zsa zsu, as Carrie Bradshaw would call it, was still missing.

At the end of the evening, when Mr. S.P asked if I would want to see him again, I answered positively and told him that I would. Even if the the zsa zsa zsu never came, at least I had given it my best shot and it placed me firmly back on the dating scene. He dropped me home, despite living at the other end of town, and we parted with a double-cheek kiss. Ok, it hadn't been the most fantastic first date I had ever had, but Mr. S.P was a gentleman and very easy to get along with and I looked forward to seeing him again...

My second date was with Mr. P.C and, for some reason, I had higher hopes of there being more chemistry than there was with Mr.S.P. I'm not sure what made me think that, perhaps I had calmed the pre-date nerves having been on a date with Mr. S.P earlier in the week. Perhaps it was because Mr. P.C was closer in age. Whatever it was, I was really looking forward to meeting him.

We met in a bar which is local to both of us. It's fancy, without being pretentious, and has a great view. An ideal place for a first date. But, unfortunately, the place bears little or no significance when it comes to the success of a date. Whilst Mr. P.C and I were in an ideal setting, for the majority of the date, I felt like I was chatting to a fifteen year old boy who happened to have a responsible job.

Mr. P.C was the polar opposite of Mr. S.P. He was shy, not very forthcoming, barely asked me a single question, let me take the lead and had a lack of enthusiasm. Great, I was dating two extremes! And the chemistry I thought was going to make me melt was non-existent. Mr. P.C's lack of drive ambition and curiosity was a turn off for me. Up until nine months ago, he had been living with his parents in a small town in The Netherlands. Having not lived with my parents since I was 18, this was something I found a bit tragic. No matter how cool your mum and dad are.

As I jabbered away and asked Mr. P.C a number of questions, which were followed by single-syllable answers, my mind wondered back to Mr. S.P. I had really enjoyed his company a few days earlier, despite him being a little forward occasionally, but it was better than being sat across a table from someone who had very little zest for life.

I cut my date with Mr. P.C. short. When we parted ways, I gave him a peck on the cheek and thanked him for the pleasant evening. By the look on his face, I think he was expecting more of a snog than I peck on the cheek, but I just didn't fancy him enough and so I wandered off home.

After two dates, little chemistry and no snogging, I began to think that riding the proverbial horse wasn't as fun as I thought it might have been. Having only been in short relationships with friends or friends of friends, I'd forgotten what a chore going out on dates can be. However, being the trooper that I am, I decided I plough on through. Besides, I'd already committed to another date with Mr. S.P and didn't want to let him down. I'll let you know how that went in my next post...

London Lover

He’s been my on/off lover for almost eight years and, whilst we’ve never been boyfriend and girlfriend as such, I find my feelings for J are stronger than they have been for any man I’ve been involved with. I can’t bear to not have him in my life, not matter how difficult he makes it for me.

Having not heard from J for almost five months, I’d almost resigned myself to the fact that he and I are best off apart. I don’t want to wait around for him and he has his own life and family now. But on a recent trip back home, I couldn’t help myself and ended up trying to contact him one last time.

I’d lost my original UK number that J had saved, so I had to text him from my new one, which he didn’t have. I knew the curiosity of not knowing who the message was from would be too much for him and that he’d reply… he did. Within five minutes. I’d been calling and texting him for five months without a response and now he can reply in five minutes!

Our texts went back and forth until I finally told him it was me. Cue the barrage of texts explaining why he couldn’t reply to me in the past and how hard it had been for him to not reply. He then goes on to tell me sex with me is the best he’s ever had and always will be. If you knew J, you’d have been touched by that too.

An hour later, J called me. He told me how he’d missed me and how much he wanted to see me, even if it would only be for an hour. I caved in and agreed to meet him the next day….

In the past, I’d have always made my way to his house in Shepherd’s Bush but that’s no longer possible, so we arranged to meet at a train station in London. I didn’t like the fact I’d have to meet him somewhere else. I missed walking past my old flat, down his street and through his gate. I missed the anticipation of him opening the door and seeing that gorgeous smile. I missed him grabbing me as soon as I walked in and giving me a passionate kiss. It just wasn’t the same.

I still had butterflies before meeting J. I always do. He’s one of only two men that have ever made me feel that way. He picked me up from the station and the second I got into the car with him, I melted. I’d been angry with him the entire past five months and now I was putty in his hands. He looked gorgeous and all I could think of was planting my lips on his, but I wasn’t going to make that move this time.

We drove away from the station to a quiet park. It was a beautiful, sunny bank holiday Monday in London. It was so peaceful, and fluffy white clouds sailed through the perfect blue sky in the gentle breeze. We got out of the car and went for a walk, but we’d barely taken twenty steps before J grabbed me and gave me a kiss.

Nothing had changed. The chemistry between us was, undeniably, still there. Next thing I knew, we were traipsing through the woods to find a secluded spot. Pinned up against a tree, completely out of sight from passersby, we kissed more passionately. I knew what was going to happen. I’d been unsure earlier, but had prepared anyway, but now it was inevitable.

J’s hand made its way up my leg, over my thigh to my derriere. He was pleasantly surprised that I wasn’t wearing any underwear and it made our rendezvous smoother, given the location. J unzipped the front of my dress and put his mouth to my breasts. Nobody could do to me what J was doing. After more than seven years of sleeping together, he knew my body like the back of his hand. He knew how to make me melt and he used it.

All of my feelings for J resurfaced, and I couldn’t get enough of him. I knew it was dangerous territory but I couldn’t control myself. His kisses made me so weak. We had sex against the tree, and I held onto J so tightly. I never wanted to let him go. It was an amazing encounter and one I will never forget.

Afterwards, we went for a few drinks at a pub. For the first time in a long time, we spent time together where we weren’t fucking like animals. We talked, and for the first time since he told me he was having a baby, I saw things clearly. We both laid our cards on the table. We were a couple in love with far too many barriers to overcome to make it work.

J had matured greatly since having his son. He’d become the guy I’d move back to the UK for. The guy I could finally be honest with. It’d taken us over seven years to get there, but we’d made it. It’s just a shame there are too many obstacles in the way to make it happen. But that doesn’t stop me loving him. Or hoping that one day it might work out, despite knowing, in my hearts of hearts, that it never will.

We parted on a good note and J promised to keep in touch with me more regularly. Not because I asked him to, but because he wanted to. I wanted to cry when he left the pub. I’d missed him so much and the few hours we had spent together were so amazing. But, I was happy that we’d kissed and made up. Literally.

Since I’ve been back in Dubai, J has kept his word and been in contact with me. And for the first time ever, he was the one to arrange a Skype date. But now I’m wondering what I want from this relationship. Are we friends with occasional benefits or are we something more? Is this the ‘happy ever after’ fairytale every girl dreams of or is it going to be a complete mess?

I’ve been considering moving back to the UK for J, but my life in Dubai is pretty good, I’d hate to uproot myself and then two weeks later find out it’s not going to work. It’s taken so long for us to get this far, I’m not sure I can wait another 7 years to find out if it’s going to work for us. I guess all I can do is wait and see. I’m not putting my life on hold for J, but if there’s progress, I’ll definitely go with the flow…

I am beautiful no matter what they say...

Having been living in the desert for over five years, I’m well aware that this blog can get me into hot water, but I don’t know anyone crazy enough to report me. Most people have commented how much they enjoy reading about my escapades, and a few have mentioned they live vicariously through me. Some of the guys I’ve written about haven’t been too pleased about my blogging, but they know if they reported me, they’d be dragged down too. After all, they’re just as guilty as I am.

So, all in all, there was never a reason for me to make my blog private. Those who didn’t like what I was writing just did not continue to read it. Or so I thought. But there’s always one person who scrutinises every last detail in I write, nit-picking for faults or wrongdoings, so that it can be used against me.

Ordinarily, I don’t care what others think of me. I live my life by the rule that if I don’t want people gossiping about my actions, I don’t do it. That’s not to say I’m necessarily proud of all of my actions, but nor am I remorseful. I do what I do because I follow my heart. It may occasionally be selfish, but I’m no saint. If I lived my life thinking about every person my actions could possibly affect, I’d lock myself away in my room for eternity.

I do, however, believe in treating my friends and family with respect. I’d never do something to intentionally hurt them, but I also wouldn’t tell them everyone in the world will look out for them either. There are threats and opportunities everywhere in life, the world is not a perfect place. I’m not condoning inconsiderate behaviour, I’m just pointing out that it’s inevitable not to encounter it.

Which is why, after a recent blog post, I found it somewhat strange that, two girls I knew, found my actions so awful, they thought it was necessary to verbally and physically attack me. Despite them not being connected to any party mentioned in my blog, they were up in arms about what I’d done. I’d have respected their opinion had they not lashed out with a tirade of abuse, but their juvenile behaviour made me quickly realise it was not me who needed to grow up, as they had told me, it was them.

The abuse I received from these two girls had absolutely no affect on my feelings towards the situation they were so upset about, but it did change my attitude towards them. But it wasn’t the abuse that led me to decide to no longer pursue a friendship with these girls, after all, we can all get angry occasionally and say something we don’t mean. What changed my mind about these two were their lies... They insisted that all of my friends thought I was "utterly disgusting" and that none of them "had a good word to say" about me. I was then told that all of my “friends” were too gutless to tell me so.

WOAH!! Hold your horses, ladies! It’s one thing to insult me but to insult my friends? That’s just too far! When I quizzed my real friends about what they thought about me, and what I’d done, not one of them used the term “utterly disgusting”. In fact, they used nothing of the sort. Instead, I was told the exact opposite. Ok, they didn’t think I’d made the best decision (neither do I), but they did tell me they loved me regardless of any mistakes I made. Which is exactly why they’re my real friends.

The girls who had abused me made out that they were being my real friends and, therefore, had to take their advice. When I said I wouldn’t be, they became rude and aggressive. Not the sign of a true friend…

I’m not sure what their obsession with my personal life is. I can understand being nosey and wanting to know the gossip, but to try to control my actions and demean me is not sane behaviour. I’m not sure what’s going through their heads to make them think they have the moral high-ground, particularly as I’ve seen these two act far worse than I have in the past. It seems it’s easy for them to criticise other people’s behaviour, yet they struggle to look inward and rectify their own misdemeanours. Not that I ever judged them for being unable to do so.

Since all of this has happened, I’ve now erased these two girls from my life, and it feels as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I’m not dragged down, caught in unnecessary drama or feel the need to constantly explain myself and my actions to others. I’ve received a few messages from them since, but I didn’t read them. I don’t see the need, and am quite happy to live my life without these two. If they don’t like me, they don’t need to contact me, I’m more than happy for them to stay away.

So, despite these girls trying to bring me down, I’m still standing. As I’ve said before, my blog is not about what people want to hear, it’s about my personal experiences. Feel free to offer advice, but don’t attack me if I don’t take it…

Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know

My sex life is so sporadic, it’s practically non-existent. But, when the opportunity does arise, so to speak, you can guarantee it’s dramatic. I don’t think I’ve had one romantic encounter this year that hasn’t involved some sort of secrecy or surprise. My little black book has turned into a who’s who of freaks and cheats. So, it will come as no shock that the encounter I’m about to tell you about involves burns, bruises and a bout of bat-shit craziness.

One Saturday night, I went out with my American friend, Mr. Y.C., for a few quiet drinks at our favourite bar. Nights out with Mr. Y.C. are always good fun – no drama, great company and lots of dancing. However, although this particular evening started off that way, it certainly didn’t end in the same like that.

After a few drinks, I noticed a group of people turn up at the bar. As always, I had a good look to check out if there were any cute guys amongst them. Unexpectedly, I locked eyes with one of them, and it took me a good few seconds to realise why… It was Mr. P.L. He acknowledged me with a nod and walked past me to the bar. I immediately knew my fairly subdued night out with Mr. Y.C. would be turned on its head. And it was.

I tried to ignore the fact that Mr. P.L. was in the bar, but he made it pretty difficult. Every time I looked away from Mr. Y.C., Mr. P.L. was directly in my eye line. It annoyed me beyond belief. I was so fed up of pretending not to see him, I strode over and asked him what, exactly, his problem was. As always, with Mr. P.L., there wasn’t a normal response. At first he looked at me and smiled, which only infuriated me further. I asked him the question again and he proceeded to tell me to “fuck off”. Eugh. It was his standard response to everything.

Now I was angry. I’m a little hazy about what actually happened, but I think I must have grabbed his arm and given him an earful. Ordinarily, I’d have walked away from a guy at this stage but, no, I just couldn’t let it go. That’s definitely his influence on me. Instead, and I’m not a 100% sure how it happened, I scratched Mr. P.L.’s face. Oh, he was not happy. In fact, he was maaaad! First, he tried telling the bouncers to throw me out but they were having none of it, as I was a regular and they knew me well.

When the bouncers refused to throw me out, Mr. P.L. threatened to call the police, exclaiming to the bouncer that I’d abused him. As much as I’d have liked to have called Mr. P.L.’s bluff, I knew he was mental enough to call the police, even if it did result in the pair of us being thrown in the clink, so I took the opportunity to make my way home.

When I reached my building, I thought I’d text Mr. P.L.. Not to apologise. Not to demand an apology. Nope. I text him to tell him I knew he wanted me. I’m not sure what possessed me or how I could even think it was a remotely good idea, I just did it. His response? “Come”. It was already 3.30am, but I decided I’d make the ten minute walk to his apartment.

When I arrived, I rang the doorbell but he didn’t answer. I knocked. Still no answer. So, I thought I’d see if he was one of these people who left his front door open. Bingo! I let myself in. He wasn’t there, so I thought I’d have a cigarette on his balcony. I really should have just gone home, but sense seemed to escape me.

Mr. P.L. returned, and before I could put my cigarette out and turn around, he had me pinned up against the wall. This resulted in a fairly offensive fag burn on my finger, which is still lingering five weeks later. But I was drunk and taken aback (not sure why) by Mr. P.L.’s force that I barely noticed it until the next morning.

We kissed, we fought and we stripped. It was just as rough as it had been on New Year’s, if not more so. Our conversations were filthy, bordering on pornographic, and our inhibitions were non-existent. Mr. P.L. told me how he wanted me to turn up at his place the next day in nothing but a coat. That request stayed in my mind. I told him I’d planned to do that after our last encounter, but he was a dick and didn’t deserve it.

The sex itself was good, but Mr. P.L. can’t judge the fine line between pleasure and pain. I’m not sure if he pushed it to make me fight back, because every time he hurt me, I’d go wild and attack him, something he obviously enjoyed. He also asked me why I’d slept with one of his good friends, which I refused to answer. Mr. P.L. also took great pleasure in telling me how lucky I was to have him sleep with me. Apparently he’s a very desirable man, a statement I couldn’t take seriously.

I woke up the next morning to snoring that sounded as though it belonged on a farm. It was 7am, so I tip-toed out of Mr. P.L.’s apartment, hearing still intact, and hot-footed it home to get ready for work. It wasn’t until later in the day that I noticed the fingerprint bruises on my arm. My colleagues enquired what had happened to me, joking they could find out who’d done it by taking scans of said fingerprints. They were very prominent. But it wasn’t only my arms that were bruised – my hips, breasts and legs all bore the brunt of my encounter with Mr. P.L.. There was no way I’d be putting a bikini on that weekend.

The following two weeks there was a little bit of banter over text message between Mr. P.L. and I, until one night, I took it too far. That’s right, I’m the one who acted like a nutter. I was in the mood to get laid, and with nobody else on the scene at the time, I thought it appropriate to try and hook up with Mr. P.L.. I text him to find out where he was, but I didn’t get a response. Remembering his little speech about how he wanted me to turn up at his door, I proceeded to tell him I was going to come over anyway. And so I did.

It was 1am and I was intoxicated. Yet again. I rang the bell, to which there was no answer, so I rang again. And again. And again. I knocked. I tried calling. I generally acted like a psychotic desperado. Maybe I am… Mr. P.L. didn’t respond to me, which only infuriated me even more (it’s becoming a pattern). I text him telling him I was happy to sit outside his door all night and ring the bell. Ok, it was a complete lie, I was embarrassed being out there for five minutes, but I thought it might encourage him to open the door. It didn’t.

I continued to text him, but this time I was angry. I insulted him, told him he'd picked the wrong girl and then explained that I’d screwed one of his best friends two months earlier because he was better him. I can’t imagine why I thought that was a good idea, but it seemed so at the time. Then, I told him to look out for the blog. I knew he’d hate that, as my last post about him was the reason we hated each other in the first place. Thirty (yes, THIRTY) minutes later, I resigned myself to the fact that I would not be getting laid that night, and so I made my way home.

The next morning, I received a text from Mr. P.L. telling me I was insane and not to contact him again. I had to laugh. Here was a mental guy calling me insane. I’d have been incredibly embarrassed at my previous night’s behaviour had I actually liked Mr. P.L. Truth is, I don’t. In fact, I despise him. He was just a temporary distraction from the guy I do actually want to be with - J. I also knew my behaviour was completely out of character, and I would never have done it had he not requested it!

Needless to say, I’ve not spoken to Mr. P.L. since. When you’re called insane by someone far more mental than yourself, you know it’s time to reign it in. Although, after a few drinks, my sanity may well go out of the window again…

Mysterious Man - Part Two

I'd been thinking about Mr. M.M for two weeks. Sure, I couldn't remember his name or how we began chatting, but I did remember how fabulous the sex was. Nobody had made me feel that way before apart from J, and that's because we'd been sleeping together for over seven years. As much as I pined for a repeat performance with Mr. M.M, I resigned myself into believing it was one of those beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime, romantic moments.

Which is why on, what was shaping up to be, an incredibly unsuccessful night out with Miss E.D, I was surprised to be greeted by a very handsome Mr. M.M. He was as cute as I remembered, if not more so, and I immediately felt my heart beat that little bit faster. The second I recognised him, my jaw dropped. He looked surprised that I looked surprised. This, I thought, must be fate.

Mr. M.M had no problem introducing me to his friend who seemed to; a) know Mr. M.M is married and b) be well aware of his extra-marital activity with me. Whilst I found it odd that Mr. M.M hadn’t tried to hide his cheating tendencies, it also made the situation easier. I didn’t have to lie or bite my tongue in case his friend caught a whiff of what had happened and reported it back to Mr. M.M’s wife. In fact, it meant I could be downright flirtatious. And I was.

Several drinks later, it was time to leave. Whilst Miss E.D. and my other friends argued about whose apartment to go back to for an afterparty, Mr. M.M and I quietly slipped into a taxi and eloped back to his place. Apparently, his wife was away on holiday for two weeks and he intended on making full use of a free apartment. Although, in my mind, whilst I had been flirtatious throughout the evening, I only intended to head back to his apartment for a few innocent drinks...

Back at Mr. M.M’s, we chatted about our families and music tastes. He then started spinning some tunes on his decks whilst I hung out of his 27th floor window, smoking cigarettes, until he played a tune I loved, and then I’d have a little dance in his living room. His apartment was like a bachelor pad. It was minimalistic and didn’t really seem to have a woman’s touch. In fact, I had forgotten he was married until I spotted a row of cards on a book shelf saying “Congratulations” and “Mum to be”. For some reason, I didn’t let those cards register in my mind until the next day. I, subconsciously, completely glossed over them.

Amidst the drinking, dancing and DJing, Mr. M.M caught me off guard, grabbed me around the waist, and kissed me. It was hot. And whilst I knew where the kiss would lead, there was just no way I could resist him. Remembering how good our previous encounter had been, all my morals (the few I have) went out of the window. The kiss was amazing and, when I say amazing, I mean absolutely perfect. Even thinking about it makes me horny.

After a lot of kissing, we ended up on the sofa. Naked. It was already 6am and the early sunrise lit the room beautifully. Mr. M.M looked at me in a way which made me feel like we were totally in love with each other. The chemistry was immense and as soon as he entered me, I felt this huge rush. It was as if love, lust, passion and desire rushed through my body at that very instant. It gave me such a high, it intensified the experience even more. A feeling I’d only ever experienced with J before this.

As we made love on the sofa, I remember thinking how I never wanted it to end. We moved to the bedroom, although Mr. M.M was careful to expose me to as little of his wife as possible, and so we headed for the spare room. We continued our session and, in between all the kissing, Mr. M.M and I agreed we’d spend the entirety of the next day in bed. We did. And we soaked up every inch of one another.

I left the next day, totally elated. It had been the most passionate and intense sexual encounter I’d had in a long time. With my head in the clouds, I completely forgot about my favourite watch that I’d left on Mr. M.M’s dining table, and it wasn’t until I made it back to my place that I realised I wasn’t wearing it.

Without wanting to appear like some kind of crazy, obsessed stalker, I thought the best way to get it back would be to email Mr. M.M. I Googled his name and up popped his phone number and email address. For a moment, I did consider sending him a text message, but I realised I would be far too tempted to continue messaging him even after I received my watch. I sent him an email. I was very nonchalant in my message but, secretly, I’d hoped it may result in another rendezvous before his wife came back from her holiday. Unfortunately, it didn’t. Instead, my beloved watch was sent back to me via courier.

I’ve not heard from Mr. M.M since. To be honest, I’m glad I haven’t. As much as I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, I do feel bad for his pregnant wife. Although I’m grateful he didn’t hide the fact he was married, as he’s the kind of guy I could totally fall for had he been single. As it was, his audacity put me off wanting to pursue him, making it far easier for me not to become emotionally attached to him. He’s clearly a dog and, whilst he says all the right things to make you melt, he will always be a scoundrel...

Mysterious Man - Part One

One warm, sunny day in March, some of the world's top DJs descended upon a beach in Dubai. It was set to be a fabulous night at an amazing location, and so many groups of friends gathered at the beach to drink heavily, dance like they'd never danced before and have a whale of a time.

My group of friends were one of those to hit the sand, and the night truly lived up to its expectations. Arriving when the sun was still shining, I was in a great mood. The atmosphere was chilled out but you could feel it heating up, ready for a party. Some people were sat on towels and sunloungers along the shoreline, others were queueing up at the bar for a drink and some were already on the sandy dancefloor grooving away to eclectic beats.

Miss G.G and I rocked up to the bar, to buy a bottle of vodka, before settling down on towels along the shore. As the sunset, more and more people filled the beach. More of our friends joined us and our vodka was diminishing at an unimaginable rate. By the time all of our friends had arrived, I was already quite tipsy.

Another friend of mine, Miss S.S, took me on regular scouts of the entire venue, looking for hot men. I remember falling flat on my face three times. On one of those occasions, I had a beer in my hand and managed to spill it all over my own head. The night was reckless and feckless. It was unashamedly debaucherous, but everyone was having a good time.

Towards the end of the night, I remember chatting to a cute stranger, Mr.M.M. I don't recall much of our conversation, but I do remember discovering he was married. Shortly after finding out he had a wife, I walked off, but he pursued me and persuaded me to continue talking to him. We left the area where my friends were keeping a beady eye on me, and headed off for a stroll along the beach before heading to the bar for a drink.

Mr.M.M and I must have been chatting for quite some time because when we returned to where my friends were, it was as if they'd never been stood there at all. All that was left was my handbag perched on the table and an empty bottle of vodka slung on the sand. Mr.M.M and I decided to sprawl ourselves out on a sunlounger and chat some more. It would have been incredibly romantic if we weren't both completely annihilated.

As the gentle waves washed over our feet and the moon lit our faces, we had a little kiss. That kiss quickly turned into a passionate embrace, so we decided it was time to leave and both jumped into a cab together. As much as I wanted to rip his clothes off, I didn't intend to take him home, but it ended up happening anyway.

Back at my place, we continued drinking. We sat on my balcony, smoking and sharing stories about our felines. Mr.M.M loved my kitten and, as I've said before, love me, love my pussy. After a lengthy conversation, covering all sorts of topics, we moved to the bedroom, where we really got to know each other.

It was amazing. So much so, I'd go as far as to say it's the best I've had in a long while. He was strong, energetic and loving all at the same time. We weren't shy when it came to telling each other how much we were enjoying ourselves. It was intense, and we both knew we both felt how good it was.

When Mr.M.M left the next morning, it didn't surprise me that he didn't take my number, and there was absolutely no way I was going to ask him for his. It was what it was - a beautiful encounter that I would look back on fondly in the future... Until I realised I didn't even know his name. Or how I'd struck up conversation with him. I didn't even know what he did for work. All I could remember was that he used to have a cat named Captain Cocoa.

Over the next week, I wracked my brain trying to figure out who he was. I Facebooked what I thought was his first name, in the hope we'd have friends in common and his picture would pop up. It didn't. I quizzed all of my friends who were out that night, begging them for a lead as to who this beautiful stranger was, but they had no idea either.

Miss S.S thought it was possible she had his business card but, when she looked, she couldn't find it. My friends also had conflicting ideas of what Mr.M.M's name was. There was no hope, and so I resigned myself to the fact that I'd never find out who he was and, instead, I'd just have to cherish what I could remember...

Misreading the signs

Let me tell you a little bit about me; I’m the kind of girl that likes to take the bull by the horns. I like to jump into things head first, and If I want something, I want it right now. I always grab what I want and run with it — my career, my move to Dubai, my education. I'm never one to sit back and hope good things come my way.

I’m hasty. I like to dive into the deep end, give the unknown a try. I buy it, take it home, try it on and if I don’t like it I return it to the store. I have the same philosophy with men — meet them, take them home, date them and dump them if I’m not sure. That's if it gets that far, of course.

However, sometimes, it doesn't do me any favours. I find myself so caught up in my typical Arian attitude, I disregard all the signs. Or I interpret them to be something I want them to be and not what they really are. It's not even that I necessarily want to be with these guys, I just thrive on the thrill of the chase.

All of my latest squeezes are laden with misread signs. I confused Mr.W.S's friendly cuddles for a deeper affection, and I assumed Mr. A.P's regular communication to be a sign of mutual attraction. I was wrong on both occasions. So very, very wrong. I seemed to forget men lie, bend the truth and are complete cowards when it comes to telling a woman exactly how they feel. They think, by not being blunt with you, they're being gentle with your feelings when, in reality, it's a slippery slope to infatuation and heartache.

When a guy calls you to invite you out, it's not because he's interested in you. If he snuggles up to you, holds your hand or smells your hair, it's not a sign that he wants to be closer to you beyond that moment. Just like us girls, guys also need to feel desired, and if that means using a girl friend and abusing her feelings, then so be it.

It doesn't matter if he's leading you on, because, in his eyes, as soon as you start reading into the signals he's giving you, you're some kind of crazy stalker girl. He'll automatically think you want his babies the second you wonder if there might be more to the relationship than being 'just friends'.

Men always make out that it's the women who are crazy psychos, that we're stalkers because our affections are not reciprocated. I've started to wonder if it's the other way around. I'm not so socially inept that I can't make my feelings known. Or is their lack of directness because they enjoy the attention and want to keep you on a back burner when there's nothing else around? Either way, it's not a woman's fault if she misreads the signs; we're so used to confused signals, that none of it makes sense anymore.

As much as I enjoy thinking a guy might be into me because he text me back within ten minutes, I now know that it's probably not true. Just as it's not true that he is into me because he didn't leave my place until dinner time after a night of romance. And, when he offers you his business card, don't take it thinking he actually wants to hear from you. It's more than likely he feels the need to offer it to you, when you're leaving is apartment, to relieve that awkward moment...

So, girls, it's perfectly normal to misread the signs, in fact, it's standard. And boys, don't be alarmed when me fall head over heels because you can't man up and tell us how you really feel.

The Sex Pest

There are some men who should just not be allowed out. And definitely nowhere near women.

A couple of weeks ago, I was out in my favourite bar when a cute guy, Mr. C.G, started chatting to me. He wasn’t my usual type as he was only two or three inches taller than me (shallow, I know) but he was good-looking and had this cheeky smile and a glint in his eye. So, when he kept telling me how much he wanted to take me out on a date, I agreed to give him my number. We swapped digits and he text me that night. Keen, I thought. But, hey, it’s rare I have that kind of attention lavished upon me and there was no way I was going to give it up that easily.

Over the next week or so, Mr. C.G and I kept texting each other. Nothing to write home about, more along the lines of when we were going to meet up again. So, eventually, when the time came to meet up, I was excited about going on a date for the first time in a very long time. And the fact he was really keen to take me out was an added bonus. He let me decide where we go, so as a low-maintenance kinda gal, I picked a venue that was laid back and good for food and cider (he’s also from South West England).

The date started off well and Mr. C.G was even cuter than I remembered. We chatted away, only stopping to laugh out loud or take a sip of cider. There was the odd cheeky comment from him but nothing that completely shocked me. That was until I asked him why he moved to Dubai. Now, that’s a fairly normal question out here – What’s your name? What do you do? How long have you been here? Why did you move here? It’s totally standard, but Mr. C.G retorted with “How about I tell you when you show me your boobs?”.

I nearly spat my cider all over his crisp white shirt. I didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically (I would have done if he wasn’t serious) or run for the hills. I don’t usually embarrass very easily, but I’m not going to lie, I felt my face go red and my eyes immediately look away from him. I brushed him off and conversation seemed to go back to normal. I put it down as a blip and continued with the date, albeit a bit cautiously.

I know I have decent sized breasts, and I do like to flaunt them in low cut tops, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to unhook my bra and shove them in your face in the middle of a bar. Feel free to be complimentary but don’t refuse to answer a question I’ve asked because I won’t let you see my nipples.

Anyway, back in the swing of the conversation and Mr. C.G asked me if I had my own place. Another standard Dubai question. I explained that I did but that I rented out my spare room. I reciprocated and asked him the same question, to which he replied that he lived with people and therefore “should we book a hotel room for the night?”.

Yes, he actually asked me that. Resisting the urge to pour my cider over him and make a scene in the bar, I looked at him with raised eyebrows but he just smiled. I told him there would be no need to book a hotel room as I was going back to my place. Alone. He didn’t try to persuade me otherwise, for which I was grateful. I was so close to slapping him, if he opened his mouth one more time he’d have probably found himself completely humiliated in a packed pub. I put down some money for the bill, said goodnight and walked out.

In the taxi home, I started picking myself apart – Are the low-cut tops the reason I attract men that are the dregs of society? Am I too domineering that normal, sweet guys are scared off? Do I come across as some kind of wanton nymphomaniac? I welled up thinking of J and how, even though we weren’t serious, he would have never said anything like that to me. Apart from when we were fighting, he’d always be respectful and he’d always make me feel wanted beyond just sex.

But then I realised I was looking at J through rose-tinted glasses. I loved him so much, I painted him out to be this wonderful guy when, in reality, he treated me so badly over the years that I’m surprised I gave him the time of day. In comparison, Mr. C.G really wasn’t that bad, despite being a bit of a cock.

Perhaps the calibre of men I date have something to do with where I meet them. My favourite bar is hardly known for being a classy joint. Having said that, the guys I have met in more elegant places have been egotistical wankers anyway. I just can’t win.

Seriously, why do I always attract the losers? They shouldn't be allowed within 50ft of a woman. I'd love to know what Mr. C.G's success rate is and, if it's anything above zero, who the hell these women are! Perhaps they shouldn't be allowed within 50ft of a man...

The Sex Prep Process

My sex life is so sporadic that, most of the time, I'm caught off-guard. Now, I love spontaneous sex - I love the thrill and the excitement of it - but, as I'm never prepared for it, it does make me feel self-conscious. I think it's because after so many years of arranged sex with J, and having the time to get ready for a session, anything else makes me a little apprehensive.

For example, two of the three times I've had sex this year, I've been between waxes. I hate shaving with a passion, which means two weeks out of every six, my legs are more Harold Bishop than Heidi Klum. I would have never have seen J in that state. I always used to make sure I was waxed, threaded and polished to within an inch of my life. I never left him any room to criticise me.

I'd also have a Brazilian or Hollywood done before seeing him. He never knew what he was going to get when he undressed me, and that excited him.

It wasn't only the waxing though. It also involved exfoliating, moisturising, manicures, pedicures, hair styling and outfit selection. It was a lengthy process, but I always wanted to make sure I looked my best. Getting naked in front of a guy can be pretty nerve-wracking but when I'm prepared, I feel far more confident and ready to let go of my inhibitions.

Underwear is another important factor in the preparation process. You don't want a Bridget Jones scenario where you finally take home a guy, only for him to find out you're wearing Spanx. Even if the sight of them hasn't completely turned him off, by the time you actually manage to pull them down, you can guarantee the moment will well and truly be over.

The other thing I find embarrassing is mismatched underwear. A sexy black bra will totally lose its effect when coupled with a pair of ugly beige pants. I've been caught out so many times with mismatched underwear and, in order to avoid it being noticed, I end up stripping far too quickly, which makes me look like some insatiable nymph rather than a sexy seductress. I find the best way to avoid this situation is simply by not wearing any knickers at all... and the boys love it!

Then there's the hair and make-up. I want to look good when you're fucking me, I don't want you to think I resemble Heather Trot after a night on the bullfrogs. And when we're having a post-coital cuddle, I want you to smell my coconut shampoo, not two days worth of stale cigarettes.

So, boys, when I get into bed with you and am not as smooth as a baby's backside, don't judge me and think I'm some sort of skanky, personal-hygeine-shy girl. I just wasn't planning to be in the sack with you that evening. Just be grateful you don't need to go through the same process - a shower, shit and shave and you're good to go.

Gone with the Bullfrog

If you want to know how to fuck something up before it begins, make sure you come to me, as I'm a pro. I’m like an emotional bulldozer, knocking down any feelings that are still standing. Yep, I bulldozed my way through anything that might have been with Mr.W.S and I feel like shit.

The other day, I had a little chat on the phone with Mr.W.S, and I finally plucked up the courage to ask him what he was doing that evening. He told me he was going for dinner with friends so, when I mentioned I’d be in our favourite bar, he said he might see me in there around midnight. Of course I was looking forward to it, I love being around him and I enjoy my nights out so much more when he’s there.

That evening, at the bar, my friends and I were knocking back the free bullfrogs. It was the perfect pastime whilst waiting to see Mr.W.S. In fact I was having such a blast that when I looked at my phone, it was already half past midnight. I did a quick scout around the bar to see if he had already arrived, but when I didn’t see him, I thought I’d give him a call to tell him to hurry up.

Back in the bar, my friend had slipped off home but I decided to hang out and wait for Mr.W.S to turn up... He didn’t. I think it was then it dawned on me that he just wasn’t interested. And so I burst into tears. There I was, in the middle of the bar, alone and bawling my eyes out. The only comfort I had was being offered tissues from drunk strangers.

Mascara running down my face, I text Mr.W.S. Having read the messages back, they didn’t really make much sense, nor did they really portray how I felt. At all. I remember being so drunk, I was struggling to send text messages, so I called him instead. I really don’t remember what I said, I just remember crying uncontrollably and wanting to see him. I also recall thinking he must think I’m crazy. I’m not.

The only other part of the conversation I have a vague recollection of is him telling me to get in a taxi and then my phone battery dying. I sobbed all the way home. I felt so needy that I decided the only way to stop that would be to distance myself from Mr W.S. So, when I got home, I hit the delete button next to his name on Facebook. I didn’t want to but, in my drunken stupor, I thought it’d be for the best – for me and for him.

The next morning, not only did I wake up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck, I also looked a complete wreck and felt incredibly embarrassed. As soon as I opened my eyes, I turned on my Mac and typed his name into Facebook. I cringed when his wall didn’t appear. I wanted to kick myself. Great, now not only does he think I’m a complete lunatic, he probably also thinks I hate him. Fabulous. Just the scenario you want to be faced with on a Monday morning.

I stewed over it all day and wondered whether I should call or text him, but I couldn't imagine he’d want to hear from me. I’d been a massive twat and I was pretty certain there was no way of redeeming myself.

Luckily for me, Mr W.S called me that evening. And whilst I was completely mortified, I was so relieved that he didn't think I was a total idiot. Even if I do think so.

But, as always with me, I never receive good news without some bad news... Yep, he finally told me he's just not that into me. So, yes, some of you can now say "I told you so" and feel all smug that I've, once again, been flung onto the rejected pile. However, I'm cool with it. The way I see it is that I don't want to be with someone who isn't into me any more than I'd want to be with Frank Gallagher. So, as Rhett Butler once said, "frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn".

Knowing Me, Knowing You

In Dubai, it can be difficult to find people you connect well with, particularly on an emotional and intellectual level. And when I say connect well with, I mean having a real deep understanding and close affinity with someone. I have so many wonderful friends in Dubai, but I wouldn't say I have that kind of connection with many of them. That doesn't mean I love them any less, but I am perhaps less open with them about my deeper feelings.

When I first met Mr. W.S (sorry, babe!!), it didn't occur to me he might be someone I'd spend all night with, having heart-to-hearts. And it wasn't until eight months after our first meeting that I realised I'd opened up to him far more than I opened up to most people.

I'm an incredibly trusting person, and will always give people the benefit of the doubt. Having said that, there is part of me I keep totally under wraps. I have certain characteristics and emotions that I never tell anyone, and only those who truly pay attention to me will work me out. Mr. W.S has started to do just that...

During our first heart-to-heart, my barriers were still well and truly up. There was no way I was going to let some guy work out who I really am, what I'm really like and what I really want. By our second all-night conversation, I felt much more at ease in his company and I began to open up. By our third, I began showing some emotion. I was hesitant at first, perhaps due to past experiences, but Mr. W.S reciprocated and also opened up to me.

So, when I heard from friends that Mr.W.S hadn't been sincere with me, I was shocked and quite upset. I wondered how I could be so stupid as to let someone in who didn't really care. I also wondered why he'd bother wasting his time trying to work me out. I don't know if I was more angry at myself or him but, when I saw him, I lost it for a moment and snapped. It wasn't until he started talking and I looked at his face that I realised why I had opened up to him.

I felt like an idiot having snapped at him. Here was a guy who was genuine, someone I really enjoyed being with and could talk openly to. He wasn't in it to fuck me and take advantage. Perhaps that's what scares me. I'm so used to my relationships being based around sex, hanging out with a guy who wants to be friends with me is almost alien.

But that's part of the problem. Now, do I want to let someone in so deeply and risk being badly hurt? Or do I go with the flow and hope for the best? After all, he's still only scratched the surface...

I guess the way I see things is that I can no longer savour my virginity so, instead, I hold back my feelings and emotions, only letting those who truly deserve it in. I've only ever let two guys in before - J and Mr M.N - I had my heart ripped to shreds on both occasions, and I'm not sure I can go through all of that again.

Perhaps I'm naive in thinking there's anything else beyond being drinking buddies with Mr.W.S. Maybe the all-nighters are insignificant and the cuddles not as intense as I believe them to be. Maybe in my head this is what I think it might be like to be understood, in reality it's probably just a sympathetic rub on the back.

Whatever it is, it feels good at the time and I guess I should rinse it until I feel the hurt could outweigh the pleasure...

No Strings Attached

After an awesome sex session with a hot guy recently, I started wondering if men can have completely emotionless sex. I thought back to the guys I'd slept with over the last couple of years, and I couldn't think of one I'd felt absolutely nothing for. Even if I didn't want to date them, I had a genuine affection for all of them.

Obviously, there are different types of affection. For example, with Mr.P.L, what really tipped me over the edge and made me find him more attractive was his book collection. It was a sign of an intelligent guy with an interest in culture and politics, something I find quite rare in many of Dubai's shallow men. I immediately wanted to connect with him on an emotional and intellectual level. Ok, I was drunk and it didn't really go to plan, but we did briefly chat about travel and politics in the morning.

Another example is that of Mr.A.P; a guy friend who, at the time, I had the hots for. I cared for him, as I do for all of my friends, and because I knew him, I felt I could let myself go a little. However, that's usually why I can't have emotionless sex. I have to know the guy, or at least know of him and have mutual friends, before taking him to the bedroom. In fact, over the last two years, I've only slept with one guy I didn't know. Physically, it was fine, but I didn't enjoy the experience as much as I could have done, as I didn't know him that well. It felt strange and sad.

That said, it wasn't a completely emotionless experience. I still wanted to get to know him and had spent several hours beforehand having a chat with him. Unfortunately, he didn't feel the same way and I never did find out any more about him.

Perhaps men just don't need to have the connection women do. I know most people will be saying "that's so obvious", but I don't believe it is. Ok, yes I think it is possible, for example with prostitutes, but when it comes to your average girl in a bar, do guys really not feel any emotion towards her at all? Do they just see her a piece of meat or do they actually think she's a decent girl and therefore sex might be a more enjoyable experience?

If it is purely physical, why would a man feel the need to stroke the girl's hair or face? Why would they kiss her etc? Surely these are more emotional signals? Or do guys do it just to please the woman at the time? Lull her into a false sense of security so she will sleep with him?

Personally, I'd prefer it if the guy I was with didn't pretend to like me if all he wanted was sex. At least then I can make an informed decision whether or not I want to have sex with him for the sake of sex's sake. But when you're made to feel like the only girl in the world for that night, only to be bitterly disappointed the next day... it's a very harsh realisation. Trust me, I've been there.

Maybe, with the world becoming more and more populated, eventually men will evolve into being more selective in who they chose as a mate and, therefore, more emotional when they do sleep with a woman. Then again, us ladies can only live in hope...

Don't Stop Me Now

So, I dropped off the radar for a few days – no Facebook, no blog, no foursquare and no mobile phone. It was blissful. Nobody could tell me what a psycho I was for blogging about our sexual escapades, nobody could accuse me of stalking them and all the back-stabbing gossipers would have nothing to talk about and actually have to do some work. Amazing.

Whilst enjoying my hibernation, it didn’t once cross my mind that people would be worried about my whereabouts. But little did I know what a fuss I was causing in the virtual world. Friends and acquaintances thought I’d been slung into the slammer, run over by a bus, deported from Dubai… the assumptions as to where I’d disappeared to were in overdrive. In reality, all I’d really done was taken my Facebook down. Strange how we rely on an online social network to keep up to date with our friends’ welfare. Me included. What happened to popping round someone’s house for a cup of tea and a chit-chat?

When people learnt I was alive and well, the next question on their lips was why I’d decided to drop off the radar. Truth is, it’s this blog. I’d never expected it to turn into the popular read it seems to be, I just wanted to share my experiences with my best friends back home, as I don’t always have the time to Skype them. I didn’t think two thousand people across the world would be interested in reading about my sex life and subsequently gossiping about it.

With the spotlight on me, it’s made it very difficult to blog the way I want to. I’ve received phone calls and emails advising me to stop writing what I write. Boys have begged me not to write about them, girls have told me to watch my back. I’ve had to delete posts or explain myself profusely just to keep other people happy, which is not what my blog is about. This blog is about sexual relationships and the truth behind them, not an airbrushed porno.

And to the people slating me behind my back, don’t think I don’t know. You might think you’re superior to me or have far higher morals and standards, but we both know that’s not true, so get off your high horse. And let’s stop pretending I’m the only person in Dubai with a sex life. There’s some crazy stuff that happens in this city, and I certainly don’t participate. At the end of the day, I’m just a normal girl trying to find the right man and encountering a number of wrong ones along the way.

The only reason I’ve decided to come back from my hiatus is because so many people genuinely enjoy reading my blog, and I’m not caving in for the haters. So, you can all expect to see more shamelessly salacious blog posts, only this time, nothing will be edited or taken down to please others.

How to be a dirty stop-out

I’ve become something of an expert when it comes to the Walk Of Shame. Earlier this month, I was caught out twice in the space of one week and, when I lived in Spain for a few months, the Walk Of Shame was so regular that it was no longer shameful. And that’s where the art of the Walk Of Shame lies - confidence.

When I initially moved to Dubai, I would nearly always take a guy back to my place just to avoid the Walk Of Shame. After a night of romping with a handsome man, the last thing you want is for strangers to see you with your make-up smeared, clothes creased and the non-Tigi version of bed head. The knowing smile and nod from a passerby always used to make me cringe, but there are ways to do the Walk Of Shame and avoid people staring.

First up, if you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, then people will stare at you thinking you’re either; a) a dirty-stop out, b) a victim of a heinous crime or c) a homeless person. So, there are basic items that every young, free and single woman needs to stuff into her clutch bag to avoid this. These are:

1. Mints or gum – A handbag staple at all times, even if you are on your period. Leaving the house without mints is like leaving the house without money; nobody will want to be your friend. After all those vodkas and cigarettes, you will have breath like a warthog’s backside and no man in his right mind will want to come within five feet of you, let alone stick his tongue down your throat. So, invest and reap the benefits. Mints and gum are also excellent for the interim period between waking up and being able to brush your teeth.

2. Contraceptive – Nobody wants a life-long reminder of bumping uglies with a drunken stranger, so remember to take condoms and your pill with you.

3. A hair band – Not only is this important whilst in the sack with your latest squeeze - thought it was a pube you were picking off your tongue? No, it was one of your own hairs - it’s also important for your journey home. With no space for a hairbrush, sweep back those long locks into a ponytail. This will divert anyone’s attention from your bed head.

4. Cotton buds – You only need one or two, which means you won’t miss out on that all-important space in your bag. The reason you need cotton buds is to remove that black eyeliner that now makes you look like a panda. I never find tissue paper effectively removes those horrible crusty bits close to the lash line but a damp cotton bud works wonders.

5. Make-up – After washing your face and removing the remnants of last night’s make-up/human fluids, spruce yourself up with a little bit of foundation and/or blusher. It’ll make you feel a hundred times better and ready to face the outdoors.

6. Perfume – Woken up next to a beast and want to hot-foot it out before he wakes? Get out, woman, there’s no time for a shower! Clothes and hair smell of cigarette smoke? Spritz a bit of perfume on them to mask the smell. Also use as a deodorant. There is nothing worse than being sat next to someone on the metro who smells of sweat, even though you might be pleased it’s sex sweat. There’s also no need to take out the 250ml bottle of Gucci Rush your mum bought you for Xmas. Head to Debenham’s and ask them for a couple of samples that come in those small tubes - perfect handbag size!

7. Now, I guess for some of you there will be a number seven – spare underwear. I personally prefer to go commando, eliminating the need to carry underwear out with me. But, if you are a knicker wearer, take a spare pair with you. There’s nothing worse than having to endure wearing the same pair of pants two days in a row. Particularly ones that are covered in good-time juices.

With all these things in place, you’re more or less good to go. Just remember not to leave your clothes in a heap on the floor when you're giving him a sexy (read:drunk) strip tease to Paula Cole's Feelin' Love. Try to place them on the back of a chair to avoid creases, the sixteen year old boy look is never a good one.

Ok, I realise it’s far from ideal to wear last night’s clothes, but there’s nothing you can do about that so you'll just have to convince yourself that's what you planned to wear that day. For example, at 3pm on New Year’s Day, I left Mr. PL's place and walked across Dubai Marina in a full length, flowing white gown. In order to not look sheepish, and give the game away to passersby, I kept telling myself I was heading to a wedding. Only I’ll know that I’m not.

Last but not least, when you hit the road, hold your head up high, stride confidently and think to yourself what an awesome sex session you've just had. Act like an embarrassed, dirty stop-out and you’ll look like one.

Happy shagging!