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!
Tuesday 25 January 2011
Sunday 23 January 2011
Crazy Cat Lady
As a young, single girl, I thought long and hard about taking the stray kitten, I'd fallen in love with, home. Not only is a pet hard work, but I was also worried that having a cat would see me labelled as a 'Crazy Cat Lady' by hot guys. To help me make a decision about whether I should welcome a little kitty into my home or not, I decided to ask some of my male friends if I would indeed be labelled a Crazy Cat Lady. The responses I received were mixed.
There are some guys who see a woman who owns a cat as a caring and affectionate person. That is, until she acquires more than two cats, after which, she will be branded the Crazy Cat Lady. Then there are the guys who seem to think a girl with a cat either a) has a dying need to nurture, and will therefore want to have babies with the next man she gets her claws into (excuse the pun), or b) is some weird, loner type who can only communicate with her feline friends. I, however, am neither of those stereotypes.
Originally, I had no intention of having a pet, they're a lot of hassle and I travel/party way too much to be able to give it the attention it would require. But a sad story of abandoned, stray kittens on the beach got the better of me, and I ended up taking one of the little blighters home.
Now, I absolutely adore my kitten. She has so much personality - She fetches, chases anything that moves and bounces around doing back-flips, which has proven to be a great source of entertainment. But, how has my love life fared up since I've had her?
Well, I do make a conscious effort not to bang on about my kitten all the time, as I think that'd freak most men out, but when I do mention her, guys are usually intrigued. Probably because she sounds more like a dog than a cat, and all guys love dogs. Having said that, one guy I met seemed quite put off that I had a cat. In fact, he looked positively repulsed. But as soon as he came back to my place, he was putty in my kitten's paws. So much so, I had to revert his attention back to another pussy...
On other occasions, my kitten has proven to be a hit from the word go. Mr. PL, for example, expressed his love for cats and, when I told him how cool my little feline friend was, he seemed keen on getting one for himself. Although, I'm not sure if he was speaking metaphorically! Another guy I met was a complete cat lover and couldn't wait to get back to mine to meet my kitten. Had I not told him about her, I don't think I'd have been able to lure him over to my place.
So, whilst my little fur-ball has, so far, seemed to help me reel men in, she has not been able to persuade them to stick around. Now, that could be down to me, but I prefer to blame her incessant miaowing, or scratching at the bedroom door, as the reason men don't seem to want to contact me again. I'm not going to lie, a screeching cat at the bedroom door in the throes of passion are a bit of a dampener. If I wasn't 35 floors up, I'd throw her outside, but living where I live, I have no option but to endure her screams for attention.
The other thing I worry about, is meeting the man of my dreams, only to find out he's allergic to cats or fur. What would I do then? Give up the cat or give up the man? I made a life-long commitment when I took home my kitten, but it'd be just my luck to fall in love with a guy who had cat allergies, leaving me to be a lonely old spinster, smelling of cat pee, with twenty odd felines crawling all over my home. An image that, quite frankly, scares the shit out of me.
I guess all I can do is hope my love interest doesn't have cat allergies. And as for the men who think a girl with a cat is a nutter, all I can say is; love me, love my pussy.
There are some guys who see a woman who owns a cat as a caring and affectionate person. That is, until she acquires more than two cats, after which, she will be branded the Crazy Cat Lady. Then there are the guys who seem to think a girl with a cat either a) has a dying need to nurture, and will therefore want to have babies with the next man she gets her claws into (excuse the pun), or b) is some weird, loner type who can only communicate with her feline friends. I, however, am neither of those stereotypes.
Originally, I had no intention of having a pet, they're a lot of hassle and I travel/party way too much to be able to give it the attention it would require. But a sad story of abandoned, stray kittens on the beach got the better of me, and I ended up taking one of the little blighters home.
Now, I absolutely adore my kitten. She has so much personality - She fetches, chases anything that moves and bounces around doing back-flips, which has proven to be a great source of entertainment. But, how has my love life fared up since I've had her?
Well, I do make a conscious effort not to bang on about my kitten all the time, as I think that'd freak most men out, but when I do mention her, guys are usually intrigued. Probably because she sounds more like a dog than a cat, and all guys love dogs. Having said that, one guy I met seemed quite put off that I had a cat. In fact, he looked positively repulsed. But as soon as he came back to my place, he was putty in my kitten's paws. So much so, I had to revert his attention back to another pussy...
On other occasions, my kitten has proven to be a hit from the word go. Mr. PL, for example, expressed his love for cats and, when I told him how cool my little feline friend was, he seemed keen on getting one for himself. Although, I'm not sure if he was speaking metaphorically! Another guy I met was a complete cat lover and couldn't wait to get back to mine to meet my kitten. Had I not told him about her, I don't think I'd have been able to lure him over to my place.
So, whilst my little fur-ball has, so far, seemed to help me reel men in, she has not been able to persuade them to stick around. Now, that could be down to me, but I prefer to blame her incessant miaowing, or scratching at the bedroom door, as the reason men don't seem to want to contact me again. I'm not going to lie, a screeching cat at the bedroom door in the throes of passion are a bit of a dampener. If I wasn't 35 floors up, I'd throw her outside, but living where I live, I have no option but to endure her screams for attention.
The other thing I worry about, is meeting the man of my dreams, only to find out he's allergic to cats or fur. What would I do then? Give up the cat or give up the man? I made a life-long commitment when I took home my kitten, but it'd be just my luck to fall in love with a guy who had cat allergies, leaving me to be a lonely old spinster, smelling of cat pee, with twenty odd felines crawling all over my home. An image that, quite frankly, scares the shit out of me.
I guess all I can do is hope my love interest doesn't have cat allergies. And as for the men who think a girl with a cat is a nutter, all I can say is; love me, love my pussy.
Saturday 22 January 2011
Me, Myself & I
Self-love; an important act that is, quite often, swept under the rug. Yes, Sam from Sex and the City did glorify the Rampant Rabbit, but as sex toys are banned in Dubai, there must be all sorts of ways that girls get themselves off. So, why aren't they talked about? And why is male masturbation also a taboo?
In a society where people are encouraged to preserve their virginity, why is it that we're not open about self-love? Is it that it's still not acceptable? Or is it because it's so personal, we don't want to divulge what we do, or how many times we do it, in case it's seen as 'weird'?
Some girls struggle to please themselves, having never explored their own nether regions. Others, like most men, just need their hand and a few minutes alone.
There a plenty of substitutes for the Rampant Rabbit; some of which I've never needed to explore. For example, I know some women use, what is effectively, a frozen dildo by filling a condom with water and popping it in the freezer. Then there are some girls who use vegetables... In fact, you can use a lot of things. Does anyone remember that episode of UK Big Brother where one of the girls went into the garden and substituted a vibrator for the neck of a wine bottle? It wouldn't be my cup of tea, but it clearly worked for her!
Perhaps this shows the lengths people will go to when they don't have the sufficient tools. So maybe Dubai putting a ban on sex toys actually drives people to use stranger, and less safe, items. Surely this is where weird fetishes begin?
Women also have the benefit of having a few areas to explore in order to pleasure themselves. The G-spot and the clitoris being the usual suspects. Although the latter is sometimes bypassed, but girls who don't want to insert anything inside themselves should probably pay more attention to it. Sometimes all you need is a gentle rub to set you off...
It's also the one when indulging in a little bit of discreet self-love. I've been in some very public places (yes, in Dubai) and managed to enjoy myself. A little bit of pressure on the pubic bone and I'm away! However, I'm quite lucky, I don't necessarily require any visual or written stimulation to help me along. My imagination is vivid, so I just come up with some sexy scenarios in my head. If I am out and about and in need of some visual stimulation, I'll drop my friend in the UK, Mr. HC, a text asking him for a picture. He'll know exactly what I mean by that and send me just what I need to see to send me over the edge.
The pictures, the text messages and the online chats with Mr. HC, all play a huge part in my self-love enjoyment. Without him, I wouldn't enjoy it as much as I do. And the mediums we use aren't restricted by the authorities, so I can say and see what I like.
But what if you're not as lucky as I am? What if you need some help in reaching that point of no return? With nearly every webpage with a reference to sex on it blocked by Internet Service Providers in Dubai, a lack of steamy novels on the city's bookshelves and every sexy photo in magazines, imported from abroad, manually blacked out with a marker pen, it's tricky to get what you need.
I do often wonder how men cope. Sometimes I think it's almost a chore for them - a physical release that needs to happen and not something they take the time to enjoy. As a woman, I can make mine as quick as I like or, with so many different areas to explore and so many tools to use, I can draw it out and let my imagination run wild. For men, it seems there's only one area - the shaft. Correct me if I'm wrong, guys, but the balls are like women's breasts; yes, it might make you tingle and they're great to pay attention to when with a partner, but when alone it's not going to send you over the edge.
So, what do guys do to spice up their self-love lives? Do blow-up dolls ever really come into the equation? And where do you get the visual stimulation from? Or is it a case of hand, shaft, tug?
Whatever it is that gets you going, I don't think self-love is anything to be ashamed of. It's certainly seen me through some dry spells.
In a society where people are encouraged to preserve their virginity, why is it that we're not open about self-love? Is it that it's still not acceptable? Or is it because it's so personal, we don't want to divulge what we do, or how many times we do it, in case it's seen as 'weird'?
Some girls struggle to please themselves, having never explored their own nether regions. Others, like most men, just need their hand and a few minutes alone.
There a plenty of substitutes for the Rampant Rabbit; some of which I've never needed to explore. For example, I know some women use, what is effectively, a frozen dildo by filling a condom with water and popping it in the freezer. Then there are some girls who use vegetables... In fact, you can use a lot of things. Does anyone remember that episode of UK Big Brother where one of the girls went into the garden and substituted a vibrator for the neck of a wine bottle? It wouldn't be my cup of tea, but it clearly worked for her!
Perhaps this shows the lengths people will go to when they don't have the sufficient tools. So maybe Dubai putting a ban on sex toys actually drives people to use stranger, and less safe, items. Surely this is where weird fetishes begin?
Women also have the benefit of having a few areas to explore in order to pleasure themselves. The G-spot and the clitoris being the usual suspects. Although the latter is sometimes bypassed, but girls who don't want to insert anything inside themselves should probably pay more attention to it. Sometimes all you need is a gentle rub to set you off...
It's also the one when indulging in a little bit of discreet self-love. I've been in some very public places (yes, in Dubai) and managed to enjoy myself. A little bit of pressure on the pubic bone and I'm away! However, I'm quite lucky, I don't necessarily require any visual or written stimulation to help me along. My imagination is vivid, so I just come up with some sexy scenarios in my head. If I am out and about and in need of some visual stimulation, I'll drop my friend in the UK, Mr. HC, a text asking him for a picture. He'll know exactly what I mean by that and send me just what I need to see to send me over the edge.
The pictures, the text messages and the online chats with Mr. HC, all play a huge part in my self-love enjoyment. Without him, I wouldn't enjoy it as much as I do. And the mediums we use aren't restricted by the authorities, so I can say and see what I like.
But what if you're not as lucky as I am? What if you need some help in reaching that point of no return? With nearly every webpage with a reference to sex on it blocked by Internet Service Providers in Dubai, a lack of steamy novels on the city's bookshelves and every sexy photo in magazines, imported from abroad, manually blacked out with a marker pen, it's tricky to get what you need.
I do often wonder how men cope. Sometimes I think it's almost a chore for them - a physical release that needs to happen and not something they take the time to enjoy. As a woman, I can make mine as quick as I like or, with so many different areas to explore and so many tools to use, I can draw it out and let my imagination run wild. For men, it seems there's only one area - the shaft. Correct me if I'm wrong, guys, but the balls are like women's breasts; yes, it might make you tingle and they're great to pay attention to when with a partner, but when alone it's not going to send you over the edge.
So, what do guys do to spice up their self-love lives? Do blow-up dolls ever really come into the equation? And where do you get the visual stimulation from? Or is it a case of hand, shaft, tug?
Whatever it is that gets you going, I don't think self-love is anything to be ashamed of. It's certainly seen me through some dry spells.
Friday 21 January 2011
Ho Ho Ho
No, I'm not still in the Christmas spirit. I'm talking about the competition - the perfectly manicured women that are in abundance in all of Dubai's bars and clubs. Yes, the prostitutes.
I'd never really considered them competition before, but I now realise that's quite naive, and they're just as much competition as the next girl. I guess the image that pops into my head when I think of the word 'prostitute', is the toothless crack addicts I used to see hanging around King's Cross on my way to work at 7.30am, offering guys blow jobs for a fiver. Not what I'd class as competition!
Here in Dubai, the prostitutes I see hang out in classy watering holes, wear tight dresses that hug their curves and are waxed, polished and threaded to within an inch of their life. They have their flirting techniques down to an absolute tee; sultry glances and flirty smiles. Their opening lines are rehearsed to perfection and they manage to pull every night. How can I possibly compete with that?
You may think that type of guy I go for is not the kind of guy to sleep with a prostitute. But you're wrong. The majority of my male friends (regular British men in their late twenties to early forties) have all slept with a prostitute. Some more frequently than others. And, no, my male friends aren't complete animals or sex addicts. This just goes to show how alluring a prostitute can be. Especially considering the men have to empty their pockets to take them home.
Sometimes the prostitutes even manage to take home a guy who had no intention of sleeping with a hooker in the first place. They play it coy and aren't upfront about what they're up to. And just when the guy thinks he's hit the jackpot - BAM! That'll be a thousand dirhams, please. Poor unsuspecting guy either runs off home with his dick inbetween his legs, or he's coaxed into coughing up the money.
All of this activity wreaks havoc on my love life. For example, at a bar with a couple of friends last night, I scanned the room for talent. The only guy I spotted, that I quite liked the look of, was at the bar. But I didn't approach him because he was talking to a hooker. How do I know she was a hooker? Well, a guy once told me how to spot them - what they wear, how they act etc. I'd been in Dubai for years and was oblivious to the sex industry right before my eyes. Now, I spot them everywhere I go.
I was once out at Dubai's most notorious hooker joint, The Rattlesnake, with a couple of male friends. We were having an awesome night, and as the boys claimed they had never been to this particular bar, I insisted that we went there. For comedy value if nothing else. As soon as we walked in, the girls pounced on the boys; sidling up to them and whispering in their ears. It amused me greatly, especially as I was the only woman in the place that wasn't a prostitute.
One of the girls, a striking Iranian with beautiful green eyes and shiny jet-black hair, took a particular fancy to one of the lads I was with and was all over him. When she caught me gawking at them, she asked if the man in question was my boyfriend. Feeling sorry for my friend, who looked a little scared, I told her that he was. She then went on to ask why he was talking to her, was the other guy single and was he really my boyfriend. Now I felt sorry for her, and so I told her he wasn't my boyfriend. Then, she lost it...
She began ranting at me, telling me how I was messing up her business, that she needed to make money and asking me why I was there. She told me to be serious and tell her if either one of the guys I was with was single. I was shocked. I only went out for a few jars and laughs with the boys, not a bitch-fight with a hooker! There was nothing else to do except laugh and then tell her to back off.
So, if the prostitute saw me as being competition, then I guess she's also mine...
I guess there a lot of guys who sleep with prostitutes because they know exactly what they're getting - sex. There's no emotional attachment that comes with sleeping with a girl who isn't a hooker. Quite often, I think when a man has a one night stand with a girl, he immediately assumes she wants much more - a relationship, marriage and babies. And because he's used her for a one night stand, he feels guilty. To hide this, and not seem like a total wanker, he gives the girl his number or takes hers. He never calls her, but if she calls him to go out for a drink, he'll feel emotionally smothered. None of these feelings are felt when sleeping with a hooker.
Most Western men won't have an issue with handing over 1000 Dirhams to get their dicks wet without all the hassle. If he took a girl out to dinner to get into her knickers, it'd cost him near enough the same anyway, so I can see why they'd take the easy option.
Then there are the guys who love the thrill of it. So much so, they'd rather fuck a hooker than their own girlfriend. I will never truly understand why a man would do that, to me it makes absolutely no sense. Can't they role play with their partner? Or find a new thrill; like sex outdoors? That would definitely be a thrill in this city!
So, until Dubai authorities actually do something about the sex industry in this city, it looks like I'm stuck shooing away hookers, from a potential partner, with my clutch bag.
I'd never really considered them competition before, but I now realise that's quite naive, and they're just as much competition as the next girl. I guess the image that pops into my head when I think of the word 'prostitute', is the toothless crack addicts I used to see hanging around King's Cross on my way to work at 7.30am, offering guys blow jobs for a fiver. Not what I'd class as competition!
Here in Dubai, the prostitutes I see hang out in classy watering holes, wear tight dresses that hug their curves and are waxed, polished and threaded to within an inch of their life. They have their flirting techniques down to an absolute tee; sultry glances and flirty smiles. Their opening lines are rehearsed to perfection and they manage to pull every night. How can I possibly compete with that?
You may think that type of guy I go for is not the kind of guy to sleep with a prostitute. But you're wrong. The majority of my male friends (regular British men in their late twenties to early forties) have all slept with a prostitute. Some more frequently than others. And, no, my male friends aren't complete animals or sex addicts. This just goes to show how alluring a prostitute can be. Especially considering the men have to empty their pockets to take them home.
Sometimes the prostitutes even manage to take home a guy who had no intention of sleeping with a hooker in the first place. They play it coy and aren't upfront about what they're up to. And just when the guy thinks he's hit the jackpot - BAM! That'll be a thousand dirhams, please. Poor unsuspecting guy either runs off home with his dick inbetween his legs, or he's coaxed into coughing up the money.
All of this activity wreaks havoc on my love life. For example, at a bar with a couple of friends last night, I scanned the room for talent. The only guy I spotted, that I quite liked the look of, was at the bar. But I didn't approach him because he was talking to a hooker. How do I know she was a hooker? Well, a guy once told me how to spot them - what they wear, how they act etc. I'd been in Dubai for years and was oblivious to the sex industry right before my eyes. Now, I spot them everywhere I go.
I was once out at Dubai's most notorious hooker joint, The Rattlesnake, with a couple of male friends. We were having an awesome night, and as the boys claimed they had never been to this particular bar, I insisted that we went there. For comedy value if nothing else. As soon as we walked in, the girls pounced on the boys; sidling up to them and whispering in their ears. It amused me greatly, especially as I was the only woman in the place that wasn't a prostitute.
One of the girls, a striking Iranian with beautiful green eyes and shiny jet-black hair, took a particular fancy to one of the lads I was with and was all over him. When she caught me gawking at them, she asked if the man in question was my boyfriend. Feeling sorry for my friend, who looked a little scared, I told her that he was. She then went on to ask why he was talking to her, was the other guy single and was he really my boyfriend. Now I felt sorry for her, and so I told her he wasn't my boyfriend. Then, she lost it...
She began ranting at me, telling me how I was messing up her business, that she needed to make money and asking me why I was there. She told me to be serious and tell her if either one of the guys I was with was single. I was shocked. I only went out for a few jars and laughs with the boys, not a bitch-fight with a hooker! There was nothing else to do except laugh and then tell her to back off.
So, if the prostitute saw me as being competition, then I guess she's also mine...
I guess there a lot of guys who sleep with prostitutes because they know exactly what they're getting - sex. There's no emotional attachment that comes with sleeping with a girl who isn't a hooker. Quite often, I think when a man has a one night stand with a girl, he immediately assumes she wants much more - a relationship, marriage and babies. And because he's used her for a one night stand, he feels guilty. To hide this, and not seem like a total wanker, he gives the girl his number or takes hers. He never calls her, but if she calls him to go out for a drink, he'll feel emotionally smothered. None of these feelings are felt when sleeping with a hooker.
Most Western men won't have an issue with handing over 1000 Dirhams to get their dicks wet without all the hassle. If he took a girl out to dinner to get into her knickers, it'd cost him near enough the same anyway, so I can see why they'd take the easy option.
Then there are the guys who love the thrill of it. So much so, they'd rather fuck a hooker than their own girlfriend. I will never truly understand why a man would do that, to me it makes absolutely no sense. Can't they role play with their partner? Or find a new thrill; like sex outdoors? That would definitely be a thrill in this city!
So, until Dubai authorities actually do something about the sex industry in this city, it looks like I'm stuck shooing away hookers, from a potential partner, with my clutch bag.
Thursday 20 January 2011
The cat(boy)'s out of the bag
Walking to the metro station on the way to work this morning, I was thinking about the weekend ahead – the kind of mischief I would get up to, where and, most importantly, who with. Little did I know at that very moment, my personal life was about to become far more public than I’d ever intended it to be…
A text message came through on my phone from a girlfriend of mine. She told me the breakfast hosts, Catboy and Geordie Bird, on Dubai 92 (the English radio station of choice for most expats in their twenties and thirties) were discussing my blog, without naming it. Although I couldn’t listen in to the show (I still have no idea what was said), I was fine with them talking about it, after all they can’t go into too much detail about it on air. But it didn’t end on air. It was on Facebook, Twitter and other Dubai based websites.
At first, I panicked. I tried to lock it down and spent the first half an hour of my day making all of my online accounts anonymous. I’m fine with my extended circle of friends knowing what I get up to because, let’s face it, Dubai is rife with gossip. It spreads like wildfire here, so whether I wrote about it on my blog or not, people would still know. However, with Dubai being the prude city that it is, I’d prefer it if the entire population didn’t know my identity. It’s not that I’m ashamed of anything I’ve done, on the contrary, I stand by every decision I’ve made. Ok, it might not always be the right decision, in fact I’ve made some bloody awful decisions in the past, but I am of sound mind (although some of you might disagree) and just because I’m willing to broadcast what others aren’t, doesn’t make me a bad person.
Obviously not everyone will agree with my thoughts or actions, and I apologise if you’re offended by my blog, but I do nothing that most Western expats don’t do on a regular Thursday and Friday night (well, actually, most nights). The only difference is, I blog about it.
After some consideration, I decided not to take my blog down; it’s my diary, my chance to vent and rant, my confidante and my vice. I’m just willing to share it with you. And, thanks to Catboy, Geordie Bird and the person who brought this blog to their attention, the number of people I’m sharing this with has increased twenty-fold.
For some people, my blog is the chance to read something they identify with – the partying, the sex, the lies, the ducking and diving in, what is still ultimately, a conservative city. For others, it may be like delving into a world they know nothing of and yet they find it strangely intriguing. Then there a people who will find it boring or too risqué. That’s ok too, I’m not going to impose my writing upon you if you don’t like it.
So, I hope you learn from my experiences and mistakes. I hope you can share my highs and empathise with my lows. And most of all, I hope you enjoy reading my totally uncensored thoughts and feelings.
Oh, and one last thing - boys, watch out…!
A text message came through on my phone from a girlfriend of mine. She told me the breakfast hosts, Catboy and Geordie Bird, on Dubai 92 (the English radio station of choice for most expats in their twenties and thirties) were discussing my blog, without naming it. Although I couldn’t listen in to the show (I still have no idea what was said), I was fine with them talking about it, after all they can’t go into too much detail about it on air. But it didn’t end on air. It was on Facebook, Twitter and other Dubai based websites.
At first, I panicked. I tried to lock it down and spent the first half an hour of my day making all of my online accounts anonymous. I’m fine with my extended circle of friends knowing what I get up to because, let’s face it, Dubai is rife with gossip. It spreads like wildfire here, so whether I wrote about it on my blog or not, people would still know. However, with Dubai being the prude city that it is, I’d prefer it if the entire population didn’t know my identity. It’s not that I’m ashamed of anything I’ve done, on the contrary, I stand by every decision I’ve made. Ok, it might not always be the right decision, in fact I’ve made some bloody awful decisions in the past, but I am of sound mind (although some of you might disagree) and just because I’m willing to broadcast what others aren’t, doesn’t make me a bad person.
Obviously not everyone will agree with my thoughts or actions, and I apologise if you’re offended by my blog, but I do nothing that most Western expats don’t do on a regular Thursday and Friday night (well, actually, most nights). The only difference is, I blog about it.
After some consideration, I decided not to take my blog down; it’s my diary, my chance to vent and rant, my confidante and my vice. I’m just willing to share it with you. And, thanks to Catboy, Geordie Bird and the person who brought this blog to their attention, the number of people I’m sharing this with has increased twenty-fold.
For some people, my blog is the chance to read something they identify with – the partying, the sex, the lies, the ducking and diving in, what is still ultimately, a conservative city. For others, it may be like delving into a world they know nothing of and yet they find it strangely intriguing. Then there a people who will find it boring or too risqué. That’s ok too, I’m not going to impose my writing upon you if you don’t like it.
So, I hope you learn from my experiences and mistakes. I hope you can share my highs and empathise with my lows. And most of all, I hope you enjoy reading my totally uncensored thoughts and feelings.
Oh, and one last thing - boys, watch out…!
Sunday 16 January 2011
Google Is Your Friend
Most women won’t admit it, but I’m pretty sure they all do it; it’s become an integral way of finding out everything you need to know. Yes, that’s right, the Internet Stalk. Come on, ladies, you know what I’m talking about. If you insist that you have no idea what I mean, let me enlighten you… Whenever I meet (or further my relationship with) a guy, I like to find out a little more about them. And there is no better way than to pull out my Mac and type his name into Google.
The results can vary from ordinary to downright shocking. I’ve come across everything from their Facebook pages to comments on newspaper articles, compromising photos to personal addresses and articles they’ve written to open social networking sites. There’s a plethora of information out there about every one of us, a large chunk of which we have no control over. This, ladies, is the perfect way to uncover as much information about a guy you’re seeing as possible, without him thinking you’re a freak/internet stalker/bunny boiler.
Quite often, these internet searches determine whether or not I want to continue seeing the man in question. Sometimes, I’ll check out their photos on Facebook and realise that they look nothing like I remember from that drunken night out at the weekend. Sometimes their marital statuses have popped up, showing something I really wasn’t expecting. And other times, I read something they’ve written and think they’re just like me. In man form.
With all that information out there, would it be a waste of resources not to check them out? Or in 2011, do we take it too far and not give the other person a chance to divulge the details to us themselves? We’re in an age of wanting to know anything and everything immediately, and if we don’t, we assume the other person is hiding something or lying. Although, is it too far-fetched to think, after two dates, he may not yet feel comfortable telling you he’s leaving his wife? Or that he thinks he might scare you off if he told you he was head of the online crochet discussion forum? So how long do we wait to hear this information from the horse’s mouth? Do you try to prompt him for this information by asking questions such as, “So, what’s your most serious relationship?” or “Did you ever have to do Home Economics at school? I used to love the knitting class”?
The other thing about chatting to a guy you’ve internet searched, is it’s difficult to keep in check and remember whether they told you a certain bit of information, or if you read it on their MySpace or Bebo account. It’s a cringe-worthy when you start asking him how The Killers concert was, when he hasn’t so much as even discussed his music tastes with you. I mean, how do you get out of that? Unless you take a long shot and say you could tell he was into them by his dress sense.
Sometimes there will be times when you find yourself relieved to have Internet searched a guy before you agreed to go on that second date. He could be, for example, a womaniser who has several posts on Gumtree looking for casual sex. Or perhaps he has an alter-ego and goes by the name of Steph, instead of Steve, on a Friday night. Or maybe it’s more sinister and Interpol have a warrant for his arrest for sexual harassment charges. Whatever it is, typing his name into Google will at least give you some sort of peace of mind.
Then there are the guys you Google and end up liking even more. I must have spent ages reading about one particular guy, and everything I read made me want to know more. Unfortunately, in reality, the guy isn’t who I hoped he’d be – rude, arrogant and self-righteous – traits you can’t really detect online. But, as much as I hate him, I find it hard to refrain from typing his name into Google every now and then. I’ve completely fallen for his online personality and regularly dream up steamy scenarios in my head. But, there comes a time when I have to face the fact that it’s no longer acceptable for a woman of my age to have make-believe friends. No matter how much they turn me on. I’m not saying that time is today, but soon…
So, whilst Google and Facebook stalking a guy can bring up all sorts of vital information about him, it also runs the risk of us overlooking his traits in real life. I think, as long as that’s kept in perspective and we’re not getting caught up with what’s being said in cyberspace and becoming obsessive, it’s safe to Internet stalk him. After all, he’s probably too stupid to find out what you’re up to…
The results can vary from ordinary to downright shocking. I’ve come across everything from their Facebook pages to comments on newspaper articles, compromising photos to personal addresses and articles they’ve written to open social networking sites. There’s a plethora of information out there about every one of us, a large chunk of which we have no control over. This, ladies, is the perfect way to uncover as much information about a guy you’re seeing as possible, without him thinking you’re a freak/internet stalker/bunny boiler.
Quite often, these internet searches determine whether or not I want to continue seeing the man in question. Sometimes, I’ll check out their photos on Facebook and realise that they look nothing like I remember from that drunken night out at the weekend. Sometimes their marital statuses have popped up, showing something I really wasn’t expecting. And other times, I read something they’ve written and think they’re just like me. In man form.
With all that information out there, would it be a waste of resources not to check them out? Or in 2011, do we take it too far and not give the other person a chance to divulge the details to us themselves? We’re in an age of wanting to know anything and everything immediately, and if we don’t, we assume the other person is hiding something or lying. Although, is it too far-fetched to think, after two dates, he may not yet feel comfortable telling you he’s leaving his wife? Or that he thinks he might scare you off if he told you he was head of the online crochet discussion forum? So how long do we wait to hear this information from the horse’s mouth? Do you try to prompt him for this information by asking questions such as, “So, what’s your most serious relationship?” or “Did you ever have to do Home Economics at school? I used to love the knitting class”?
The other thing about chatting to a guy you’ve internet searched, is it’s difficult to keep in check and remember whether they told you a certain bit of information, or if you read it on their MySpace or Bebo account. It’s a cringe-worthy when you start asking him how The Killers concert was, when he hasn’t so much as even discussed his music tastes with you. I mean, how do you get out of that? Unless you take a long shot and say you could tell he was into them by his dress sense.
Sometimes there will be times when you find yourself relieved to have Internet searched a guy before you agreed to go on that second date. He could be, for example, a womaniser who has several posts on Gumtree looking for casual sex. Or perhaps he has an alter-ego and goes by the name of Steph, instead of Steve, on a Friday night. Or maybe it’s more sinister and Interpol have a warrant for his arrest for sexual harassment charges. Whatever it is, typing his name into Google will at least give you some sort of peace of mind.
Then there are the guys you Google and end up liking even more. I must have spent ages reading about one particular guy, and everything I read made me want to know more. Unfortunately, in reality, the guy isn’t who I hoped he’d be – rude, arrogant and self-righteous – traits you can’t really detect online. But, as much as I hate him, I find it hard to refrain from typing his name into Google every now and then. I’ve completely fallen for his online personality and regularly dream up steamy scenarios in my head. But, there comes a time when I have to face the fact that it’s no longer acceptable for a woman of my age to have make-believe friends. No matter how much they turn me on. I’m not saying that time is today, but soon…
So, whilst Google and Facebook stalking a guy can bring up all sorts of vital information about him, it also runs the risk of us overlooking his traits in real life. I think, as long as that’s kept in perspective and we’re not getting caught up with what’s being said in cyberspace and becoming obsessive, it’s safe to Internet stalk him. After all, he’s probably too stupid to find out what you’re up to…
Thursday 13 January 2011
To blog or not to blog?
With Dubai seemingly the size of a Kyrgyzstani village, it’s rare I meet a guy who hasn’t read my blog. Or at least heard tales of its salaciousness. Some friends warned me that this would happen, and that I’m best to refrain from blogging because a guy won’t date a girl with an explicit blog. This is true, however the men who usually have an issue with me blogging are the ones who have something to hide. They’re usually either married or have several women on the go at once. Or both! So, actually, my blog has served as a wanker deterrent. Although, admittedly, it’s not always 100% reliable.
There have been occasions where I have been intimate with men who do not want me to blog about them. My response is a loud snort. Imagine! A sex and dating blogger being asked not to write about her sex and dating shenanigans. Shall we ask Bob Geldof not sing about starving children in Africa too? At the end of the day, if you don’t want me to blog about what happens between us, then I suggest you don’t date/sleep with me. Yes, it really is that simple.
Except it’s not that simple, because you’re a dog and you can’t resist nuzzling your face into my ample cleavage. You’re dying to feel my tongue roam all over your body and you're desperate to be into me... if you catch my drift. Well then, clearly your genitals are far more powerful than your common sense, if you have any at all. Not that I mind; I get what I want and I have excellent blogging material. Just don’t beg me to remove a post because your girlfriend might find out what happened that night. If you’re not smart enough to dodge a blog post by a girl who told you she’d write about you then, quite frankly, you don’t deserve a girlfriend. And when she finds out and leaves you, please don’t call me expecting to fill the gaping sexual hole (no pun intended) she’s left in your life.
Now, there are exceptions to the rule and, on the extremely rare occasion that I have not blogged about our little rendezvous, you can count yourself damn lucky. This either means a) I actually think you’re alright, b) we have too many friends in common that it could get messy, c) I want to fuck you again or d) I feel sorry for you. That’s not to say I won’t ever blog about it – if you get on the wrong side of me, I will probably end up posting it.
Some people might think that’s pretty harsh, but my advice is that if you don’t want people knowing about something you’ve done; DON’T DO IT! If you know you're doing something wrong, then you should pay the conequences...
There have been occasions where I have been intimate with men who do not want me to blog about them. My response is a loud snort. Imagine! A sex and dating blogger being asked not to write about her sex and dating shenanigans. Shall we ask Bob Geldof not sing about starving children in Africa too? At the end of the day, if you don’t want me to blog about what happens between us, then I suggest you don’t date/sleep with me. Yes, it really is that simple.
Except it’s not that simple, because you’re a dog and you can’t resist nuzzling your face into my ample cleavage. You’re dying to feel my tongue roam all over your body and you're desperate to be into me... if you catch my drift. Well then, clearly your genitals are far more powerful than your common sense, if you have any at all. Not that I mind; I get what I want and I have excellent blogging material. Just don’t beg me to remove a post because your girlfriend might find out what happened that night. If you’re not smart enough to dodge a blog post by a girl who told you she’d write about you then, quite frankly, you don’t deserve a girlfriend. And when she finds out and leaves you, please don’t call me expecting to fill the gaping sexual hole (no pun intended) she’s left in your life.
Now, there are exceptions to the rule and, on the extremely rare occasion that I have not blogged about our little rendezvous, you can count yourself damn lucky. This either means a) I actually think you’re alright, b) we have too many friends in common that it could get messy, c) I want to fuck you again or d) I feel sorry for you. That’s not to say I won’t ever blog about it – if you get on the wrong side of me, I will probably end up posting it.
Some people might think that’s pretty harsh, but my advice is that if you don’t want people knowing about something you’ve done; DON’T DO IT! If you know you're doing something wrong, then you should pay the conequences...
Tuesday 11 January 2011
A Midnight Message
Last night, I received a text message I wasn’t expecting. It was from a guy, Mr. AB, who I was flirting with about five months ago, but then never really heard from after I turned down his advances for a night of no-strings sex. I received the text at half-past midnight, and it read something like this: “Hey there pretty lady. How are you? Will you let me take u out for dinner this week? :)”.
In theory, I should be over overjoyed that I’ve finally been asked out on a date after three years of being dateless, but there was something about this text message that wasn’t quite right…
First thing is first, I haven’t heard from the guy in over five months. Now, I’m honoured if I’m still on his mind after so long (I’ve usually long forgotten a guy by then) but it does reek a little of going through one’s black book and sending the same message to all the girls in there, hoping at least one of them will respond so that he can get laid. Although, what if all the girls agreed? That would be a very time-consuming and expensive way of emptying his balls. Anyway, had he perhaps sent me a couple of text messages prior to the one I received last night, I may believe he had genuinely wanted to take me (and only me) out.
But what if he really does want to take me out for dinner? What if he’s been plucking up the courage over the last five months to ask me out? I’m wondering if I should reply. You know, just to find out. Then again, I really don’t want another Mr.PL situation where his invitation wasn’t sincere and I end up pining for a reply – it’s not my style. Saying that, if he does respond to me, this guy could be exactly what I need right now; a distraction from my recent conquests. Or, it could be that he’ll completely sweep me off my feet, make me fall madly in-love with him and then we’ll get married, have beautiful babies and live happily ever after… Ha! Ok, yeah, maybe not.
It could be that Mr.AB was drunk when he sent me the text, after all I did receive it at an unsociable hour, and drinking in Dubai is not only limited to the weekends. Are drunk texts a good thing? I would always text J when I was drunk because he was always on my mind, and he was my friend, but when a guy you haven’t heard from in five months texts you when he’s drunk, that can only mean one thing, right? Yes, “take you out for dinner” actually means “get you drunk and fuck you”. Not sure I really fancy that with Mr.AB. Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while will already know; I generally reserve my sexual relationships for guys who are either my friends or are at least friends of friends.
The other thing about Mr. AB’s out of the blue text message is the smiley face at the end. Dude, you’re in your mid-thirties, why are you sending me a message with emoticons that, even as a teenager chatting on msn in the late 90’s, are socially unacceptable. It’s just unnecessary.
I’m really in two minds about whether or not I should reply to Mr.AB’s text message. Does anyone have any insights?
In theory, I should be over overjoyed that I’ve finally been asked out on a date after three years of being dateless, but there was something about this text message that wasn’t quite right…
First thing is first, I haven’t heard from the guy in over five months. Now, I’m honoured if I’m still on his mind after so long (I’ve usually long forgotten a guy by then) but it does reek a little of going through one’s black book and sending the same message to all the girls in there, hoping at least one of them will respond so that he can get laid. Although, what if all the girls agreed? That would be a very time-consuming and expensive way of emptying his balls. Anyway, had he perhaps sent me a couple of text messages prior to the one I received last night, I may believe he had genuinely wanted to take me (and only me) out.
But what if he really does want to take me out for dinner? What if he’s been plucking up the courage over the last five months to ask me out? I’m wondering if I should reply. You know, just to find out. Then again, I really don’t want another Mr.PL situation where his invitation wasn’t sincere and I end up pining for a reply – it’s not my style. Saying that, if he does respond to me, this guy could be exactly what I need right now; a distraction from my recent conquests. Or, it could be that he’ll completely sweep me off my feet, make me fall madly in-love with him and then we’ll get married, have beautiful babies and live happily ever after… Ha! Ok, yeah, maybe not.
It could be that Mr.AB was drunk when he sent me the text, after all I did receive it at an unsociable hour, and drinking in Dubai is not only limited to the weekends. Are drunk texts a good thing? I would always text J when I was drunk because he was always on my mind, and he was my friend, but when a guy you haven’t heard from in five months texts you when he’s drunk, that can only mean one thing, right? Yes, “take you out for dinner” actually means “get you drunk and fuck you”. Not sure I really fancy that with Mr.AB. Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while will already know; I generally reserve my sexual relationships for guys who are either my friends or are at least friends of friends.
The other thing about Mr. AB’s out of the blue text message is the smiley face at the end. Dude, you’re in your mid-thirties, why are you sending me a message with emoticons that, even as a teenager chatting on msn in the late 90’s, are socially unacceptable. It’s just unnecessary.
I’m really in two minds about whether or not I should reply to Mr.AB’s text message. Does anyone have any insights?
Sunday 9 January 2011
Drink Dating
Alcohol: the maker and breaker of my entire love-life. Since J walked out of my life, I depend on the stuff to have my animal urges satisfied. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I hooked up with a guy for the first time without being, at least a little bit, tipsy. It’s like some kind of confidence-boost potion that brings out my don’t-give-a-fuck attitude.
There’s very little chance I’d come onto a guy if I’m not intoxicated; quite frankly, it scares the hell out of me. But a little bit of Dutch courage and I’m unstoppable. And if I’ve had a big night, I’ve been known to make some very daring and, what some might call, stupid decisions. I enjoy the feel good factor that comes with drinking, which is why most of us enjoy a drink from time to time I suppose, but I’m also becoming more and more concerned that I only get lucky when I’m wasted.
I’m by no means a wall flower when I’m sober, so why is it that I can’t approach a guy I’m interested in without a couple of drinks? Has society shaped me into being a twenty-something binge drinker or am I the only one that suffers from this dependency? Don’t get me wrong, I can go without booze for a fair amount of time but, when I’m off the wagon, I quite often take it too far. Perhaps I try too hard to keep up my party girl image… Health issues, puking in my handbag and stumbling around in 5 inch stilettos aside (although I am much better at managing the heels these days), binge drinking is a personality disorder in many ways, yet most of us are guilty of it.
Who hasn’t been drunk and thought it was a good idea to bed their friend or colleague? And why do TV programmes promote it? In the TV show Friends, Monica was drunk when she and Chandler first got together, something which she wouldn’t have done had she been sober. Ok, their story (yes, I’m aware it’s fictional) ended up being a happy one but, in reality, how many of us end up living happily ever after with our drunken one night stand? My guess is very few.
Instead, I suppose most of us have ended up in messy situations – waking up the next morning, realising you’re naked and the man next to you is your best friend’s boyfriend or your boss. Then comes that sinking stomach feeling and you wrack your brains trying to figure how the hell you’re going to get out of the situation. You pray that nobody saw you go home together and that the other person won’t mention it to anyone else. It’s embarrassing, it’s not big and it’s certainly not clever. So why do we do it? Personally, I think I crave the risk, the secrecy and the drama. At least that’s the only explanation I really have, otherwise it’s just crazy, irrational behaviour.
Maybe it’s just the way we roll in Dubai. After all, in London, I could go internet dating, saving me from being publicly humiliated when rejected. Yes, I definitely have a fear of rejection; who doesn’t? I guess when I’m drunk I can laugh off being rejected or proceed to throw insults at the guy in question and then cringe about it the next day, blaming it on the booze. And that’s exactly what alcohol has become – a barrier, a safety net, protecting my feelings.
I’m worried what all of this says about my personality. I also worry that one day I’m going to end up doing something I shouldn’t and hurting people around me, which I really, really don’t want to do. It’s bad enough waking up with a hangover, let alone waking up with a hangover and guilt. But how do I get out of this vicious cycle? Or am I just over-analysing something that’s a bit of fun? Something tells me this could be a case for a shrink…
There’s very little chance I’d come onto a guy if I’m not intoxicated; quite frankly, it scares the hell out of me. But a little bit of Dutch courage and I’m unstoppable. And if I’ve had a big night, I’ve been known to make some very daring and, what some might call, stupid decisions. I enjoy the feel good factor that comes with drinking, which is why most of us enjoy a drink from time to time I suppose, but I’m also becoming more and more concerned that I only get lucky when I’m wasted.
I’m by no means a wall flower when I’m sober, so why is it that I can’t approach a guy I’m interested in without a couple of drinks? Has society shaped me into being a twenty-something binge drinker or am I the only one that suffers from this dependency? Don’t get me wrong, I can go without booze for a fair amount of time but, when I’m off the wagon, I quite often take it too far. Perhaps I try too hard to keep up my party girl image… Health issues, puking in my handbag and stumbling around in 5 inch stilettos aside (although I am much better at managing the heels these days), binge drinking is a personality disorder in many ways, yet most of us are guilty of it.
Who hasn’t been drunk and thought it was a good idea to bed their friend or colleague? And why do TV programmes promote it? In the TV show Friends, Monica was drunk when she and Chandler first got together, something which she wouldn’t have done had she been sober. Ok, their story (yes, I’m aware it’s fictional) ended up being a happy one but, in reality, how many of us end up living happily ever after with our drunken one night stand? My guess is very few.
Instead, I suppose most of us have ended up in messy situations – waking up the next morning, realising you’re naked and the man next to you is your best friend’s boyfriend or your boss. Then comes that sinking stomach feeling and you wrack your brains trying to figure how the hell you’re going to get out of the situation. You pray that nobody saw you go home together and that the other person won’t mention it to anyone else. It’s embarrassing, it’s not big and it’s certainly not clever. So why do we do it? Personally, I think I crave the risk, the secrecy and the drama. At least that’s the only explanation I really have, otherwise it’s just crazy, irrational behaviour.
Maybe it’s just the way we roll in Dubai. After all, in London, I could go internet dating, saving me from being publicly humiliated when rejected. Yes, I definitely have a fear of rejection; who doesn’t? I guess when I’m drunk I can laugh off being rejected or proceed to throw insults at the guy in question and then cringe about it the next day, blaming it on the booze. And that’s exactly what alcohol has become – a barrier, a safety net, protecting my feelings.
I’m worried what all of this says about my personality. I also worry that one day I’m going to end up doing something I shouldn’t and hurting people around me, which I really, really don’t want to do. It’s bad enough waking up with a hangover, let alone waking up with a hangover and guilt. But how do I get out of this vicious cycle? Or am I just over-analysing something that’s a bit of fun? Something tells me this could be a case for a shrink…
Wednesday 5 January 2011
What Men Want
Is it just me, or are men the most confusing things on Earth? I'm sure Isaac Newton had an easier time working out gravity than I do what's going through a man's mind!
At first, I wasn't sure whether I'd bother contacting Mr.PL or not. Not because the sex wasn't hot, not because he wasn't interesting or attractive, but because I just didn't want to give him the satisfaction. I absolutely despise the ball being in the guy's court. It comes from years of disappointment and let downs; whether it's just flirting, engaging in a casual fling or having a full blown relationship. I always imagine their smug faces when they hear from me, thinking, "Yeah, she's well into me and I just couldn't give a fuck. I'm the fucking man!" Eugh!! You twats.
Despite my initial reluctance, a few days later, I thought I'd drop Mr.PL a cheeky email. It's the least personal form of communication, which was ideal for the message I wanted to get across. The content, however, was personal. It referred to a conversation we'd had about a mutual interest but it was also intimate. Short and sweet, I was hoping he'd catch my drift.
At the time, I wasn't overly bothered whether Mr.PL emailed me back or not, but as the hours passed, I found myself becoming more and more obsessed with the email. Fuck! Had I let him get the better of me? Had I reopened the door of disappointment? I spent all day refreshing my emails, waiting for a reply, and it's driven me crazy. How did I make such a rookie mistake?
From Mr.PL being someone I had fun with but wasn't too fussed about, he has now become someone that pops into my head, uncontrollably, every five bloody minutes. And I hate it. I also hate him. Seriously, who the fuck does he think he is not replying to my email? And why did he bother giving me his business card in the first place if he had no intention of responding to me when I contacted him? I'd have quite happily walked out of his apartment that day and not looked back. But no, he had to dangle the metaphoric carrot in front of my face, the bastard. Not only that, but I initially snubbed his card for this very reason (which is why I ended up receiving it in two halves, after he seemed offended and ripped it)!
Anyway, this incessant need for an email from Mr.PL has led me to question myself and why he hasn't replied to me. Am I too fat? Am I not interesting enough? Am I not intelligent enough? Did I email too soon and now he thinks I'm needy? Is it because I threw Kettle chips around the apartment in a drunken rage? God, the questions just go on and on and I have no answers. Then I take a step back and think; "fuck him".
It's not like I'm some air-head bimbo, sucking some 50 year old man's cock, in the hope he'll buy me a Tiffany necklace. No, I'm a well travelled, well educated, sociable girl who goes for guys on a similar level. I have some pretty cool hobbies, great friends and I work damn hard to get what I want from life; so what's missing? Or is it that guys actually do prefer inferior women? Someone who will depend on them entirely, so that they know they're in control?
Perhaps it's that I'm too full on? God, I really hope I'm not! I know reading this blog you'd probably think I was, but you have to remember that these are all my honest thoughts, stripped down and bare, for everyone to see — don't mistake my heart-on-sleeve attitude with being full on.
So, even though I'd like to continue where I left off with Mr.PL, I don't think I'll contact him again. Well, not unless I feel like telling him he's a wanker. As for me, I know my email obsession will fade away in a few days if he doesn't reply to me. Mr.PL was good, but not that good.
At first, I wasn't sure whether I'd bother contacting Mr.PL or not. Not because the sex wasn't hot, not because he wasn't interesting or attractive, but because I just didn't want to give him the satisfaction. I absolutely despise the ball being in the guy's court. It comes from years of disappointment and let downs; whether it's just flirting, engaging in a casual fling or having a full blown relationship. I always imagine their smug faces when they hear from me, thinking, "Yeah, she's well into me and I just couldn't give a fuck. I'm the fucking man!" Eugh!! You twats.
Despite my initial reluctance, a few days later, I thought I'd drop Mr.PL a cheeky email. It's the least personal form of communication, which was ideal for the message I wanted to get across. The content, however, was personal. It referred to a conversation we'd had about a mutual interest but it was also intimate. Short and sweet, I was hoping he'd catch my drift.
At the time, I wasn't overly bothered whether Mr.PL emailed me back or not, but as the hours passed, I found myself becoming more and more obsessed with the email. Fuck! Had I let him get the better of me? Had I reopened the door of disappointment? I spent all day refreshing my emails, waiting for a reply, and it's driven me crazy. How did I make such a rookie mistake?
From Mr.PL being someone I had fun with but wasn't too fussed about, he has now become someone that pops into my head, uncontrollably, every five bloody minutes. And I hate it. I also hate him. Seriously, who the fuck does he think he is not replying to my email? And why did he bother giving me his business card in the first place if he had no intention of responding to me when I contacted him? I'd have quite happily walked out of his apartment that day and not looked back. But no, he had to dangle the metaphoric carrot in front of my face, the bastard. Not only that, but I initially snubbed his card for this very reason (which is why I ended up receiving it in two halves, after he seemed offended and ripped it)!
Anyway, this incessant need for an email from Mr.PL has led me to question myself and why he hasn't replied to me. Am I too fat? Am I not interesting enough? Am I not intelligent enough? Did I email too soon and now he thinks I'm needy? Is it because I threw Kettle chips around the apartment in a drunken rage? God, the questions just go on and on and I have no answers. Then I take a step back and think; "fuck him".
It's not like I'm some air-head bimbo, sucking some 50 year old man's cock, in the hope he'll buy me a Tiffany necklace. No, I'm a well travelled, well educated, sociable girl who goes for guys on a similar level. I have some pretty cool hobbies, great friends and I work damn hard to get what I want from life; so what's missing? Or is it that guys actually do prefer inferior women? Someone who will depend on them entirely, so that they know they're in control?
Perhaps it's that I'm too full on? God, I really hope I'm not! I know reading this blog you'd probably think I was, but you have to remember that these are all my honest thoughts, stripped down and bare, for everyone to see — don't mistake my heart-on-sleeve attitude with being full on.
So, even though I'd like to continue where I left off with Mr.PL, I don't think I'll contact him again. Well, not unless I feel like telling him he's a wanker. As for me, I know my email obsession will fade away in a few days if he doesn't reply to me. Mr.PL was good, but not that good.
Saturday 1 January 2011
Festive Flirting
The festive period - dreaded by all singletons. Let's face it, it's a time for smug couples to thrust their public displays of affection in your face. It's also an excuse for retailers to remind you how imperfect your life is, with countless adverts of loved-up couples, grinning inanely next to the Christmas tree, exchanging gifts. It all makes me want to gauge my eyes out, and it's even more difficult to stomach when you're so far away from your best friends and family. To be honest, I'm surprised I survived this year.
I usually make it through the season by surrounding myself with my single friends, using "it's Christmas" as an excuse to binge drink and partying until all hours. This year was a bit different; with barely any single friends in town and having been struck down with a nasty case of flu, Christmas was, in a word, shite. Christmas eve was spent in bed, reading everyone's festive facebook updates whilst trying to cuddle a kitten who couldn't wait to escape my embrace. Christmas day was spent coughing and spluttering, at the other end of the table from my friends, whilst staring longingly at my Christmas dinner, which I couldn't stomach eating. That left New Year's Eve as my only festive saving grace...
A White Party, on the rooftop of a Dubai hotel, with the Big Sis and some other media luvvies saw me bringing in 2011. After a shocking 2010 in terms of my love-life, I wasn't really expecting to get so much as a midnight peck, but if my New Year's Day is anything to go by, that all looks set to change...
As most of my friends know, I love a bit of flirtatious banter; I'm sure it releases all sorts of feel-good endorphins. So what started as some harmless flirtation with Mr. PL, turned out to be some harmful fun. The good kind.
It was all a bit aggressive, but oh so hot. I can be feisty, but Mr. PL definitely brought out my more mental side, which was really very liberating. He annoyed me, but in a I-want-to-rip-your clothes-off way. And so I did.
There was something about Mr. PL that was incredibly intriguing. I'm not sure if it was his lack of charm, his almost-mental state of mind or his ability to handle my feistiness. Whatever it was, after scratching the surface, it was evident Mr. PL was quite an interesting character. I love being in the company of anyone who's well travelled, which he most definitely was. And to then see a bookshelf in his apartment, stacked with books I'd love to get stuck into, well, it turned me on.
In the bedroom, Mr. PL hit the spot. Three times to be exact. And after barely any passion all year, it was gratefully received. He totally took control and whispered obscenities into my ear. It was quite erotic, and he definitely left his mark; bruises in the shape of fingerprints all over my arms. In return, he was left with scratch marks.
Mr. PL did give me his business card, albeit ripped in half. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it yet; I think a business card is a little impersonal when you've just been intimate with someone, although for some reason, on some level, I do feel compelled to know more.
Whatever does or doesn't happen, I'm hoping 2011 goes on as it started...
Happy New Year!
I usually make it through the season by surrounding myself with my single friends, using "it's Christmas" as an excuse to binge drink and partying until all hours. This year was a bit different; with barely any single friends in town and having been struck down with a nasty case of flu, Christmas was, in a word, shite. Christmas eve was spent in bed, reading everyone's festive facebook updates whilst trying to cuddle a kitten who couldn't wait to escape my embrace. Christmas day was spent coughing and spluttering, at the other end of the table from my friends, whilst staring longingly at my Christmas dinner, which I couldn't stomach eating. That left New Year's Eve as my only festive saving grace...
A White Party, on the rooftop of a Dubai hotel, with the Big Sis and some other media luvvies saw me bringing in 2011. After a shocking 2010 in terms of my love-life, I wasn't really expecting to get so much as a midnight peck, but if my New Year's Day is anything to go by, that all looks set to change...
As most of my friends know, I love a bit of flirtatious banter; I'm sure it releases all sorts of feel-good endorphins. So what started as some harmless flirtation with Mr. PL, turned out to be some harmful fun. The good kind.
It was all a bit aggressive, but oh so hot. I can be feisty, but Mr. PL definitely brought out my more mental side, which was really very liberating. He annoyed me, but in a I-want-to-rip-your clothes-off way. And so I did.
There was something about Mr. PL that was incredibly intriguing. I'm not sure if it was his lack of charm, his almost-mental state of mind or his ability to handle my feistiness. Whatever it was, after scratching the surface, it was evident Mr. PL was quite an interesting character. I love being in the company of anyone who's well travelled, which he most definitely was. And to then see a bookshelf in his apartment, stacked with books I'd love to get stuck into, well, it turned me on.
In the bedroom, Mr. PL hit the spot. Three times to be exact. And after barely any passion all year, it was gratefully received. He totally took control and whispered obscenities into my ear. It was quite erotic, and he definitely left his mark; bruises in the shape of fingerprints all over my arms. In return, he was left with scratch marks.
Mr. PL did give me his business card, albeit ripped in half. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it yet; I think a business card is a little impersonal when you've just been intimate with someone, although for some reason, on some level, I do feel compelled to know more.
Whatever does or doesn't happen, I'm hoping 2011 goes on as it started...
Happy New Year!
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