Shamelessly Salacious

Thunderbolt and Lightning

2012-01-07T01:44:00.002+04:00

Before I start relaying all of my sordid stories from the last three months, I want to look forward into 2012. It is, after all, the new year.After spending the majority of the festive period, in the UK, surrounded by all of my loved-up friends, I realised just how mental life in Dubai can be. Far from working a 9-5 job in the city and spending my weekends shopping at Tesco, cooking for my other half and watching some shit reality TV show. Instead, I travel the world, drink far too much, count bar nuts as one of my three meals a day and sleep with totally inappropriate men. So why do I feel as though the grass is greener on the other side?Perhaps I'm a marketing mug, having fallen into the trap of believing Christmas is about sitting between the fire and the Christmas tree, gazing into the eyes of your other half and savouring all those sweet, gift-giving moments... No, that actually almost made me want to vomit. However, there is something a little unfulfilling about relationships in Dubai. I'm not a believer of "the bolt" but I am a believer of mutual respect, deep friendship and irresistible attraction. My friends put my agnostic attitude towards "the bolt" as lack of experience. I, on the other hand, put it down to pragmatism. It's just not realistic. We're animals, driven by sexual desire and the need to nurture in order to procreate successfully. Love, in my opinion, is merely a marketing ploy, aimed at extracting dollar bills from the impressionable, whilst duping them into believing they live a wholly contented life.Sure, I've felt incredibly attracted to some guys, I've pined for them, stared at my phone hoping they'll call, but that's not a "bolt", that's simply sexual attraction and me thinking it could be more because I was bored, lonely and craved excitement.So, in 2012, instead of searching for the fictional bolt, I intend to find what it really is that I'm looking for, be it sex, love or understanding.

When The Messer Becomes The Messee

2011-09-25T13:27:00.000+04:00

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

2011-09-07T12:12:00.004+04:00

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

2011-08-29T13:55:00.000+04:00

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

2011-08-27T18:48:00.004+04:00

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

2011-08-07T15:02:00.003+04:00

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

2011-07-14T13:07:00.000+04:00

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

2011-06-25T11:28:00.003+04:00

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

2011-06-09T18:08:00.000+04:00

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...

2011-06-02T15:45:00.002+04:00

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

2011-05-13T22:54:00.002+04:00

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

2011-05-03T21:57:00.007+04:00

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

2011-04-08T16:04:00.006+04:00

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

2011-04-08T13:20:00.004+04:00

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

2011-03-10T15:26:00.003+04:00

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

2011-02-26T20:58:00.003+04:00

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

2011-02-21T17:31:00.007+04:00

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

2011-02-19T23:44:00.010+04:00

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

2011-02-12T22:17:00.002+04:00

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

2011-02-08T12:31:00.000+04:00

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

2011-01-25T17:50:00.008+04:00

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!

Crazy Cat Lady

2011-01-23T17:42:00.004+04:00

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.

Me, Myself & I

2011-01-22T12:20:00.005+04:00

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.

Ho Ho Ho

2011-01-21T15:28:00.002+04:00

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.

The cat(boy)'s out of the bag

2011-01-20T14:36:00.003+04:00

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…!

Google Is Your Friend

2011-01-16T18:33:00.000+04:00

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…

To blog or not to blog?

2011-01-13T14:53:00.003+04:00

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...

A Midnight Message

2011-01-11T13:10:00.001+04:00

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?

Drink Dating

2011-01-09T15:19:00.000+04:00

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…

What Men Want

2011-01-05T22:29:00.009+04:00

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.

Festive Flirting

2011-01-01T18:59:00.002+04:00

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!

Damned if I do, Damned if I don't

2010-11-06T19:25:00.002+04:00

Nights out in Dubai are not uncommon for me; I can be found gracing some of the city's best bars every weekend, and occasionally during the week too. Sipping cocktails is a Dubai-expat's most popular hobby. We'll fill every bar, beach and boat during the weekend. After long hours at work all week, it's almost necessary to unwind with a beverage in hand at the weekend. You know what they say - work hard, play harder!

With the majority of the city's population descending upon its watering-holes on a Thursday night, you'd think it would be prime mate-hunting ground. Well, it's not. At least it's not for me. Many of my friends always score on nights out, but I find it to be a rarity these days.

However, on the odd occasion I do meet a charming young man, I struggle with what I'm actually meant to say and do. It's been drummed into me that I need to be mysterious and alluring, that I should never go home with a man on the first night I meet him, that I shouldn't wear short skirts and low-cut tops if I want to be considered girlfriend material and that I need to give them the chance to chase me, etc. None of those things are me; I wear my heart on my sleeve, I'll answer all sorts of questions, I like wearing low-cut tops, I'm easy going and if I want to have sex with a man on the first night, I will.

However, having been single (dateless in fact) for almost 18 months, I decided I might just take some of my friends' advice. But before I go on to tell you what happened when I took their advice, I'll first tell you about what usually happens when I don't take their advice...

It was a Friday night, I'd been at brunch all day and I was a little bit tipsy. I wasn't at one of Dubai's classier joints, but everyone in the club was up for a good time. Stood at the bar, trying to order a drink, I took a toke on my cigarette. As I did, a tall, handsome stranger turned to me and asked to borrow my lighter. Of course I obliged and he struck up a conversation with me. His name was Gerry, and not only was this guy cute, he was also intelligent and interesting without being a complete dick like the rest of Dubai's male population. I was hooked.

Next thing I know, the bar's lights come up and we were being thrown out. We'd been chatting for four hours. I was so into the conversation, that I'd forgotten I was wearing high-heels and that my feet were killing me. I felt like I'd know this guy for ages and I was so overwhelmed that I'd actually met a man I found attractive and intriguing.

When he asked if we could continue drinking at mine, I was a little apprehensive at first, as I didn't want to give him the wrong impression. But then I thought one little drink wouldn't hurt, and so we jumped in a cab and headed back to my place.

At mine, I made us both a drink and we sat on the sofa chatting. We must have been chatting for another three hours, because the next thing I knew, the sun was coming up. I remember thinking how much I liked the guy, something which is so rare for me these days. When he asked if he could stay over, I told him he could sleep on the sofa, but somehow, he made it into my bed. We chatted some more and ended up falling asleep, cuddled up, but without so much as a kiss. However, in the morning, that all went to pot.

I'd done so well up until that point, but I didn't stress about it as we had so much chemistry, I was sure this was the beginning of something beautiful. He took my number and made his way home whilst I snuggled up in bed feeling so very, very happy.

Needless to say, I didn't receive a call, or even as much as a text from him. I felt so disheartened; it had been such a long time since I felt that way about someone and I suddenly remembered how cruel men can really be. Seeing as I didn't have his number, I thought I'd look him up on Facebook and send him a friend request. I typed in his name and up popped his profile picture... with a woman in it. I didn't want to jump to conclusions, so I thought I better try and find out if he was in a relationship or not before sending him a friend request. I googled his name and, through various other social networking sites, found out he was married.

Why I was surprised, I'm not sure. As I've mentioned before, married men seem to buzz around me like bees around honey but single guys, single guys don't come within 20ft of me... It was, as Alanis Morissette would say, ironic; I'd met the man of my dreams and then seen his beautiful wife. I vowed not to take another guy home ever again.

A few weeks later, I met Steve. Steve was a silver fox that reminded me of an ex (GJ, if you're reading this, it was you). He was tall with beautiful dark brown eyes (although I usually prefer blue) and a cheeky chappy demeanour that kept me hooked. We chatted for ages, discussing everything from work to politics - it was heated, and I loved that he was so opinionated.

We moved from the bar we were in to a karaoke bar across the road. We continued our heated conversation until he ended up singing Johnny Cash songs to me. It was also here we shared a little kiss. Nothing full on, more small pecks on the lips than drunk, high school style snogging.

As we lived in the same area, we shared a taxi home. Steve was first to be dropped off, and as the taxi pulled up outside his building, he tried to persuade me to come in for a drink. I had to really resist the temptation to go up to his apartment, but I knew an innocent drink would end up being not-so-innocent sex, and so I continued my journey back to my apartment. However, despite having had a great night together and Steve inviting me up to his for "a drink", when I declined, he didn't ask for my number or when he might see me again. He was clearly a good-time guy up for whatever he could get his hands on, so to speak.

Then there was Craig, the guy I did follow my friends' advice with. I met Craig at my local, where our eyes literally met across a crowded room, and he spent the evening looking over at me. When I caught his eye, I smiled, but he didn't come over. It was only as he was about to leave that I smiled and waved and he came over to chat.

Craig worked in construction and was manly and flirty. He's definitely one of those guys you'd feel protected being with. After a few hours of flirting, I told Craig my friend and I were moving on to another bar and he immediately asked me for my number. I took it as a good sign and gave him my digits. He did text me, but only for a booty call, which obviously I declined.

After that, I bumped into Craig on a couple of occasions. He continued texting me, but never asked me out on a date. I gave up texting him back.

So, despite all my friends' advice of abstaining and playing a little bit hard-to-get, none of the scenarios proved to be fruitful. So, what is it exactly that makes a guy want to take a girl on a date? When I meet guys, I always have interesting, intelligent conversations but I always throw in a little bit of flirting too - in fact I can't help being a little flirty - but, I never let it become smutty or full of innuendo. So where am I going wrong?

What I've learnt from this is that it doesn't matter how far you go with a guy on the first night - a little flirty conversation, a kiss or hot, sweaty sex - the scenario isn't based on any of those. So, if you want to sleep with the guy you just met, why not? A friend of mine is currently dating a girl he met in a bar and slept with on the first night...

What I've concluded from all of this is that it doesn't matter what I do; I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't.

Singled Out

2010-10-31T21:49:00.003+04:00

I'm not usually fussed about being single. In fact, over the years, I've actually come to enjoy it. However, recently, it's started to frustrate me. Not because I need a man to make me happy, but because all of my friends are in relationships. Yes, I know I sound like a child who wants the latest toy, but that's exactly how not being in a relationship is making me feel - left out.

Prime example; there's a bank holiday coming up and I'm dying to get away for a short break. But who to go with? All my friends have plans with their other halves, so I've no choice to book for one. And do you have any idea how much extra I have to pay just because I'm going on holiday alone? It's like a single-tax or something. Talk about kicking a woman while she's down!

The other problem with being single is that your friends never stop going on about trying to find you a partner. They always scratch their heads and ask you why you're still single with a bemused look on their faces. Well, it's not like I have an answer to that, is it?

Last weekend, I was out with some friends for a few drinks and from the moment I arrived until the moment I left, the conversation revolved around my love life. Or lack thereof. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one to shy away from the topic (bloody hell, I write a blog about it for goodness sake) but when it goes on and on for five hours plus, it does become a little tiresome... No, I don't know why I'm still single. No, I'm not covered in scales. No, I don't keep a collection of toenail clippings. And no, I don't talk about ex-boyfriends to guys I've just met. Anyway, on this particular night out, I left in a strop - something I almost never do. Why? Because it all got a bit too much...

On a night out, if I've not found a charming young man to occupy myself with, I do have a tendency to text or call J. I believe this is my single-girl right. I'm not doing anything wrong, I merely want some attention from a man I know will sleep with me. Ok, I know he's 3500 miles away, but it's the attention I'm after. So, when my friends nag and moan at me for contacting J, I take offence. I mean it's alright for them in their lovey-dovey relationships, probably getting all the nookie they need. I bet they've forgotten what it feels like to crave attention from the opposite sex. Well, I haven't!

So after being told by my loved-up friends, with their disapproving looks, that I shouldn't be contacting J, I decided enough was enough and left. I can just about tolerate discussing my lacklustre love-life all evening, but trying to stop me from getting that little bit of attention I need to stop me from going mad... well, that's just taking it too far.

Is being in a relationship like joining the Free Masons? Is it like some exclusive club that I have no idea how to join and even if I do find out, I have to wait for someone to die before they let me join? At least my friends haven't reached the stage of organising 'couples only' dinners. Although sometimes I think they're not far off.

It's not that I'm not happy for my friends, or that I'm jealous of their relationships, I just wish being single wasn't so exclusive. I'd quite like to go on holiday with one of my friends or be their plus one to an event. It'd also be lovely if there was some spontaneity, rather than them having to consult the other half before committing to spending time with me.

Anyway, before I sound like some bitter old spinster, I suppose I better be grateful that I at least have a cat to come home to... Oh.

How not to break-up with a girl

2010-10-05T23:01:00.004+04:00

We've all had our fair share of bad break-ups; from slanging matches to devious acts of revenge, it's all part of the process to find The One. But sometimes, men can be a little less tactful when trying to break-up with us. Either that, or they're so tactful, it's actually even worse.

Case in point: a guy, MN, who I once dated back in late 2002/early 2003. I met MN on the internet, way before it was cool to do that. There was a flurry of emails, texts and phone calls before we met and when we finally arranged to go on a date, I was over the moon. The moment we met was like a lightning bolt and I remember it so clearly...

We'd arranged to meet at Angel tube station and then head to a bar. On the tube journey there, the butterflies in my tummy were unreal. As I walked off the tube and went up the escalator, there he was waiting for me — tall, handsome and with a gorgeous smile. We instantly recognised each other, despite never having met before. It was an amazing moment and we greeted each other as if we'd been friends for years.

In the bar, we did not stop talking. We covered all sorts of topics, from jobs to university, families to travelling. I liked him and I liked him a lot.

That night also happened to be the night of MN's work Christmas party, so after a few hours of chatting, MN invited me to the Christmas do. Of course I accepted, and so we made our way to the salsa bar where I'd meet all of his colleagues.

As soon as we arrived, MN bought me a drink and introduced me to his friends. They were all so welcoming and I immediately felt at ease. After exchanging niceties and explaining to them how we met, I remember MN taking my hand and leading me to the dance floor. We gave salsa dancing our best shot, but we were both so awful that there was nothing to do apart from laugh and drink more!

At the end of the night, MN was a total gentleman and made sure I made it home safely. Before we parted, he gave me a long lingering goodnight kiss. I'll never forget the way that kiss tasted. Or the aftershave he was wearing. It had been an amazing night with an amazing guy; I was hooked.

From there on, MN and I dated. We saw each other almost every day. One night we went for a few drinks in a bar in town and there was a couple on the opposite sofa to us, locking lips. MN grabbed me and told me there was only one way to not have to watch them — if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. So MN and I passionately kissed for the rest of the evening, only coming up for air or a sip of our drinks. I haven't been kissed like that since.

Public displays of affection (PDAs) weren't uncommon between MN and I. We'd regularly be caught in an embrace, so often so that we'd quite often get comments from onlookers. We were in the queue for the ice rink once and the gentleman behind us recommended we be surgically removed from one another before we attempt to ice-skate and end up seriously injuring ourselves. That was another fantastic date. And afterwards we went to Harrod's to look at the pedigree puppies and kittens before eating some of the most expensive ice-cream on their cafe's menu.

MN and I even spent New Year together. Just us. It's probably still the best and most memorable New Year I've had. By this point, I was head over heels in love with the guy. Totally and utterly smitten. Everything he said to me was perfect. Every moment I spent with him was amazing. We were glued to one another's side and we even talked about going away together. This, I thought, was love.

Then, one night, MN leave to go to work at 4am. Being a copper, he often worked some crazy hours. He kissed me goodbye and was about to leave but came back for another kiss. After five minutes of kissing, he actually had to leave for work, and so he left me in his bed to catch up on my sleep. By this point, I was so in love and so comfortable with MN, that I thought I'd stay at his place until he was due to come home.

Around the time he was meant to be back, I sent him a text message letting him know I was still in his bed, hoping he'd rush home to make love to me. But he text me back telling me I could stay but he wouldn't be coming back as he'd had bad news back home in Scotland and he was going back there to sort it out. He promised he'd call me when he was on the train, so I had a shower and made my way back to my flat.

Hours passed and there was no phone call. I tried ringing him but there was no answer. I sent text messages, left voicemails... nothing. I was so worried, I didn't know what to think. This went on for weeks. Six weeks to be exact. I was lost. From being so in love and showered with affection, to having no contact with MN whatsoever, completely broke my heart.

Those six weeks were possibly the worst of my life. I holed myself up in my room the whole time, listening to the same three soppy songs on repeat and watching the same sad bit of movie over and over and over again. I only left my room when I had to sneak to the shop to buy chocolate gateaux to gorge on. Not even my friends could coax me out. I cried so much, I'm surprised I didn't dehydrate.

At the end of the six weeks, I finally received an email from MN. He explained how he'd got his ex-girlfriend pregnant, and as she was American, he'd be moving to the States to be with her. My heart sunk. I was absolutely destroyed, but I knew there was no point in trying to convince him otherwise. I told him I understood and that I'd really like to take him to the airport to say goodbye. He agreed.

It was very early in the morning and I picked him up to make our way to Heathrow. He didn't have much luggage and I asked him where all his bags were. He told me all his things were being shipped. When we arrived at Heathrow, I parked the car and we walked to the check-in area. It was there I said a very tearful goodbye to MN, knowing I'd probably never see him again. But before we parted, we went to a photo booth to have our photo taken together. I still have those pictures in a drawer next to my bed, and whenever I feel down, for some reason, I always pull them out and remember the good times.

I waved MN off and made my way back home. I was so emotional that I ended up crashing my car into a pillar! When I finally made it home, I locked myself away again.

A few weeks later, I started to get over my first love, and so I went back to work. I used to work as a Tequila Girl in bars in London, which meant roaming around a pub in a skin-tight, red dress, knee-high boots and a leather holster belt, chatting to groups of men (and occasionally women) and selling shots of tequila. One night, I ended up chatting to a lovely group of lads. I asked them what they did and when they told me they were policemen I rolled my eyes and moaned. They asked me what the problem was and so I explained the MN story to them.

When I'd finished my story, one of the guys asked me what MN's name was. When I told him, the lads all looked at one another and smirked. I asked them what was going on and they informed me that MN was in the country. In fact, he'd never left the country in the first place. I couldn't believe my ears. At first, I thought they were trying to wind me up, but I soon realised they were serious. But how? I'd driven him to the airport, waved him off in a tearful parting... surely that couldn't have all been a lie?

It turns out that it was. MN had fabricated the entire story — having to go back home to Scotland, the ex-girlfriend being pregnant and flying to the States. And he'd made it up to dump me.

The whole thing was outrageous and it depressed me even more than had he just explained to me how he felt. I felt totally cheated, like he'd never wanted to spend all those precious moments with me when we were dating, that he'd never really liked me at all. Suddenly, I could see my heart smashed into small pieces, strewn across the floor, and I'd spend then next two years picking up the pieces and trying to put it back together again.

I understand guys can sometimes feel pressured into trying to soften the blow when it comes to breaking-up with a girl, but to go to such great lengths is cruel, not to mention totally unnecessary. A woman might initially be upset and angry when you break-up with her honestly, but you'll be saving her so much heartache in the long-run. Not to mention saving you a lot of hassle of making up such a story.

Perhaps my story is an extreme one, but this isn't the first time I've been lied to by a guy to get me in, or out, of his bed. I just hope that in the future, I date guys who are mature enough to tell me that I'm just not the one for them. It'd be appreciated far more and easier to get over than questioning as to why he felt a need to make-up such a story. I mean, am I really that bad?

Around the World

2010-08-21T15:28:00.001+04:00

As some of you may know, I was recently in Australia for a wedding. I had high hopes for this particular ceremony, not just for the couple tying the knot (they excelled my expectations in so many ways) but also for myself. Yes, after all the post-J trauma, I figured travelling to the other side of the world in search of a man would be a great anecdote to my broken heart. And excellent for blogging purposes!

I'm not going to lie, in the run up to my trip down under, I'd had visions of meeting a cool, bronzed, Aussie hunk who'd sweep me off my feet and teach me how to surf. But alas, it was clearly not meant to be. Instead, all of the Aussie guys I met seemed to have little direction in life... They were all in jobs that were practically handed to them, rather than having carved out career paths for themselves that they worked their toned tushies off for. Call me a snob, but I found it a little disappointing.

It's not that I wouldn't date a guy who wasn't a doctor, teacher or lawyer; I would. For example, I'd date a bartender, if he had bigger dreams and was working towards managing or owning a bar one day. I just can't date a guy with no passion for his career. I know that makes me susceptible to dating a workaholic, but I'm willing to take that chance.

The other thing I noticed about several Aussie men is that they hadn't ventured past Australian shores. Or if they had, it'd been to New Zealand when they were 10. If I met a guy in London who'd never left the UK, bar a French exchange trip in 1990, it's more than likely I put a strike through his name in my little black book.

Perhaps I'm spoilt in Dubai, where every eligible bachelor here has a career path and an ambition. And they're not afraid to travel to unknown terrioties to acheive their goals. Or is it that I'm just looking for someone on my wavelength? Someone who'll take the bull by the horns, a leap of faith or a risk?

The good thing about most Aussie men is their love for the outdoors; be it surfing, offroading or hunting. Whilst all these activities are great (no, I'm not ant anti-hunting activist so sue me) they all show brawn but not brains. And I need a balance between the two.

After all, they're just basic primal instincts, right? The intelligence to hold down a decent job to provide for our family, and the brute strength to be able to protect us, conduct basic DIY around the house etc.

I hate to think I'm fussy, and this is probably one of the reasons I've been single most of my adult life, but I want someone to inspire me. Someone to come home from work to where I think 'Fuck, you're amazing', after they've told me a story about how they dealt with something difficult at work or acheived something new in their personal life.

Guys who just plod along in life don't cut it for me. A relationship is about compromise, and having get-up-and-go is not something I'm willing to negotiate, which is why I need someone like-minded. I want to tell my kids I met their father in some random place, doing some crazy activity. And I want to tell them we were married on a Himalayan mountain with goats as guests. Or something along those lines...

I think of some of the stories my parents told me over the years about their travels, and I wonder if this is one of the elements that attracted them to one another, along with the fact they were both at university trying to acheive something when they met.

I don't want a repetition of my parents' love story, but I do want to find a similar synergy that they once shared, and perhaps still do. I guess I just need a little more patience and a plane ticket to somewhere more exotic than Oz.

The Unobtainables

2010-08-09T21:06:00.004+04:00

When it comes to relationships, I have a terrible track record. In fact they're so bad, I'd barely call them relationships. Constantly falling for guys who are bad for me; it would seem that I love setting myself up for heartache.

My problem? Well, according to an article in the British edition of Cosmopolitan magazine, I'm attracted to unavailable men. At first, I laughed at the obscenity of it. Then I thought of past men I'd desired (and a couple of current ones too). Had I been in a serious relationship with any of them? No. The only guy I've ever been in a serious relationship with, I dumped. Probably because it was all just too easy to plod along with him and it didn't excite me enough.

The more I think about it, the more sure I am that unavailable men are absolutely who I'm attracted to. Sometimes, there are guys I don't even necessarily find that physically attractive that I just have to have. For example, I know it'd be wrong for me to get involved with a guy who is either married, expecting a child with another woman, someone I work with or treated me so badly in the past, but I just can't help myself. It's like I'm drawn to them.

It probably explains why I suddenly realised how much I wanted J - because he's having a child with someone else and I can't have him anymore. It also explains why I continued chatting to Billy the banker - he was married and so I knew it'd be more of a challenge.

Is that what makes unavailable men so attractive to me - the challenge? I don't think I've ever had a thing for a guy who has been interested in me in the long term. Is it because it's a challenge to try to win them over? I've never been a girl for the easy life and I've always enjoyed having dramas in my life; from break-ups with boyfriends to suddenly moving 3500 miles away from home. From sleeping with someone I shouldn't, to constantly being the one to be pulled over by the police for no apparent reason. Drama just seems to find me but, if I'm honest, I absolutely love it. After all, what's a high without a low, right?

Perhaps it's my age. I mean, right now, I have little interest in finding The One, being contractually bound to him and then popping out his offspring, once every year, for the next however many years. No, thanks. It's all just... too normal. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I consciously sniff out married men or guys with emotional issues, but for some reason I'm insanely attracted to them if they are. I don't want to be, but I just can't help myself.

Unobtainable men are also great to fantasise about... It's all so exciting and you're constantly on a high, thinking about the next time you'll see them. They're a woman's version of the schoolgirl crush, and thinking about that first kiss or the first time you strip them off is just so hot!

But what if it isn't my age? Cosmopolitan magazine seemed to think it could be something to do with self-esteem and/or past relationships, but I honestly don't think that's the reason. I've never been one to really care what others think of me and I had a very healthy, balanced upbringing. Sure, my past relationships with men have been rollercoasters, but only because I let them.

Another point the article made was that women who go after unavailable men are usually big discussers or over-thinkers, or even both. Apparently women attracted to unavailable men are so caught up in discussing, thinking and daydreaming that we don't realise that we're trapped in inaction. Does that mean this blog is a tell-tale sign of my relationship tendencies towards unobtainables?

Why is it always the woman that's attracted to unavailable men? It could be that I'm actually the emotionally unavailable one and the guys I go for reflect that. It's not like every woman that goes for unavailable men has deep emotional issues. In fact, I'm surprised a magazine, that's supposedly meant to encourage women to be empowered when it comes to sex and relationships, is so quick to point the finger at the women.

This article is bad journalism anyway; not one of the twenty points was backed up by a study or psychologists opinion, they were all obvious, and mindless, assumptions. Not that I really should have expected anything more from Cosmopolitan magazine.

I guess the most worrying part about being attracted to unobtainable men, is acting on it. Not because how it affects me, but because of the ripple effect - the wife, the mother of the child, colleagues or my friends. Let's be clear, I've only ever slept with one married man (as far as I know) and I didn't even find out he was married until a few days later. And I'd only strike up romantic liaisons with a guy I work with if he assured me he wouldn't make it an issue. But I do worry that, one day, it might cause issues.

Maybe there's nothing I can do about it. Maybe unavailable men give out a pheromone that I'm irresistibly attracted to and, until my chemistry changes, I just have to accept that living dangerously is part of my DNA.

The big, bad World Wide Web of dating

2010-08-01T20:31:00.002+04:00

When I lived in London, much of my social life was consumed by online dating. I signed up to all sorts of different matchmaking websites, and I used to meet two or three guys a week. I had a great time, met some lovely guys, some of whom I'm still friends with today. Yes, there were one or two horror stories, but on the whole, it was a lot of fun.

In Dubai, I've been heavily reliant on friends to set me up with eligible bachelors that they know. This is partially because most dating websites are blocked. Yes, in a country where an arranged marriage to your cousin is the norm, dating is still somewhat a taboo, despite the fact that the 90% of the city's population is made up of expats. But hey, that's their rules and I've learnt to live with it for the last five years.

However, recently, a friend of mine introduced me to a dating application available on Facebook that has not yet been blocked. I was excited at the prospect of being cast back to my ways of dating, circa 2003, and eagerly set up an account. In anticipation as to whom I might find on one of the only available dating sites in the country, I immediately went through the site's list of eligible bachelors... except they weren't so eligible.

I'm not quite sure what it is about online dating in Dubai, but it just doesn't produce the goods like it does in London. I must have trudged through almost a hundred profiles to find only one or two guys who weren't either sex-obsessed maniacs, passport grabbers or just complete weirdos. Within minutes, I'd received a number of messages saying 'Txt 050 76X XXXX plz', 'Hi Babie' and 'You want meet for sex'. Obviously, none of these gentlemen particularly appealed to me.

Now, without coming across as a complete snob, I'm looking for someone who is articulate, can spell and can hold a decent conversation. After all, I work in communications and if you can not communicate properly, then, quite frankly, I'm just not interested. Sorry, but first impressions count, boys!

Now, I'm going to move on to onscreen names... If your onscreen name is something such as HeArTbrEakKiD, Sexy4U or Russian Mafia, then I'm probably going to skip right past your profile. Why? Because I don't want to date a kid that's going to break my heart, a guy who is sexy for all women on the web and beyond, or someone who might shoot me in my sleep. Just your name will do. If you really don't wish to reveal your identity on a dating website, why not just use your initials instead of making up some teenage chat room-esque name?

Bearing all that in mind, I'm left with very few guys on this website, and I haven't even taken into account physical features yet! I disregard all profiles without a picture. I'm sorry, but in this day and age, there is absolutely no excuse for not putting up at least one semi-decent photo, unless you're a total minger or have something sinister to hide. But not being one to give up, I persevere through the profiles. There are two or three guys that catch my eye, and so I drop them a line.

The first message is important, so I always make sure I refer to at least one or two points in their profile. Generic "Hi, how are you?" messages just won't cut it. The fist message needs to be flirty but not filthy, witty but not ridiculous and most of all, it needs to be intriguing. It needs to let my personality shine through without giving away too much away. You don't want to repeat what's already been said in your profile, but you also don't want to divulge your life story so, that when you do eventually go out on a date, they can find out more about you.

Once the perfect message has been crafted, all that's left to do is sit and wait for a reply. Quite often, this can be agonising - have they been online yet? Have they read the message? Have they just not had time to reply? Does my profile picture make me look too fat? Did they not get my sense of humour? Is it because I'm a smoker?

Not receiving a reply can feel like being dumped after a second date with a guy you quite like. You imagine what could have been with the cute man in the photo and wonder why he didn't even give you the chance to show him how wonderful you are by taking you on a date. But when you do receive a reply, all the hassle of scouring through all those profiles seems worthwhile, and you're reminded that you're still a catch, no matter how many dating disasters you've endured over the past few weeks.

I've not yet met any of the guys I've been having email conversations with, but I'm hoping they'll restore my faith in online dating in this city. I'm giving it two weeks for at least one date to materialise, otherwise I'm casting myself out of the dating world in Dubai because dating shouldn't be this difficult. Some girls have the patience for it, but I guess I just don't want it that badly anymore...

In the meantime, if any of my friends have real eligible bachelors to set me up with, they will be gratefully received!

Like a virgin

2010-07-31T20:07:00.004+04:00

A recent conversation, with a colleague and fellow blogger of mine, led me to question if it's better to save ourselves until we're married or if we should explore the crazy sexual world that's out there before we decide to commit.

Being a virgin is no longer seen as 'uncool' as it was when I was a teenager, when everyone couldn't wait to get their rocks off to anyone who'd give it to them. Losing your virginity to your husband is now seen as the ultimate way for a girl to say "I love you". Even if your new husband has slept with half of the city.

Perhaps it's just living in Dubai, but a large chunk of unmarried girls here are still virgins. They're waiting for that special someone, to live the fairytale where their Prince Charming will sweep them off their feet on their wedding day, carry them over the threshold and onto the four-poster bed where they'll make passionate love all night long.

Don't get me wrong, the notion is very sweet, if not a little naive. I know of very few women who had an enjoyable experience losing their virginity. In fact, I think I'm one of the few who had a pleasurable experience. Ok, so it wasn't the Prince charming fairytale, but it was a hell of a lot of fun and I don't regret it at all. In fact, I'm glad I did it when I did. I wasn't too young where I had no idea what I was doing, and I wasn't too old that I'd make up for lost time in the future. Losing my virginity opened my eyes to a whole new world, and I began to explore myself sexually.

However, many women who are sexually liberated are seen as insecure or lacking self-respect. I'm not sure I agree with that. Don't get me wrong, I don't think a woman needs to throw herself at every man that breathes, but exploring sex is healthy. How do you know what you like and what you don't like? Self-love is a great way to fantasise but it's just that, a fantasy - when you put them into practice, you might find they're not what you imagined. After all, we're one of only three species' designed to have sex for pleasure, along with chimpanzees and dolphins, so surely being sexually active outside of wedlock is no bad thing?

But what about those who do wait for that perfect guy? There are so many sexually deviant men out there, what happens when you find out your new husband wants to blindfold you, chain you up to the bed and... pee on you? No, it hasn't happened to anyone I know, it's just an example. After all, golden showers are just one of the very many outrageous sexual preferences out there. You only need to take a glimpse into the world of pornography to see how fucked up it can really be.

Whilst I'm all for trying something new, there are sexual acts, such as that of the golden shower, that I'm just not willing to participate in. The thought of being eternally bound to someone who might want me to do that is, well quite frankly, frightening. Then there are the guys who just can't get it up or suffer from premature ejaculation. And more often than not, guys are more than willing to put their fingers in their ears, stamp their feet and refuse to acknowledge they have a problem. But, once you're married, it's tough luck for you. If you're single, you put on your clothes and head back to your own apartment where you won't have to suffer the humiliation of someone peeing on you or ejaculating on your leg.

But what do guys think? Most Arab men won't marry a girl unless she's a virgin, yet most Western men would be far too scared to touch one. Who is the pressure on? Western women to lose their virginity too quickly or Arab women to not give into temptation? Surely if a man really loves you, it doesn't matter anyway? Without telling them the truth, how would they even know? There are so many myths about men being able to tell if you're a virgin or not - from bleeding the first time you have sex, to men being able to feel if your hymen is in tact or not and even to how active you are in the bedroom. It's all so 1950's.

So, whilst peer pressure and magazines such as Cosmopolitan might have encouraged me to go out and get laid in my teens, I'm so very grateful that they did. If I was a virgin and wound up married to a guy who was a freak in the bedroom, my problems would be so much worse than just sleeping with another man.

So, for all the virgins out there, I salute you for being so brave!

Good sex, bad sex

2010-07-28T21:52:00.003+04:00

The dating world is quite often a cruel one, so when you reach the point where you’ve had a few dates and are ready to take your new relationship to the next level, it’s all such a thrill - that flirtatious touch on the arm, the first kiss and the throes of passion in the bedroom...

We all know the first time to fourth base can be a little bumpy, that’s natural, but what about when the chemistry between the sheets is almost non-existent? Can you tell the difference between the bumpy first time and when it’s just not working? And how can two people get on so well out of the bedroom, be attracted to each other, and yet have zilch going on in the sexual chemistry department?

Does sexual chemistry ever improve over time? And how important is it to a relationship?

Personally, I believe it’s just as important as being friends. There’s nothing worse than dreary sex in a relationship. Well, unless you’re dating a wife-beater, a megalomaniac, a workaholic, a liar, a cheater, a bore or an addict, and then dreary sex is the least of your worries!

I was once seeing a guy I was really into – he was tall, cute, funny and we were friends. Things between us were electric and I couldn’t wait to get him into the bedroom. The day I did was a sad day… Much to my disappointment, the sex was nothing more than dull. There was no spark, no passion and we didn’t really connect. It was a shame, because outside of the bedroom, we were the perfect couple. Needless to say, we didn’t wait to find out if our sexual chemistry would improve…

But then there are the guys you date where the sex is un-fucking-believable but they rip your heart out and trample all over it. J and I are the perfect example of this – amazing lovers but too non-committal to give our relationship a real go of it.

Little Miss LC and I were discussing this the other day, and we both found that in every relationship we’d ever endured, we either had great relationships and bad sex or great sex and bad relationships.

Is it that you can’t have both? And is that why we sometimes have to sacrifice one of the checked boxes on our list? Should we just settle or should we keep searching for that perfect chemistry?

I thought of asking all my (seemingly) happily married friends what their sex lives were like, but then they’d never admit they were having dull sex with their partners.

Perhaps it is just a bumpy ride the first time and we ought to give it a chance before we decide it’s not working. But how long do you give it before you’re stuck in a rut? My mother always tells me to stick with the honest guys that aren’t very exciting. Truth be told, I can’t resist a bad boy, where the sex is out of this world and our relationship is too complex to explain. Or too simple that it’s non-existent.

Perhaps when I’m older (and wiser) I’ll realise that mind-blowing sex isn’t necessary in a relationship and I’ll be happy with someone who’s just willing to be my friend. But in the meantime, I’m looking for the perfect combination, even if that means having my heart smashed into a million pieces in the process. If I find it, I’ll let you know…

Break-Up Etiquette

2010-07-26T22:07:00.013+04:00

Usually, when things come to an end with a guy I’ve been dating, I tend get over it pretty quickly. I might be upset and cry for a night, but that’s not over him, that’s over me… I question myself - am I too forward? Too excitable? Too fat? However, it doesn’t last too long, I know I have a lot to give and, in return, will find someone who wants to give something back to me.

The only time I’ve ever really cried over a man was my first love. Shortly after I was over the break-up, I cursed myself for being so wet and I swore to myself I’d never let another guy have that kind of power over me again. And I didn’t... Until now.

All those hideous memories have come flooding back - the tears at night, the sad songs, the hunger strikes followed by the binge eating… My friends have had enough of my miserable Facebook status updates and constant whining about men. I feel like I’m slowly isolating myself, almost as though nobody else could possibly understand my pain. I’d built this relationship up in my head for the last seven years. I’d invested time, money and a lot of love into it. And now it had been ripped out from underneath me.

Suddenly I realised why some traders on the stock market go batty when they lose everything they ever worked for. I always thought it was ‘just money’, but it’s anything but. It’s the time, dedication and passion that’s also been lost. So how are you meant to deal with such a loss? There are stories of traders commiting embezzlement, killing their families (including pets) and then commiting suicide – none of which I really like the sound of.

After one week, I’ve exhausted my friends talking about my break up with J, but I'm still not over it. In Sex and the City, when Carrie broke up with Mr. Big for the first time, she talked about it so much that her friends referred her to a shrink.

So what’s the next stage for me? Do I lock myself in my bedroom, cry and chain smoke? Do I desperately find somebody to get under so I can get over J? Do I stop eating and over-exercise until I'm anorexic? Or do I bottle it all up inside and become some sort of man-hating super-bitch? Or is there some kind of post-break-up etiquette I should be abiding by?

I feel an enormous amount of pressure to be over J in such a short space of time. Everyone keeps telling me to pull myself together but I can’t. None of my friends knew J. None of them really saw us together. None of them know how I feel about him and none of them know how he feels about me. I know we weren’t in a traditional boyfriend/girlfriend relationship, but it was inevitable for us not to have deeper feelings. We just never admitted it.

What I’m trying to say is; I need time to get over this. Of course I'd rather I were over it sooner rather than later, but how do I speed up the process? Or is it just as Mariah Carey says; love takes time to heal when you're hurting so much? Help!

All Good Things Come To An End

2010-07-24T11:24:00.003+04:00

It's over. It's all officially over. And it breaks my heart.

After my phone call with J a couple of weeks ago, I thought I'd be fine with just being friends, but truth be told, knowing it was never going to happen between us was just too much to bear.

After an all-day drinking binge last Friday, I lost it. All my pent up feelings to J were free-flowing, just as the Cosmopolitans had been an hour earlier. It wasn't intentional. I was writing out an emotional text message so I could push thoughts of J out of my mind for the rest of the evening and concentrate on finding someone who wasn't 3500 miles away and who wasn't expecting a child with another girl.

But, after a few too many drinks earlier in the day, my hand-to-eye co-ordination was a little off, and instead of pressing the cancel button, my super sensitive iPhone reacted to the soft touch I gave the send button. I tried pressing cancel over and over again, but as I saw the message being sent, my stomach felt like lead. I instantly realised what this meant...

I'd never confessed my feelings to J. I'd never even really admitted them to myself. But then I suppose you don't fly 3500 miles for two days to see someone you're not in-love with. And you don't book one of the most expensive hotel rooms in the City if it's just sex. And you don't continue seeing them for seven years...

As each day passes, I realise just how in-love with J I am. I think of all the times we spent together, all the phone calls and text messages. The things he said to me that made me wonder if we actually were more than just fuck buddies. The way I always thought of him whenever I slept with another man. The way he'd compliment the way I smelt, the way I looked and our chemistry in the bedroom. Even when I complained I was putting on weight, he assured me he loved my figure just the way it was. I missed him and if ever there was a reason for me to move back to London, it would have been J.

I know he loves me in a strange roundabout way, but never enough to actually admit it. Then there were the occasions where he'd treat me so badly, I'd wonder why on Earth I wanted to be with someone like him anyway. But then I think of his smile when we'd see each other after so long... That, the embrace and the long lingering kiss told a different story.

We were two kids playing it cool - he was the self-confessed commitment-phobe and I was the elusive girl that lived in a far away land. I was comfortable knowing that no other girl would ever have him the way I did. I was the closest thing to a relationship J would ever have.

Now our whole relationship is on its head. Every text message I send is screened by the mother of his child. He deleted his social networking accounts and stopped popping up on Skype. I had no way of reaching him anymore and the gut-wrenching realisation that it was all over hit me hard.

I wonder if I intended to send that text message subconsciously. After all, I had nothing to lose at this stage; there was so little contact between us that it's almost as though we never knew each other at all. J didn't text me back and I cringed at the thought of what I'd confessed to him. It had taken me seven years to admit to J that I loved him, that I couldn't live without him and that I'd always had feelings for him.

When I hadn't heard from J, I thought that was the end... until he called me three days later. As soon as I saw his name appear on the screen of my iPhone, I panicked. I put my phone on silent and flipped it onto its front so I couldn't see his name flashing. I couldn't face talking about my feelings to J. We'd never broached the subject before and it was the last conversation I wanted to have on a Monday afternoon.

But, clearly, it was high on J's agenda. Five missed calls later and he sent me a text saying he needed to talk to me. I pretended I was in a meeting and told him to call me later. An hour went by and J called again. This time I picked up.

I waited for him to rant at me, telling me how inappropriate I had been and how he'd always said he didn't want a relationship, but he didn't. He asked me if I remembered sending the message (to which I said I didn't) and that the mother of his child had read it and freaked out. I apologised and told him it wouldn't happen again... because I was deleting his number.

When he asked me if what I'd written in that text message was true, I told him that, from what I remember, it was. He responded by saying he had no idea I felt that way. And although he didn't tell me he didn't reciprocate those feelings, he didn't tell me he did either. What he did say was that he didn't want to lose contact with me. Was that J's way of telling me he felt more for me than he let on? Or had he just matured and realised that our friendship was worth salvaging?

J asked me to keep his number safe but I didn't want to. I needed to erase him from my life and I had to start by getting rid of his phone number. I told him I wouldn't be keeping it. Not on my phone and not anywhere else. J seemed a little taken aback, but said he'll call me. I had to do it, I had to bite the bullet. And so I did; I asked him not to call me and to delete my number.

Our call ended awkwardly. We always used to sign off with a "speak to you later" or a "chat soon, gorgeous". This time, there was an uncomfortable silence followed by a "take care". It was awful, so very, very awful but at the same time, I knew I had to let go.

Realistically, our relationship was never going to go anywhere if the mother of his child continued to screen my text messages, phone calls and emails. And it's not like I'll be seeing him when I fly home, as we both know too well where we'd end up.

I wish I knew how he felt and I wish I knew what he wanted from me because, right now, I don't know how I'm meant to feel. I can't push the thoughts of him out of my head. And I don't even know if I've done the right thing. All I know is that I miss him immensely and going back to London will never be the same.

Is it true that all good things come to an end? Was this a good thing, or was it something good that had gone bad? Will he think of me? Will he miss me? Is this really the end?

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right...

2010-07-15T15:08:00.002+04:00

In the past, if I was feeling a little freaky, I knew satisfying my urge wouldn't be too far away. But with J out of the picture for the time being, I'm left constantly wondering where and when I can get my next hit. I don't know if it's because I've become older and fatter, or if it's because I'm fussier, but I just can't seem to find it as easily as I used to.

I've reached the point where I'm actually counting the number of days I've been without it. Yes, ok, fine... It's been 194 days. Tomorrow will be 195. The sad thing is I've not even been close. Well, not really. I would have had it if it wasn't for my menstrual cycle being way out of sync. Although, in hindsight, it was probably a good thing...

It was about six weeks ago when I begged my friend RRB to find a guy to hook me up with. He did so without hesitation. He pulled up two guys at the bar and introduced me. Having begged him to do so, it would have been rude for me to turn my nose up at them. Initially I wasn't attracted to either, but as I was talking to them both, one of them suddenly ignited my fire. I can't pinpoint the moment, it's strange. In fact, the same thing has happened to me a few times recently.

Anyway, it was clear we got on well and he stayed to hang around with me and my friends. We also discovered we had mutual friends, which, in my book, is always an added bonus. After a bit of bar hopping, we were drunk as skunks. No, we were far more drunk than skunks. In the end, we settled on a karaoke bar and it was in there Red Shirt and I had a bit of a snog.

Reminding me how little action I'd had over the past few months, my body started to get a little overexcited. To the point I had to leave. Right then. And he had to come with me. We went back to his place and there was a bit of hanky panky, but nothing more as the painters were in, so to speak. Frustrating? Very!

Now, not that I'm one to be adverse towards the idea of being taken on a date, but Red Shirt did bring it up very abruptly. Does that make sense? To me, there's something terribly unnerving about a guy who is proposing overly romantic dates and weekend getaways the night you meet. I thought chivalry was dead? Well guess what, it is...

I didn't see Red Shirt for a while as I was busy trotting around the globe, but when I returned to the desert, we finally got round to going on that date. Although I use the term 'date' quite loosely. We met up in a local bar and had a few drinks. Perfectly normal date behaviour, right? Well, it would have been if he managed to look at me for more than five seconds the whole evening. To reassure himself he was on a date he even had to say "Sorry I keep looking away, but I am listening". Yeah, he was watching the tennis.

Now I'm all for being into Wimbledon, but if you want to watch it that badly, don't agree to go on a date with me that night. A few minutes of your attention would have been lovely. Usually, I'm quite chatty on dates; I'm an inquisitive person and I like to find out all about the person I'm with, but on this occasion, I found myself semi-blankly staring at the screen (admittedly I too had a mild interest in the tennis game going on).

About two minutes after the tennis match finished, Red Shirt ordered the bill. We went double dutch. Then we went to his place. It felt a bit wrong - he'd practically ignored me all evening and now I was off to his place. If I wasn't so desperate, I'd have given him the old heave-ho right there and then.

When we were back at his place, I realised we didn't quite fit. However, I went along with it, even though I knew I'd be getting no nookie on this particular evening. Menstrual cycle again! But I saw it as an investment; if he didn't get it tonight, he'd definitely want it when I was able to. Except, that wasn't the case at all.

Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen. That's what they say. Clearly by 'mean' they don't mean 'on'. Because the next day when I sent Red Shirt a text, inviting him to my place over the weekend, I didn't get a reply. It wouldn't have bothered me if he hadn't been so damn quick to respond to previous texts.

Anyway, that night, I went out with a girlfriend to another local bar and who do I bump into? Why, yes, Red Shirt himself. He caught my eye as he walked past and so I guess he felt guilt-tripped into saying hi to me. He needn't have bothered. He gave me a peck on the cheek and proceeded to tell me how he couldn't text back as he had no credit. Then he walked off. Yeah, walked off. No "how was your day?" or "Yes I'd love to come over" or even a "I can't make it, Uzbekistan are playing Papa New Guinea in the world cup". I mean, really, make some effort, even if you have no intention of seeing me again.

Instead of questioning why he didn't want me, I started questioning who in the bar did want me. And along came Billy. He was tall, cute and articulate. He had my attention before he even clapped eyes on me.

He stood at the bar alone, and I convinced my friend to come with me to chat to him, despite her initial protests. I think my friend could see I was quickly hooked and so she left after only one drink, leaving me in the company of Billy. We chatted for ages, until the lights in the bar came up actually.

Billy works in banking, is incredibly ambitious and has a cheeky smile to die for. We had one of those conversations that could go on forever. I definitely fancied him and now that I was ‘off’, I definitely intended to take him home.

As we were chatting a way, something in my mind clicked and I felt compelled to ask him if he was married. I dropped the question so casually into the conversation, I’m surprised Billy answered. Perhaps, subconciously, I didn’t wan’t him to answer. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. He looked at me, looked away and then took a sip of his Tiki-Pukka-Pukka. He nodded his head. There is goes again… that horrible sinking stomach feeling.

I wasn’t sure what to do; do I finish my drink and leave or continue chatting to him? I didn’t want him to think I was only speaking to him so I could lure him into bed. But I also didn’t want him to think it was acceptable for a married man to pick up women at the bar. Although, admittedly, it was me who started chatting to him. I decided I’d continue with our conversation. Hey, if this was the closest I was going to get to actually having any kind of romantic clinch, then I wasn’t going to let it slip through my fingers!

By the end of the night, Billy and I were in our own little zone, although he preferred to call it ‘the bubble’. For a while, it felt like I was Scarlett Johannsen and he was Bill Murray, sat at a bar in a foreign land, trying to resist temptation.

I’m a little hazy about how a decision was made, but we agreed we would leave together. I kind of knew it was wrong; he was married afterall, but I guess I couldn’t see beyond my own desires. Luckily for me, as we left the bar, his wife called. I don’t know if it was the call from his wife or if it was the humidity outside giving me a wake up call, but I suddenly felt a wave of guilt. I knew it’d be the wrong thing to do, and so when Billy ended the call with his wife I looked at him with raised eyebrows. He immediately knew what it meant and said “Yeah, I should probably do the right thing”.

Yes, Billy, you should…

To be or not to be?

2010-07-11T18:12:00.004+04:00

Well, 2010 hardly got off to the best start for me in terms of my lovelife. Which is why, by the way, I haven’t blogged in so long…

It’s been an arid six months in the desert. So much so, I arranged a little trip to see my friend J to help me get through the year. As I explained in a previous blog post, it’s a guaranteed with J – no games, no messing around, just pure explicit fun. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on him. After almost six months of torture, I was going to ravish him. All the pent up frustration was going to blow his mind and I was going to love every second of it. I could barely contain my excitement on the journey to see him; the thought of what was to come almost made me climax there and then.

I arrived at my destination a little too early to call J, and so I spent the morning with Little Miss LC. What could be better than shopping in the sunshine with your best friend you hadn’t seen in months, followed by an intense session with your FB of seven years? Nothing, that’s what. And it’d all so be worth the journey. After much catching up with the bestie, I decided it was time to call J to arrange where and when we were going to meet. Our call was as normal as any of our calls had been over the last seven years - flirtatious yet matter-of-fact.

The conclusion of our call was that J was going to call me back with a plan. I eagerly awaited his call…

Ten minutes passed and I received a text message from J. My heart skipped a beat with excitement. But it should have skipped a beat with disappointment, anger or sheer shock. It was the text message every girl dreads when she’s seeing a guy, and it went like this:

“Rims look I can’t do this! I thought I could but I can’t bring myself too (sic)! I’m seeing someone and we are having a baby! It wasn’t planned but I can’t jepordise anything! I wanted to tell you face to face but things are rough at the moment! Don’t text back I’ll call you on your Dubai number next week! I’m sorry! X”

I can’t explain how I felt at that moment. Seven years of my life had just been crushed and I had so many questions – Who? How? Where? When? Why? That was it, I couldn’t control myself; the tears came tumbling down. There I was, sat alone, on a busy high street, bawling my eyes out. I wanted to text him back, even though he’d told me not to, but I didn’t know what to say. I reread the message – once, twice, thrice. How could he? Especially as I’d flown half way round the world to spend the weekend with him. I wanted to hit him so hard but he wasn’t there. I had no outlet for my feelings.

As soon as Little Miss LC emerged from the shop she was in, I told her the bad news. She immediately took me for consolation Cosmopolitans at a nearby bar. She listened to me moan and question why, but there was one thing she couldn’t give me… answers. I needed to know. I needed to know how it happened, how he felt, why he hadn’t told me earlier. I know I probably shouldn’t have wanted to find out all these answers, but I did. Desperately.

I tried calling J but he didn’t pick up. He then called me straight back. I asked him if he was joking and he told me he wasn’t but he couldn’t talk. The call ended. I was totally deflated. How could he let me come all this way to see him and not tell me? Did all these years really mean nothing to him? How could he be this heartless? I sent him another message saying if we weren’t going to talk now, we were never going to talk. He responded by promising he’d call me next week and asking me not to use his number. I’d been using that number for the last seven years!!! I was fuming and so I decided the best way for me to calm down was to drown my sorrows.

Several Cosmos later, I left Little Miss LC to meet another friend in another bar across town. As I was early, I thought I’d get a couple in before hand. I chased vodka and lemonades with jagerbombs. How I wasn’t blind drunk by the time my friend arrived, I have no idea. As the day drew to a close, I was glad to get some rest and think about the situation rationally. I decided I’d give J the opportunity to explain himself and I’d wait until the end of the week to see if he’d call me as he promised. After all, I didn’t want it to end this way… if at all.

Back in Dubai, I wished the week away waiting for J’s call. Perhaps I was being naïve, but I really believed he’d call me. Surely he knew I’d be upset, and surely the last seven years meant something to him too. Clearly it didn’t. As the week went on, I realised he probably wasn’t going to call to explain. It really dawned on me when I was on a night out with friends and, out of nowhere, the waterworks began and my sobbing uncontrollable. It was then I realised I liked him far more than I'd ever let on.

The girls attempted to console me in the bathroom of the karaoke bar, but it was no use. No matter how many times they told me how gorgeous and amazing I was, J still didn’t care and he clearly didn’t share the same opinion of me as my girlfriends did. I was absolutely devastated.

Thursday night came and J still hadn’t called. I decided if he didn’t care then I shouldn’t either, and so I sent him a message telling him not to contact me ever again. Ten minutes later, he called. He told me he was in a difficult place right now but that he cared for me and always looked forward to seeing me. I told him that, after so long, it was inevitable that I had developed feelings for him, and he said he felt the same way. But, it was a case of too little too late. He’s to become a dad in two months time, and of course his son will be his focus, and I’ll be pushed even further down the list.

When the call ended, I felt a sense of relief. I was pleased that some things that had been left unsaid for so long were now out in the open. And I was pleased that it hadn’t ended with my harsh text message. J and I decided we’d remain friends and just see how things went. I don’t think it will ever be the same between us; it’ll all just fizzle out. Either that or we’ll end up together. Either way, a child is a huge commitment and it’s forever changed the dynamic of our relationship.

I know so many people will be reading this, telling me to kick him to the kerb, but you know what? I just can’t do it. I wish I could, but my fondness for J is far greater than I’ll ever admit. Even to myself. And if Carrie and Mr. Big can work through their issues and live happily ever after, then maybe there’s hope for me and J…

I better shape up, 'cause I need a man!!

2010-03-27T23:53:00.005+04:00

On the whole, I love being single. I don't have to account for anyone else when I do anything - my decisions are my decisions. I'm free to come and go as I please, nobody will whinge when I have hairy legs and I don't have to keep putting down the toilet seat. I'm a strong and independent woman with no need to rely on a man for financial or emotional support. So why would I want to be in a relationship?

Today, I discovered why it might be nice to have a man in my life. I'd just been to the mall to stock up on some essential items before my best friend comes to visit me here in Dubai. As I struggled with bags of heavy shopping, I wished the slow moving people in front of me would just move out of the fucking way, and that the parents with kids who kept running in my path would keep control of their little brats. I mean, if you can carry all those designer shopping bags, you can hold your child's hand. Because you can bet your bottom dollar if I whacked the little tykes on the head with any of my bags, the parents would be the first ones to cast me a dirty look. However, this wasn't even the point I wished I had a man.

Red faced, arms aching and sweating from my trip to the mall, I made it home. I put away my shopping but left out the tortilla chips and salsa. I thought they'd be the perfect antidote to my stressful mall trip. I gripped the lid of the salsa jar and twisted it. It didn't open. No worries, it'll loosen, right? It didn't. I tried again, this time using the bottom of my bath mat for a better grip. The bugger still didn't shift. Attempt number three included dipping the lid in boiling water, in the hope it would expand. It didn't. In a last attempt, I put a hole in the top of the jar, but it still wouldn't budge.

Now I was tired, sweating, frustrated and had sore wrists. I cursed being single. Yes, for those moments proceeding my fight with a salsa jar, I wanted a boyfriend. Someone who could flex their muscles and open the lid, so I could gorge on my tortilla chips whilst they felt manly for helping the poor damsel in distress. You see, I wouldn't be the only one who benefits from that arrangement. As it goes, my salsa jar is still sitting on my kitchen work top, unopened and unloved. Just like its owner.

Like I said, I'm happy being single but there are times when it'd be nice to have a man in my life. Of course when you've had no physical love for a while, it's always nice to have a guy satisfy those needs rather than your battery operated friend. No matter what anyone says, the two are just not the same. In fact, they're poles apart - one is a physical satisfaction, the other is an emotional satisfaction with the physical satisfaction being a byproduct.

Then there are times when you've made a mistake and need someone else's opinion on what to do. Perhaps it's not something your friends or family can help with. Or something you don't want to share with them. You know what they say, a problem shared is a problem halved. But they also say what doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger. However, the salsa jar dilemma proves that the latter isn't strictly true. Unless they're referring to my ability to cope with starvation.

Perhaps this is the way men feel when they can't iron out a stubborn crease in their shirt, or are bored of eating beans on toast every night. Maybe women are designed to know nothing about cars and men are designed to know nothing about cleaning products. Maybe it's that way for a reason; to need and desire a partner.

It's funny because I can have a child without a partner. Hell, I can have a child without even having sex, thanks to science and technology. But when I need to open a jar of salsa, I need a man...

The Seven Year Itch

2010-03-23T18:10:00.001+04:00

As it’s been a while since I last blogged, I thought I’d make this entry about someone who has played a significant role in my life over the last seven years. Why haven’t I blogged about this person before? I’m not sure to be honest. I guess it’s the fact that I’ve become so used to our “relationship” that I no longer needed to work it out.

So, who is this person? Well he’s a friend I see every time I visit the UK. He’s tall, cute and we have the most amazing, tantalizing sex. After an on/off relationship for seven years, we know what we like, we know what we’re good at and we know how to please each other. It's been a rollercoaster relationship but we’ve (somehow) managed to remain great friends with exceptional benefits.

We first met in 2003; I’d just returned to the UK after working in Majorca for the summer during my university holidays and he’d just returned to the UK after working in Malia for six months. Initially, we met with the pretence to date, which we did. Twice.

We quickly slipped from dating to being friends with benefits. When we first met, I lived in North London and J lived in West London. I remember hearing him pulling up into my driveway (not a pun) in his TVR and the butterflies I’d get in my stomach… I wanted him and I wanted him so badly. I also remember taking the tube from the house I shared with my uni friends to his place, wearing nothing but a trench coat and high heels!

Our relationship never developed into anything beyond casual lovers. There’s only one reason for this; J will never have a girlfriend. Not because he can’t find one, but because he doesn’t want one. In the time we’ve been friends, I’ve never known him to have a girlfriend. We’ve both talked about other physical encounters we’ve had, but he’s never mentioned a relationship.

At first I thought he was a commitment phobe, and sometimes I do still think that, but then I look back over our relationship and realise we’ve been committed to each other… for seven years! Ok, it’s not commitment in the traditional sense but we’ve always been a constant for one another.

After university, I ended up moving round the corner from J, probably about 150 yards away. I’d creep to his place in the dead of the night in just my underwear and he’d greet me at the front door with a big smile on his face which would lead to a passionate kiss. But, even though we lived so close, our “relationship” suffered. Occasionally we’d fight like husband and wife, although I couldn’t tell you what those arguments were about.

The confrontations were quite verbally vicious at times and we were less intimate than we ever had been but, when we weren’t arguing, we were spending more time together as just friends. We’d be at the same parties occasionally and introduce one another to our friends. Once, I even convinced him to look after my pet rabbit when I was on holiday in Egypt.

A year later, I moved away. Three and a half thousand miles away. Funnily enough, both our friendship and our physical relationship have never been stronger. Both of us are aware the distance puts a barrier over us ever developing deeper emotional feelings for one another, so there’s less of a threat of us ruining what we do have. Or at least I thought so.

It may be that we’re only physically together a handful of times in the year, but we still manage to keep the spark alive when we’re not. Although I never call J when I’m in Dubai, he will occasionally call me. We also video call over Skype, share a lot of intimate text messages, picture messages and emails. Intimately, nobody knows me better. Not even my ex-boyfriend of two years.

J knows me inside out. Sexual fantasies, family issues, past/present relationships… there’s not much we haven’t shared. So, what happens when I’m seeing someone?

Well, J usually questions me about the guy I’m seeing. In the past, particularly recently, he’s acted in quite a jealous manner. But, at the end of the day, he knows I can’t resist him. And although I try to refrain from sending him messages when I'm with someone else, I have succumbed in the past. And if I’m in the UK… well, that’s just dangerous.

It’s not that I’m holding off falling in love because I’d rather sleep with J, not at all. I just haven’t met someone worth giving him up for yet. But sometimes I wonder if I’m I in a danger zone here? Am I lulling myself into a false sense of security? Fooling myself that I don’t have feelings for J? Is it really that I’ve not met anyone special or is that nobody else compares?

Recently, I’ve told a few friends about my relationship with J. Every one of their responses has been “Why don’t you marry him?” or “Don’t you end up marrying guys like that?”. One friend asked me if I loved him. I couldn’t answer. Not because I was ashamed but because, quite simply, I didn’t know. Yes, I care immensely for J but we’ve never spent more than 12 hours together, so how can I possibly know if I’m in love with him?

I do know, however, that I’d find it incredibly difficult to end our seven year affair. In fact, when I tried to end it when I was last back in the UK (for reasons I won’t go into right now), he tried to change my mind. Of course he succeeded. But if it had ended, would we be “just friends” or would it be only a matter of time before we were casual lovers again? Or would we cut each other off completely?

Sometimes I wonder if my friends are right. I mean how many people have maintained a successful fuck buddy relationship for seven years? Out of curiosity, I googled it and found most people’s FB relationships fizzled out within a year. Or one of them ended up falling for the other. Either way, most of them ended up with no further contact with their FB, which is something that would devastate me if it happened to J and I.

Really though, how long will this affair last. Will we still be doing this in five years time? 10 years? 30 years? What if neither of us meets someone we want to settle down with? Will we be grey and wrinkly and still ‘at it’? Will we cave in and just marry each other? Or will we both have forgotten each other by then?

It’s hard for me to imagine my life without J in many ways; I’m so used to him being there. It’s difficult to explain because on the one hand we are just fuck buddies. But then surely you know that breaking away from someone, after sleeping with them for seven years, is not going to be easy for either party. Even if you are both emotionally detached.

All of this makes me wonder if there is more to it than either of us are letting on. On a recent trip back to the UK, I literally snapped my fingers and J came running. And everytime I meet up with him, I feel so nervous and excited. Neither of which are normal behaviours for two people who are supposedly emotionally detached from one another.

Could it be that we both hold a special torch for each other but neither of us have (or want to) recognise it? I’m not opposed to being in a relationship with J, but the circumstances have just never fallen into place. A lot has changed over the last seven years, we’re both far more mature than we were when we first met and I think there’s a lot more mutual respect, but I’m not sure if it’d constitute a healthy relationship.

My dilemma is, I don’t want to be the one to test the waters. We’re honest with each other in so many respects, but we’ve been so adamant that we’re nothing more than friends with benefits in the past, that it’s become too difficult to bring it up with one another. At least that’s how I feel.

I daren’t talk about it with J in case he runs a mile, especially as it could be a waste of a perfectly good fuck buddy and friendship because I’m not even sure of my true feelings towards him.

Question is; should I risk it?

Since you've been gone

2010-01-10T00:42:00.004+04:00

As I sit here typing, there are tears cascading down my cheeks. I've shed many tears over this particular subject over the last two months. In fact, at one point, I wondered if I'd ever stop crying. I know she's only a phone call away, but I can't begin to describe how much I miss Little Miss LC.

Yes, there will be phone calls, emails and biannual visits, but there won't be gossiping over cosmos, honest verdicts on new shoes/dresses or that sympathetic hug when things go wrong with a guy.

We're all well aware that relationships with members of the opposite sex need to be balanced between physical and emotional, but we forget we need that balance with our girlfriends too. I mean who else would have sat with me for over two hours, as I soaked my injured toe in lukewarm water, in an attempt to peel off a bandage? And who else would have gone out to the pharmacy at midnight to buy sterilised gauze for me? I can't think of anyone else.

It's been a month since Little Miss LC left Dubai's shores, and I still feel the same way today as I did the day she left - sad. As I watched her, the munchkin and Kins pile into the taxi and drive away from their home, I couldn't control myself and the only person left to console me was their maid. Was this a picture of what my life in Dubai would become without my best friend? Comforted by a stranger who probably didn't even know my name.

Images crept into my mind of being sat alone at a seedy bar, drinking a cosmopolitan, with a fat and lonely regular punter draping his arm around my shoulders, telling me tales of how much worse his loved and lost stories were. I shuddered at the thought.

I cried the entire taxi ride home, I cried all night and I cried all day at work. To me, this was the greatest loss I had experienced since my grandmother died when I was eight years old. I'm not sure if I consider myself lucky or unlucky to have not had any great losses in my life. On one hand, all of my loved ones are alive and kicking, on the other hand, it makes even my best friend moving 3000 miles away seem like a monumental loss. I do wonder how I'd cope if I did lose a loved one. My guess is not very well.

Anyway, thankfully, my life hasn't been that tragic. I'm still the girl-about-town that I always have been, but just without someone to enjoy it with. It's strange when I have newsworthy gossip and nobody to immediately share it with. Now I have to take time zones and lifestyle changes into consideration. I miss the instant mutual encouragement - instead, I'm often left agonising over situations on my own for hours before Little Miss LC can call me and put my mind at ease. I'm sure my blood pressure has risen over the last few weeks.

Well, at least there are only 47 days until I'm reunited with Little Miss LC, and I can't wait to be physically close to her again. Laughing together over Skype is just not as funny as laughing together in person, and I can't wait to see her little smiley face rather than an emoticon of one.

Baby, I love you! xx

When a good night goes bad

2009-12-30T21:18:00.004+04:00

Yes, I'm aware I haven't blogged for a while. I've been too busy partying, and subsequently suffering from hangovers, to type out a thought provoking entry. And, as the saying goes, I don't do things by halves.

However, this evening, I'm leaving the heavy boozing to my chums. Instead, I'm opting for my duvet, Sex and the City, endless cups of tea and guilt-inducing chocolate digestive biscuits. How very un-Dubai. But at least you can now discover what it is exactly that has kept me from blogging for so long...

Let me start by offering you ladies a tip; never offer a man no-strings attached sex. Why? Because in the unlikely event he turns you down, as I discovered, it is deeply humiliating, no matter how well you take it.

The lucky gentleman in question was Mr A.P. Little Miss LC and I had organised birthday celebrations for him, which included food, booze and wonderful friends. It was the perfect evening — the food was sublime, the drinks did a good job (perhaps a little too good of a job for me) and the company was at its most beautiful and entertaining.

That evening, as the cocktails flowed, we decided to move from the restaurant to a swanky bar down the road. It's here where it all went downhill for me. Never having been one to realise my limits, I knocked back mojito after mojito, only pausing to toke on a cigarette or laugh hysterically at a joke. Needless to say, my already practically non-existent inhibitions dwindled down to the point I felt comfortable enough to attempt seduction.

I strolled over to Mr. A.P in my skyscraper heels, pulled him closer and whispered in his ear. What I whispered was nothing short of blunt and I was certain I was onto a sure winner. After all, I also gave him a description of my underwear, which was by no means a regular day-to-day set. When I'd finished whispering in his ear, I pulled away and we looked at each other eye to eye. This was it, he was going to kiss me... Except he didn't. He just smiled at my brazen attitude, shook his head and said 'no'.

To say I was taken aback would be an understatement. I was utterly bewildered by his response. Had we not had romantic liaisons in the past, I may have considered this was a likely outcome, but we have been romantically linked. Not only that, but it was his birthday, I was wearing some of my finest underwear and had just offered him a no-strings attached birthday treat.

Had past romantic encounters with other men wrongly led me to believe that all men were sex-hungry, emotionless animals? Had I totally misjudged the male mind? Or was there a genuine explanation for this act of complete abstinence?

I attempted to contest his decision, but Mr. A.P wasn't budging. Despite discussing it length, it was clear he wasn't comfortable with the situation and so I walked away frustrated.

At the end of the night, I made my way home in a taxi. Alone. As I tried to analyse the events of the night in my head, I was also rifling through my clutch trying to find my house keys. I couldn't find them. Great; drunk and locked out. I called my flatmate but there was no answer. Trying everyone else in my phonebook who'd been out that night, I came across Mr. A.P's name. Should I call him? I was genuinely stranded...

I pressed the call button. Mr. A.P answered, but I don't think he was best pleased, and I'm sure he thought it was a ploy. Perhaps it was, subconsciously. He reluctantly allowed me to stay, and so I took a taxi all the way across town... to sleep on his sofa. There was no action. Instead I was left looking desperate and a little bit stupid.

The next morning, I was greeted with a rather obnoxious hangover, a cup of coffee and a smiling Mr. A.P. I can only assume it was a pity smile. We didn't talk about our conversation the night before, Mr A.P is far too much of gentleman to bring it up, and so we discussed the week ahead, which would consist of rugby, booze and a lot of fun.

Before I made my way home, Mr. A.P lent me a pair of his flip-flops to get home in - 5 inch stilettos aren't appreciated at 10am with a raging hangover and a trip across town. So there I was doing the taxi ride of shame; make-up smeared, clutching my underwear and wearing 5 Dirham men's flip-flops. In fact, 'shame' would not be doing this scenario justice.

Funny thing was, two hours later, we were back on the booze at the Rugby 7's. Reading this, you'd probably think I was asking for trouble, but somehow I managed to control myself. After the previous night's performance, I'd be foolish to make the same mistake again.

I'm not 100% sure what this proves. Perhaps it's that Mr. A.P has no interest in me, perhaps it was we both want different outcomes or maybe he saw me as vulnerable (read: desperate) and didn't feel it was the right thing to do. Whatever the reason, I shall always think twice before whispering obscenities into a man's ear. The fear of rejection is far from futile.

What are we?

2009-11-17T18:25:00.006+04:00

As the digital age takes a firm hold, it seems it has become more and more difficult to define our relationships. A hundred years ago, a man and woman would be either; friends, afianced, married or illicit lovers. Fifty years on and we could throw in courting. Now, we can be friends, friends with benefits, dating, lovers, fuck buddies, an affair, afianced, married, separated, divorced. The list is endless!

Were all of these relationship statuses non-existent before? Or have we moved with the times and now just feel the need to define everything? Why do women feel the need to analyse every single detail so we can label what we’re doing with a guy? Can’t we just go with the flow and enjoy the ride? Do we feel the need to define our relationships, so that we can set boundaries, in order not to get hurt?

To have a turmoil-free relationship, do we need to know where we're going? I've been caught in that trap a few times - I've wanted a relationship but the guy just wanted something casual. However, if the guy had communicated that to me at the beginning, I could have made a decision whether I wanted to knob him off or risk developing feelings for him, knowing all he desired was a casual relationship. At least if I did go with the latter, I'd only have myself to blame when the pain and heartache ensued.

On the other hand, guys nearly always assume a girl is looking for a serious relationship and so even though I'm not at this point in my life, I seem to be kept at arms length. Look at S and Mr. A.P for example; both of whom seem to think I want something more than they're offering. But truth be told, I don't. I just enjoy hanging out with them and seeing what happens, but maybe I'm not making that clear?

I don't want a committed relationship with either of them because I don't think they're necessarily 100% right for me, but do I need to spell that out to them? And would they even believe me, or are guys programmed to think all girls are after a relationship that will end up in a suburban semi, spending their weekends deciding which nappies to buy, whilst the wife is busy preparing meat and two veg for dinner?

Maybe it's the guys that struggle to go with the flow? Perhaps they need us to define what kind of relationship we're having before they decide whether to back off or not? But what do I define it as? If you're friends who enjoy the occasional mutual benefit, what are you? Friends with benefits? Lovers? Fuck buddies? What are the differences between the three anyway? Does everyone have different definitions?

What if there are interim periods where neither of us are seeing/sleeping with anyone else, does that mean we're in a relationship or is a relationship solely defined by a mutual desire to be in one? Do definitions help us realise when we're in a transitional period between the different relationship statuses? After all, don't both parties need to be travelling along the same path?

Whatever happens with either S or Mr. A.P, and whatever it's labelled as, I think there's a lot of fun to be had that can make single life that little bit more exciting, particularly when Dubai's dating scene is as dry as the city's summer months. As long as honest feelings are communicated, I think we can just roll with it and enjoy.

So maybe that's how we can define a definition; a modern day way of communicating...

Tis the season to be jolly

2009-11-16T17:32:00.006+04:00

That's right, the season has arrived where it's all about the dresses, champagne and beautiful decorations. No, I'm not talking about Christmas, I'm talking about weddings. And last weekend saw me attend my first wedding of the season...

Drama Queen had been planning her wedding for weeks, months even. Everyone in the office had heard the painstaking phone calls to her father, mother, fiancé and hotel about the dress, cake, food, colour co-ordination and every other tiny detail that makes a wedding day. So to say we were all expecting a knockout wedding would be an understatement.

In anticipation of Drama Queen's spectacular wedding, just as the bride wanted, all the girls planned their perfect wedding outfits, accessories, hair, manicures and pedicures. Let it be known, it's no easy feat being a woman in the naughties, let alone with the added pressure of preparing for, what would probably be, the wedding of the year.

The dress I picked out was a demure, 50's style number. Ivory with black stripes on the skirt, it was perfect wedding attendance material. With the dress, I donned my favourite pair of black sky-high heels and made my way to the hotel to meet my colleagues for warm-up cocktails at one of Dubai's trendiest bars.

Everyone looked picture perfect, but of course we would, we were under the scrutiny of some of Dubai's best looking people. (For those of you who don't know, a Palestinian/Lebanese union is one of unprecedented style and beauty. For both the women, and the men.)

The wedding, as expected, was nothing short of stunning, and all those agonising phone calls Drama Queen had made over the past few weeks had obviously paid off. We all waited for the bride to enter with bated breath, and so when we were ushered to the bottom of the stairs, we knew the tears were imminent.

As the Arabian drummers made their way down the stairs, behind them, they revealed the happy couple. It was most definitely a sight for sore eyes. Drama Queen was less drama and all queen — absolutely beautiful, not that any one of us expected anything less. And as the couple made their way down the stairs, guests snapped photos and shed a few happy tears. Myself included.

After all the perfect people had been sitting at the perfectly decorated tables, observing the perfect couple, my colleagues and I decided to head to the bar. As we made our way up the marble bridal stairs, we joked they would do someone some serious damage. Little did I know that someone would be me.

As I took a step up, I suddenly felt a searing pain. I hopped to the side and took off my shoe. There it was; my perfectly manicured foot, covered in blood and missing a big toenail. As my blood dripped down the stairs, I felt faint but my main concern was about ruining the party.

My colleagues gathered around and ushered me into one of their cars to take me to hospital. I'm not going to lie, it wasn't a pleasant trip, but we were at the Iranian hospital so it really should have been expected. With us in our party dresses and them in their abayas, it was a little embarrassing to say the least. And just to crank up the embarrassment factor a notch, I was shoved in a wheelchair. Was this karma biting me in the ass? Was losing a toenail not enough? Evidently not.

After the unbearable, pain-inducing poking and prodding from the doctor and nurse, I was sent on my merry way. Naturally, we went straight back to the wedding, and on the journey there, to distract me from the pain, my colleagues and I belted out Mariah Carey's All I want for Christmas at full blast. It worked, I was distracted for a full three minutes and forty-four seconds. Ok, ok, I had to look that up on my iTunes!

Back at the wedding, I spied my departed toenail on the stairs. I couldn't bring myself to pick it up, and so I left it for the cleaners. After all, it wouldn't be Drama Queen's wedding sans the drama, and so I felt happy to have left my mark of drama, right there on the stairs.

Despite the unbearable pain in my foot, I pulled myself together to throw some shapes on the dance floor with the bride. As I did so, I took a good look around and saw so much happiness and wondered what it was about marriage, aside from the fabulous party, that was so joyous.

Why is it we feel we need marriage to validate our relationships? Let's not sugar-coat it, it's easier than ever to obtain a divorce these days, so there's much less of a commitment to marriage anyway. But then I thought of my perfect relationship and how, in the distant future, I'd probably want to marry my perfect boyfriend. I'm not sure why though; is it just the next logical step, is it for the future kids, or is it security? Perhaps it's even insecurity? But the need to be potentially tied to someone for eternity seems a little drastic, does it not?

Whatever the reason, most girls dream of it from a young age. I mean, Barbie has Ken, Minnie has Mickey (mouse is their surname, right?) and Cinderella has Prince Charming. It's drummed into us girls that marriage is the right step from the age of three, so why would we reject it? Men, on the other hand, are read stories about super-heroes who save the world from destruction, and play with toys like cars and meccano. Is it any wonder that we think women are from Venus and men are from Mars when we're brought up to value totally different things?

Maybe I should consider writing a children's book about the successful career woman who earned so much money that she bought her own jet to fly to her private island where everything was at her disposal — men, food, shoes, handbags... you name it. But then why does that story seem incomplete without her being whisked off her feet by some loveable hunk?

As a single woman in Dubai, are we just enduring the footloose and fancy-free lifestyle, in the hope of bumping into The One along the way, or are we genuinely embracing our freedom? Does even the most cynical woman really just want to settle down? Perhaps she's only a cynic towards marriage because she's not yet met her match?

Well, whatever the reason is for getting hitched, I hope it's the right one and we'll all live happily ever after.

The Friendly Face

2009-11-13T18:27:00.004+04:00

It's always strange when you hear your ex is over you and back on the dating scene, but for me, it was even stranger. Or should that be familiar? That's right, I've heard reports that X is back on the dating scene... with my friends.

I'm not overly bothered by it, as he's not seeing close friends of mine, but I still find it weird for some reason. One of the girls is someone I work with and have mutual friends with, the other is a little closer to me as I've known her five years. She and I worked together in London before I moved to Dubai. We used to go out as a big group of girls but she's no Little Miss LC to me.

There is something, deep down, that does make me feel a little nauseous though. I'm not sure if I'm concerned what the girls will think of X, thus reflecting on me, whether it's what X will think of the girls, or if I just can't bear the thought of X having sex when I'm not.

It's not like I want him to hold back on dating until I'm ready to settle down and find a man of my own, so why does it make me feel odd? Do all girls feel this way after a break up? Is it a race between you and your ex to reach coupledom smugness? Or is it just Dubai and the way you can't sneeze without the entire community knowing about it?

Are we that deprived of choice in this city that we feel the need to recycle friends' cast-offs? And why do I feel weird about this but organising a 'one girl's trash is another girl's treasure' singles party is fine? Did my ties with X run deeper than I originally thought when we broke up? Or is it that neither of them have mentioned anything to me?

I have no intention of getting back with X , the feeling's just not there anymore, but are girls not supposed to have a little chat about it first? You know, check there are no hard feelings there. I mean, I could still be hung up on the guy. I'm not, but I could have been.

At the end of the day, I don't mind if they're together. After all, X and I broke up five months ago, I ended with him and I've moved on since then. I guess I just didn't want to hear it from someone else.

Anyway, I wish them both the best of luck, they're both lovely people and probably far better suited than X and I ever were. But I've made a note to myself not to date a friend's ex before I've had a little chat with her about it first. It's just the courteous thing to do.

Single Satisfaction

2009-11-11T15:41:00.000+04:00

Despite the announcement of several engagements and pregnancies this year, I still have a number of fabulous, single girlfriends. They’re the kind of girls that are probably a bit too comfortable being single – independent and strong-minded. Saying that, every girl loves a bit of attention, doesn’t she?

So, amidst all the uncertainty surrounding Mr. A.P, I decided to host a singles dinner. The concept was simple – invite all my single girlfriends in Dubai to dinner, get each one of them to bring a single guy friend, meet at a restaurant with a set price all-you-can-eat-and-drink and let carnage ensue. I was hoping the night might appease some of my single girlfriends’ appetites… In the run up to the dinner, some of my girlfriends moaned how they knew of no eligible bachelors to bring. At first I couldn’t believe that such intelligent, gorgeous and outgoing women didn’t know any eligible men but then I realized that I’d have struggled if my only option hadn’t said yes. Were Dubai’s men really that bad?

There was no need to worry in the end, as like true troopers, they pulled it out of the bag. Although, admittedly, a couple of them had scraped the barrell! But as it was a pilot run, we’ll gloss over that on this occasion.

On the night, eight girls and eight guys turned up at the bar for pre-dinner drinks, in hope of finding their Romeo or Juliet. It was an optimistic thought, but everyone was so curious about how the night would turn out, it didn’t matter. But, as the hostess, there were moments where I felt a little awkward and wished I’d planned it better.

Dinner went well, and people automatically adopted the boy-girl-boy-girl seating plan, which saved us all from the embarrassment of having place-cards that I’d not made! Everyone chatted amongst themselves and there were no issues with the bill, which was an absolute God-send.

Some people dwindled off home but those who wanted to continue the party went on to one of Dubai’s swanky cocktail bars. I left everyone to their own devices and chatted to the eligible bachelor I’d brought along… S.

After a few too many Cosmopolitans, I talked at him about the Mr. A.P situation. Yes, I know… again! He listened though, and he didn’t complain, which was very sweet. In the end, after God knows how long I’d been rambling on about it for, S said he had to go. We hugged goodnight, but it was one of those hugs that went on for just a little bit longer than it should have. Next thing I knew, we were kissing.

At that moment in time, all sorts of things went through my mind - namely visions of bare skin and bed sheets. The visions didn’t materialise, and I can honestly say I’m glad they didn’t. It would have been way too easy. This story has been dragged out for over two years, if it’s going to be done at all; it’s going to be done well.

You know what, here I am; two guys I know I shouldn’t be attracted to, both of whom are telling me they don’t want it, yet things just keep on happening. Could it be that I’m actually enjoying playing this game? Could it be that I don’t want them either? I know they’re both emotionally unavailable, so why would I keep going there unless I’m emotionally unavailable too?

Am I pressured by friends and family into feeling that I want a relationship when really I don’t want one at all? Do I want to conform to society’s expectations of finding a man with whom I should have a monogamous relationship with, or do I want to rebel…?

I know the answer; it’s you that needs to work it out.

Cleudo

2009-11-07T10:55:00.005+04:00

Life... it's full of complications. Complications that can sometimes cause more drama than you care for. Drama that forces you to make a decision. The consequences of that decision can often affect others, and it's those consequences that play a big part in the resolution.

This week I had to make a small decision because of, what I think could have been, exaggerated consequences. After much thought and confusion, I have decided to let the idea of Mr. A.P and I drop. It's not a decision I took lightly, particularly after our last encounter, but I feel it's the right one, for now at least.

I didn't want to make a choice but, unfortunately, that's what happens when others are involved. Particularly when the others are your closest friends. As another friend said to me recently, I should put chicks before dicks. But little did she know of the decision I'd already made in my mind to please my friend. The sacrifice may seem small, but to me it's a big deal. In fact, if I'm honest, it makes me miserable. I shall explain...

I received a number of responses to my last blog post; some telling me to go for it with Mr. A.P, some to wait and see what happens and one to knock it on the head. The latter seemed to cause some controversy amongst the rest of my girlfriends. I know they all have my best interests at heart, but they also have very different opinions on the matter. However, what concerns me most is that the friend, who told me to knock it on the head, knows Mr. A.P and painted a very different picture of how he felt in comparison to what he and I concluded ourselves.

After some very frank conversation, or at least so I thought, with Mr. A.P during our night together, we established that we do like each other. We're obviously also attracted to one another, but agreed we would just remain friends (with the occasional benefit) due to his obsession. I understood that and accepted it. We weren't closing the door, we were just leaving it ajar and I was very comfortable with that. In any case, I wouldn't want it to happen overnight. As I've said before, I prefer it when the excitement of whether or not it will happen is dragged out.

My good friend, however, is insistent this isn't the case. She's so sure that Mr. A.P is disinterested that I've been asked never to speak of him again. Obviously, for the purpose of the blog, I can't totally commit to that, but I have made a conscious effort not to mention his name in her presence.

So, how is my friend so sure that Mr. A.P isn't interested? Well, apparently he most definitely didn't want to spend the evening alone with me and scrabbled around, inviting people over to his place, before my arrival. Clearly, he had little success. In fact, when I called him before I left my office, I gave him the perfect opportunity to decline my company for the evening. He didn't. I believe his words were "I'd appreciate the company".

My friend also mentioned that Mr. A.P had received a text from his obsession saying she knew he was involved with someone but she loved him and hoped their time would come. Obviously a text like that is provoking and leaves no room for me in his mind. I simply can't compete with it.

With those things in mind, I wondered why Mr. A.P had told me he liked me if that wasn't the case. Was he just trying to tell me what I wanted to hear? Or did he genuinely feel that way? After much thought about it, I decided to call Mr. A.P to give him the chance to be honest with me.

During the call, I started by telling him that I wasn't disillusioned by the situation and that I take it for all it is right now, and that's a bit of fun. I went on to tell him I just wanted to be honest and clear about my thoughts and that I hoped he would be with me too. He replied by saying he thought we had an honest conversation on Sunday. There it was, his chance to get out of it, but again, he didn't seem to want to.

But what's the explanation for all of this? Could it be that Mr. A.P is putting on a facade, not letting on to anyone else that there is something between us? But then again, why? He knows all our mutual friends would hear the truth from me, surely? Is this just a very bad miscommunication? Who's wrong? Who's right?

In the meantime, I told my friend not to worry about protecting me. Yes, I like Mr. A.P but I don't like him enough to cry any tears over him. Just as it happened with S, I'd be gutted for a day or two, blog about it and move on. It's not really in my nature to be depressed, I'm far too happy-go-lucky for that and I'm in absolutely no rush to jump into a serious relationship anyway. I just enjoy hanging out with him and reaping some of those benefits!

Anyway, earlier this week, my friend and I had made plans go to the movies. Before I left to meet her she told me Mr. A.P had asked what were up to and if I'd mind if he came along. Of course I didn't mind. After all, we are friends and I'd still not established any true disinterest from him.

Only a minute after my friend had asked me if I was fine with Mr. A.P coming along, he called me to aske me what was going through my head. I didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Then he asked why I had an issue with him going to the movies. I still wondered what the hell he was on about, I mean we are still friends, so why would I be bothered? Then those horrible words came out of his mouth... "Do you mind if we just knock this whole thing on the head?"

My jaw dropped. I wouldn't have been so shocked had he not used that particular phrase but, as soon as he said it, I knew something wasn't right. That was the phrase I'd used in my last blog post when considering how I should handle things with him. It was also the phrase the girls used on my facebook page (which I deleted before he saw). Could it be that it was just a big coincidence?

I didn't argue. If that's what he wanted, then fine. But then he went on to say how "other people" kept saying things to him about the situation. Not that I really saw it as a situation, although perhaps it is now, but I wondered who the "other people" Mr. A.P spoke of were. And what had they been saying? What was going on here?

Mr. A.P came to the movies with us that evening, although I couldn't bring myself to ask him what the phone call was all about. In fact, we barely spoke the entire night. I couldn't even look at him because I was still trying to figure it all out in my head. How had he come to that decision, despite everything we'd talked about? It was totally unexpected. All I knew was it definitely wasn't him saying those things on the phone to me. So who was?

When I arrived home that evening, I text Mr. A.P saying that I had a feeling that he'd made a decision he didn't really want to make. He didn't reply, but then again I wasn't expecting him to.

To be honest, I wouldn't mind if the decision had been his, I wouldn't even question it. But I knew this didn't add up and I wanted to know what was going on. Had someone said something about me? Had someone convinced him he was doing the wrong thing? What the fuck was happening here? I needed to get to the bottom of this...

The next day, I was chatting to a colleague of mine who happens to be friends with Mr A.P's obsession. I wondered if it had been Mr. A.P's obsession dictating to him to finish up what was going on between us? I questioned my colleague about her, but I'm assured she's far too loved up to interfere with Mr. A.P's love life. And she's also too loved-up to jeopardise her current relationship by stringing Mr. A.P along anymore.

But hang on a minute, didn't Mr. A.P's obsession text him saying she loved him? I posed the question to my colleague who just couldn't see it... Now I was certain something was up, as for what it was, I had no idea. But rest assured, I am going to get to the bottom of this!!

Stick, twist or bust?

2009-11-03T16:20:00.004+04:00

Let it be known that, when it comes to dating, I am a complete masochist. I continually torment myself by trying to work out if a guy I’m into is into me, and if he is will anything ever happen between us. I’m a total glutton for punishment.

To be frank, I think underneath all the agonising, I secretly enjoy the drama of it all. I love waiting and watching it all unfold. Every touch, every kiss… it’s like I’ve been blindfolded and my senses have been heightened. Everything that happens is magnified a hundred times because I’m just so eager to know. To know if he likes me the way I like him. To know if he desires me the way I desire him…

The other night, all those feelings reached fever pitch and I was running on a high. After not having seen Mr A.P for two weeks, I so desperately needed a fix. So when I received an invite round to his new place, I knew I had to take it.

To be honest, I was surprised to receive the invitation in the first place. Only a day or two earlier Little Miss LC had mentioned that Mr. A.P had never made the effort to make any plans with me, and that it was a bit pathetic should he actually like me. She was right, and I almost resigned myself to the fact that it just wasn’t happening. But lo and behold, as if he’d heard our conversation, up pops the invitation to his new pad.

After my previous blog about what constitutes a date, I wondered if this was one. I needed to check and so posed the question to a few of my male friends, most of whom confirmed that it was, indeed, a date. You can imagine my delight. I’d been waiting for this for almost four months and the moment had finally arrived!

Over the few days leading up to the date, some of my friends tried to bring me down to Earth by telling me it wasn’t a date, and that there may be other people there. For a moment, I considered not going. But in my heart of hearts, I knew it was a date. After so many texts between myself and Mr. A.P over the past couple of months, I knew well enough that, if it wasn’t a one-on-one, he’d have made reference to inviting other people.

Sure enough, when I arrived at Mr. A.P’s place, it was just me and him. As we sat by the pool, listening to music, drinking wine and having one of our conversations where time stands still, I wondered how the evening would go. Would we both be too chicken-shit to make a move? Would he spurn my advances? Or would we end up in a state of romantic ecstasy?

As the evening progressed, our inhibitions dwindled (thank you alcohol)! I laid my cards on the table. I told Mr. A.P I liked him. I didn’t need to say anymore, he knew exactly what I meant. I braced myself for the inevitable let down but it never came. Instead, he took me by surprise and told me he liked me too.

That was it. Now I knew. I didn’t need to analyse anything anymore, I’d heard it from the horse’s mouth and that was all I needed. I didn’t need to ask anyone for their opinion and I didn’t need to work out what happened that night. It was black and white. There were still hurdles but, esentially, there’s a mutual attraction.

We moved from the patio table to the pool, and I think we both knew what would happen at that point. The playful splashing led to dunking, the dunking led to kissing, the kissing led to… well, I'll leave that to your imagination. It was perfect. Eveything I hoped it would be and more.

Ahh, the kissing. So soft yet still so passionate. They're all consuming and take me far away, out of this world. Picture this; in the pool, my legs are around his waist, his hands on my back and neck, I cup his face and run my fingers through his hair whilst the water lapped around us. It felt like I was in a movie scene but better – it was real.

When we woke up the next morning, we snuggled skin-on-skin. On a regular day, I stress about making it to the office on time but, that day, I couldn’t have cared less. I was so content I could have easily stayed there, in his arms, all day. I can’t put how I felt into words, no words would do it justice.

As the day went on, my state of bliss subsided. I think my friends were so used to giving me their opinions, that I didn’t even need to ask them this time round. Thing is, on this occasion, I didn’t want to hear any opinions. I don’t care if I’m going to get hurt. I don’t care if he’s only after what he can get. I just don’t care about any of that. Let me momentarily bask in this state of bliss. Let me reap all the feel-good factors before you bring me down. Let me fantasise about what could be, lose myself in the reverie, drift ethereally…

Back to reality and I do have to question Mr A.P’s motives. He may well like me, but if he doesn’t know what he wants i.e. me, then I’m not sure I can wait to find out. At the moment, he’s in a win-win situation as I’ve not been the primary reason for our meetings. Aside, perhaps, from the last one. I, on the other hand, am pining after him. Every time I see him or someone mentions his name I get butterflies in my stomach.

So, do I suck it up and wait? Do I make an effort to see him again one-on-one? Do I knock it on the head? Or do I bang my head against a brick wall?

Answers are appreciated but please be gentle.

More than just friends?

2009-10-26T23:29:00.005+04:00

Over the past few weeks, when chatting to friends about my man-confusion, a couple of them have said I may be in the "friend zone". I always thought the term was reserved for members of the opposite sex whose company you enjoyed, but whose face was not one you'd want to wake up next to after a heavy night out on the tiles. I like to refer to them as the unfuckables.

It hadn't occurred to me that I could slowly make my way into the "friend zone" with a guy I'd been romantically linked to. Surely, if you're physically attracted to someone, that never really dies? At least not unless they did something awful, like bought S Club 7 CDs or wore white socks with Jesus sandals. So, that brings me to the question, where mutual attraction is involved, does the "friend zone" ever exist?

Some people believe if you don't act on your mutual attraction in a fairly swift manner, you're cast aside into the "friend zone". Whilst I agree that an infatuation can lose its spark, I'm not sure that the attraction completely disappears. Even when dating somebody else, the attraction between you and your friend may still remain, and who's to say nothing will materialise? So, do you ever put someone you're attracted to in the "friend zone"?

If there's been sexual contact in the past, whether first base or fourth base, but the relationship didn't fully develop for whatever reason, do you put your friend in the "friend zone"? Some guys tell me if there's been sexual contact in the past, then they can never put a girl in the "friend zone". As a girl, I'd say the same. No guy I've been intimate with in the past has been put in the "friend zone" because; he's either a douchebag (and no longer my friend) or I wouldn't say no to shacking up with them again in the future.

What about if there are barriers? Perhaps you work with them or they're your best friend's ex. I guess it depends if you're a fan of risky business...

I think if a guy tells you he's worried your friendship will change or that he values you too much as a friend to become involved with you, as much as I hate to say it, he's just not that into you. However, if I said so much to one of my male friends, it would mean one of two things; I'm not attracted to you at all or I am attracted to you but I'm too scared you don't feel the same way and I want you to tell me otherwise. It's a barrier against rejection.

In my eyes, when there's mutual attraction, the "friend zone" doesn't exist, for men or for women. The "friend zone" is really only a question to be considered if you're at the stage where you know you get on well, but nothing has yet progressed. But there really is no need to worry, if the feeling is mutual, something will happen... eventually.

Are you playing The Game by The Rules?

2009-10-24T18:33:00.004+04:00

Ask any of my friends, they'll all tell you I'm a dating disaster. I have an extraordinary, and somewhat inexplicable, talent for making guys bolt for the door.

It's not that I'm as dull as Gwyneth Paltrow on Prozac, or that I look like Kelly Osbourne after she's been dragged through a hedge backwards (at least I hope not), so why does it keep happening? Well, according to some of my friends, it's because I'm not playing The Game. That's right, I'm being inequitably punished by Cupid just because I'm a heart-on-my-sleeve type of girl.

I can't help being an expressive person, that's who I am and I like it that way. I look at those around me who suppress their feelings and they don't seem to be as happy and content as I do. It doesn't really entice me into giving it a try. Although, it is always the ice queens who have the men running in circles around them. Just look at Mr. A.P and his obsession... She has no interest but he's right there, chasing her like a doe-eyed lost puppy. I mean, seriously, is that what the world has come to; men are dazzled by socially inept women?

On the very rare occasion that I have tried to hold back showing how I feel, it's reached a point where I can no longer bear it and end up blurting it out like a teenager with tourettes - I know it's wrong but I just can't help it.

I've often wondered what the point of playing The Game is anyway; surely there will be someone out there who will love me for my spirited nature? Well, up until now, apparently not. And it has made me consider giving The Game a shot. Ignoring calls and texts, never initiating a date, making him jealous and keeping the old trap shut. Yep, sounds great, doesn't it?

So, I've taken the first steps to playing The Game by The Rules. I've started by desperately trying not to overanalyse every call, text and conversation. Let me tell you, it's no easy task and I'm probably only down to analysing 50% of our communication. To be honest, I don't know why I analyse it anyway, as I only end up torturing myself. And my friends, who have had to continually endure the 'But what does that mean?' question.

The other step I've attempted to take is to chill out about it. What happens, happens and I can't force it. I can't make him want me, so why try? Why waste precious time and effort over it? Well, I haven't. Instead, I've made the most of my spare time by sipping Cosmopolitans with the girls and complaining about chilling out about it.

I've also began resisting the temptation to text him. I'm spurred on thanks to the iPhone, as texts are displayed as a conversation and it's satisfying to see two or more consecutive texts from him with no interception from a green bubble (a text from me). According to The Rules, I should only respond once to every four of his texts or emails. Personally, I think that's a bit extreme. That's not a game, that's being a downright bitch. After all, he is my friend and I do want that friendship to continue regardless.

The majority of my friends support my decision to play The Game, many even encourage it. Even S has told me I need to make Mr. A.P jealous by subtly mentioning other guy friends. Yes, I told S about Mr. A.P. I told him the whole excruciating story. Poor guy stayed up until 4am listening to me bang on about it the other night. Although we did chat about what happened between us too...

That's the great thing about me and S, we're quite open with each other and any embarrassment seems to just fizzle away. In fact, it's one of the reasons I'm so fond of him.

A few things were explained to me that night, like why he abruptly left after our first meet-up since THAT night and that he does like me, and has done since we first met. That should be what I wanted to hear, right? Except it wasn't really. I was over it, I no longer craved to know how he felt and now I do know, I'm confused. But you know what, I'm not going to try to figure it out. It was dead and buried in my mind, and I'm not about to resurrect it as I'm sure it'll only haunt me. Besides, I find it hard enough playing The Game with Mr. A.P, I certainly don't need double the trouble.

What I want to know now is if any girls out there are more successful in the romance department when playing by The Rules? And guys, when a girl plays The Game, does it make you want her? Where are the boundaries between enticing and prick tease?

In the meantime, I'm hoping playing by The Rules will allow me to score. It's not yet been fruitful but something tells me not to give up hope...

When a date is a date is a date

2009-10-19T00:18:00.008+04:00

It’s pretty obvious when you’re on a date, right? A guy asks you out for dinner, you have your hair and nails done, squeeze into that LBD that you know always makes you look a complete knock-out, don your favourite Laboutins and head to the most chic restaurant in town. Or so you’d think…

According to a male friend of mine, a date is not always a 'date’ and most guys really don’t like labelling a date a 'date’. Make sense? Apparently, men dislike the connotations associated with the word ‘date’. In other words, they think a 'date’ pressurises them into having a full blown relationship. So, if a guy just asks you to hang out one-on-one, effectively, you’re on a date. And guys think girls are complicated!

With that in mind, I thought back to how many dates I’d been on without even realising. Turns out it’s been a fair few. The reason I didn’t recognise they were dates is because they were either with a friend (but not too good a friend that it was definitely platonic) or a business acquaintance.

So, does that mean my sweaty roller blading session with Mr. A.P was a date? And my drinking binges with S were too? Do they know they were dates? And if Mr. A.P and I continue with our one-on-one blading sessions, does that mean we're dating? Well, we're going on dates, aren't we?

Still unclear on the definition of 'a date', I questioned a few friends of mine last night. What I'd hoped would give me a clear answer, turned into an insightful debate. Does a date have to be one-on-one? What if your coupled-up friends ask you out for dinner with them and their single guy friend? Is that a date? It may be a double date, but it's a date. And then what about when a single girl and her single male friend go shopping together? Surely that's not a date if you're just friends, that would be a frienaissance, which, as I learnt yesterday, is is where two friends agree to meet for a social activity on a purely platonic level.

What about a rendez-vous? To me, a rendez-vous is a little bit secretive and a little bit naughty, perhaps even downright filthy, and I wouldn't put it in the same bracket as a date. However, its literal translation from French does mean 'date' or 'appointment', suggesting it's not an illicit meeting.

Going back to 'date', according to my friend, BG, a date is sweet and is expected to grow into something. She was obviously referring to the fruit, but she had a point nonetheless... However, it was my housemate, BBD, who probably had the best definition for 'a date'. He described it as a pre-arranged meeting between two people where there is romantic intent from at least one party. I think that's as close to hitting the nail on the head as possible. Would you disagree?

BBD also mentioned that if you want to be 100% certain that you are on a date with the man in question, sleep with him. If he won't sleep with you, it wasn't a date. Unless it was a blind-date and you turned out to be a dog.

So children, now that we have (sort of) established the term 'date', we can now move on to 'dating'. Surely a string of dates with a person means that you are dating? But what if these get-togethers happen sporadically? Do the dates need to occur in quick succession, say no more than a week apart, in order to consitute 'dating'? What if you're in a LDR and only go on dates once a month? What if you go on dates with a friend once every month but you see each other in your circle of friends twice a week?

What about, what BG calls, 'the fillers'? In other words, the contact inbetween the time you went on your last date and when you go on your next date? It could be phone calls, emails, texts, seeing each other in a group of friends, facebook comments etc. Are they significant? Would a lack of fillers signify there is less romantic interest? Ultimately, without fillers, there will be no next date, so they must have some significance...

And after how many 'dates' do you consider yourself to be 'dating'? My guess would be that dating is the interim period between the first date, where you decide you have an attraction to someone or not, and entering into a relationship, which is where you have decided you want to commit to this person. The boys questioned seem to think that 'dating' only occurs after the third date. Why is that, as according to a study at the Edinburgh Science Festival a few years ago, most people decide whether or not we're partner material within the first 30 seconds of meeting?

Would you go on a second date with someone you weren't interested in dating? Nine times out of ten, the answer is no. So, a second date means you want to find out even more about that person to decide whether or not you wish to embark upon a relationship with them. Therefore, you are dating, right?

In addition to all that, BBD seemed to think that if there is no sexual contact (kissing included) after two or three dates, then you're no longer dating and have, instead, entered into a frienaissance. But what if you have had sexual contact but you weren't, technically, on a date at the time? I mean, if there's sexual contact at any time, you would consider that as romantic interest, wouldn't you?

It's a lot to think about and maybe there is no definition. Perhaps 'date' and 'dating' are subjective terms and the only certainty is that they're both minefields. However, let us not forget that they are the learning playground of life...

Do it like a lady

2009-10-14T16:31:00.000+04:00

Not so long ago, I didn’t know what it was like to fuck like a man. By that, I mean I didn’t know how to be intimate without emotions getting in the way. The boys with whom I’d had encounters with in the past were always guys I wanted to be in a relationship with. Never had I been with a man just for instant gratification - it was always in (failed) hope that it would be a small step towards romantic bliss.

I’m one of those girls who always wants to prolong the post coital cuddle. I just love the way it’s almost like a jigsaw puzzle – two bodies connecting and fitting together so snugly; surely that had to be a good thing, right? He couldn’t possibly overlook how good we are together, could he?

As it happens, yes he can. In fact, quite often, these guys were so good at overlooking it that they made me believe they hadn’t overlooked it at all! Some of the lies spun out of it were incredible, but I shan’t go into that on this occasion.

Point is, more often than not, men simply don’t care. Over the past few years I’ve struggled to understand how it’s possible to be intimate with someone without wanting to date them. The whole caveman theory just didn’t cut it for me; society has evolved, surely genetic make-up from over two thousand years ago can’t determine how emotionally attached a guy is to me. And if that is the case then why are there millions of men out there blissfully married? It’s blatantly a theory made up by a man in a white coat to excuse himself, and any other feeble male, from making a commitment. Or so I thought…

Finally, I was enlightened over the weekend – I experienced romantic liasions where there were absolutely no emotions involved. Perhaps it was the alcohol induced, fuzzy head. Perhaps it was sheer desperation to move on from my stagnant crush on Mr. A.P. Or maybe, just maybe, reality had hit me and I wanted to find out what really goes through a man’s mind (if anything).

Aside from the initial few moments, panicking about becoming emotionally attached, it was an incredibly liberating feeling... I didn’t need this man, I didn’t even really desire him, but I was in control. I called the shots.

Saying that, I now know how it feels for a guy when all he wants is for you to leave his apartment but you’re insisting on another round. All I wanted to do was have a shower, a cup of coffee and get round to Little Miss LC’s for a debriefing session whilst having a sunbathe. Trouble is, I don’t really have the heart to tell a guy to be on his way, so I was kind of lumbered with him hanging around until my hints became less and less subtle and he eventually left.

Admittedly, I felt a little ashamed that I’d used him… until he sent me a text giving me a score out of ten!! Don’t get me wrong, it was a fairly decent score, but did he honestly think I’d give a crap? It doesn’t matter what score you give me – be it a zero or a ten – if you do that kind of thing, then I will always think you’re a jumped up prick. Afterall, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, so your little scoring system really means shit, my friend.

The next day, somewhat unexpectedly, he messages me asking for more. I had to chuckle, I could see myself in him. Had the shoe been on the other foot, I’d have definitely sent a similar text and then proceed to check my phone every five seconds for a response, which would often never materialise and then emotional torture would ensue.

Luckily, I don’t think he was emotionally attached and therefore it didn’t matter whether I responded or not. However, I thought it’d be best to tell him it wouldn’t be happening again. Whilst it may have felt good to be in control, there’s nothing like the feeling of intimacy with someone you have feelings for - every kiss and stroke is intensified and it just makes the whole experience more meaningful and more pleasurable.

Even if it ends in tears, much of the time, the goosebumps, butterflies and oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-this-is-finally-happening thoughts are worth so much more.

So, ladies, if you’re thinking of doing it like a man, my advice would be not to bother, as I don’t think we’re built to reap the benefits the way that guys do. And boys, if you’re thinking of doing it like a girl, well, you really should because right now, you’re missing out…

Love in the desert is different.

2009-10-08T17:49:00.000+04:00

Love in the desert is different. What I mean by that is; it’s not easy.

I spent five years on the London dating scene and there are so many ways to meet so many gorgeous men. Any girls night out in the West End will throw up at least one or two fairly decent guys. Then there’s things like speed-dating and online dating which, during my time in the big smoke, I couldn’t get enough of!

In the desert, you rely on your friends to introduce you to eligible bachelors. Yes, the ratio of men to women is about 75:25 and, yes, there are an abundance of gorgeous bars filled with men, where the nightlife thrives. But for some reason, Dubai breeds men with ridiculous egos and then lets them loose in a variety of its hotspots.

I’m not sure why men in this city think they’re all that. Perhaps it’s something to do with Dubai’s laws; afterall, it’s difficult to live here without working. And jobs like bar tending, security and mechanics are all taken by the Filipino and Indian Sub-Continent workforce. What that means is that all the Western lads living in Dubai are educated and have a good job to speak of.

I think another factor is the calibre of women in Dubai… Why? Well, generally speaking, when you exchange numbers with a guy you’ve met at a bar in Dubai, he’ll usually text within 30 minutes asking for a shag. Either that or he’ll never text at all. I think, perhaps, this may often come down to the standard of the girls in Dubai, many of whom are here for a year or two to earn a quick buck and are satisfied with a quick fuck.

Do these girls make it harder for the rest of us? If guys are constantly offered no-strings attached sex by girls laced with plastic, can the rest of us really compete? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a bit of fun, but it’s not like I’m on a mission to gather as many notches on my bedpost as possible.

Then of course there is the whole plastic issue. Most girls in this city are plumped, cut and lasered into shape. To top it all off, they’re dressed in the shortest Chanel dress known to man, perma-tanned, have cat claw french manicures, are draped in diamonds and wearing so much make-up that I’m surprised they can hold their heads up. Most guys I know say they don’t go for the high-maintenance thing, but I know of very few guys who, in reality, would turn down a night with plastic fantastic. And, if plastic fantastic was interested, I’d bet they’d date her.

Making an effort is one thing, but splurging my entire salary on trying to be every man’s fantasy is not really what I’m about. Nor can I really afford it.

The thing about Dubai is there’s very little expression. Either that or it attracts the same kind of people. I mean, I never see goths or punks walking around... I don’t know how I differ myself from the rest, or how the rest differ themselves from me. Everything is so clean-cut and professional here that we look like carbon copies of one another in order to be aesthetically pleasing to our boss / client / friends. Saying that, perhaps it’s a good thing? If we’re all blank canvasses, then we can not judge a book by its cover…

Obviously, as a country under Sharia law, the UAE isn’t too keen on its citizens dating. That’s why you won’t find speed-dating events here, and all online dating sites are blocked. If I’m honest, I miss it. I used to love the thrill of receiving an email from a stranger, checking out his photo and then going for a date and learning so much about him. And at least I didn’t meet him when I was drunk in a bar, spewing on the dancefloor, so I can still keep an air of class about me.

I met so many guys online, including my first love. I also met J online and we still see each other seven years on. I had some disasters too though. One guy sent me photos of himself and he was so hot, I couldn’t believe my luck! Needless to say, the photos were really of a male model and the guy sending them turned out to be an overweight stalker type. But I always took precautions and had my wits about me, so I remained safe.

In London, it was always easy to meet up with at least two guys a week from an online dating website. And then of course there would be the cute guy you met at the weekend, so there were usually three dates every week. It’d be fun deciding whether I liked the guy enough to pursue it or not. Candlelit dinners, post work drinking and even a trip to Thorpe Park.

The limited online dating you do find in Dubai consists usually consists of twenty-something Indians and Pakistanis looking for a wife. Or sleazy Lebanese men who think Europeans are filthy in the bedroom. It’s rare to find a suave and sophisticated Romeo online here, and if you have, well, hat off to you!

I guess I’ve kind of succumbed to the Sharia way of dating as all the guys I’ve been with in Dubai, I’ve always met through friends. Emiratis don’t randomly date, they’re always introduced through family.

The way I see it is they’ve already been vetted out, so I know, at least, they’re not a psycho. I’ve also passed the stage where friends introduce me to someone and within minutes we’re all over each other. I like to think I’m a little more refined than that these days… Some flirty banter and a few cheeky smiles is more than enough to begin with. Then I asess what the guy is like around friends and whether or not he may be interested in me. A deep conversation or two wouldn’t go amiss either.

However, there’s always a danger to this, as I’ve experienced with Mr A.P and S. When things don’t go the way you’d like them to, you end up ducking and diving, trying to stay out of their way so the pain isn’t too raw. If they’re going to a party, you can’t go and you’re constantly checking with your friends to find out if he will be out with them or not.

So, not only are we restricted when it comes to meeting a guy, we’re also restricted when it comes to dating. Kissing in public is generally frowned upon, but, again, I do sort of agree. There’s nothing worse than seeing two mingers in a club slobbering all over each other. A sight oh so common in the UK.

I guess most of you heard about the British couple having sex on the beach here in Dubai last year? My opinion is if you want to do that, please find a secluded spot. Nobody else wants to see your white wobbly bits jiggling around as you fuck some drunk twat… take it home! Ok, we’re not meant to have sex before marriage in Dubai, it’s illegal, but the chances of you being caught in your own home are pretty damn slim.

So, whilst dating in Dubai can be trickier and requires a lot more effort, it’s also a lot more mysterious and demure, making it a little bit more fun!

Mates Rates

2009-10-06T17:56:00.000+04:00

It’s been a while since I’ve felt this way about Dubai. Over the last year or so, I’ve found myself pining to be back in London, surrounded by familiarity, rain and old friends. Dubai had become stale and I wondered if my time was up.

I’d be sick of the sand and dust everywhere, tired of running around in the fifty degree heat and bored of unnecessaarily drawn out procedures. Even the most menial tasks became a chore.

My days seemed to blur into one, all predictable and fairly mundane. Sure, there’d be the odd occasion to write home about but nothing that really instilled that long-lasting happy feeling in your soul. Do you know what I mean? The feeling that makes you happy to be here? Proud. Where you take in your surroundings whilst singing to your favourite song that’s just come on the radio, or laugh out loud reminiscing about the night before and can’t believe how lucky you are? The place, the people, the situations…

Well, that’s how I’ve been feeling again lately. Despite the occasional disappointment in the love life department, I am so happy to be here. I’ve caught myself randomly smiling wondering why life is treating me so well… I’ve also laughed out loud when I’m on my own, thinking of my eccentric friends – all of whom are so different but all have something in common.

Since I’ve been single, my circle of friends has shifted slightly. I’m doing new things and I’ve made new (and more importantly, good) friends. Some old friends have dropped of the radar. Not for any particular reason, it’s just the way life goes. But sometimes there are some friends you know you’ll never let go of.

My three Bournemouth girls, and oldest friends, S, N and R. Despite being 3500 miles away from them for the last four years, nothing’s changed. Everytime I see them, it’s just like being cast back to our college days. We’ve been through it all together – the make-ups, the break-ups, the holding of each others’ hair whilst being sick, driving tests, university, moving away and our first steps on the career ladder.

It’s been an emotional journey, and we’ve had our ups and downs, but they’re solid friends with whom I know I’ll share even more treasured memories like promotions, weddings and babies. It’s the kind of friendship you dream of as a kid, before you get distracted by boys, and nothing can take away its magic. The purity and innocence of my friendships with S, N and R are what makes them so special and it’s probably why they haven’t faded and never will…

Then there are the friends from Uni. I stood side by side with SE and LB throught our three years at Middlesex – scraping the pennies together for another drink at the pub, spending nights playing computer games instead of completing coursework and sharing the joy on graduation day. I laugh at the memories of us striving to be more grown up than we were but showing our real age through our mistakes.

It wasn’t just lectures where I learnt and discovered new things with SE and LB, the whole three years at university were eye openers. I can learn a lot just from looking back and seeing why, out of all the friends I had at university, I chose to remain close to SE and LB throughout the years after uni. Perhaps we’re still all learning together, despite the distance. Perhaps the distance is an education in itself…

Finally there are my Dubai friends. In a city that throws unexpected changes at you, it can be difficult to maintain good friendships. I was once told I wouldn’t make good friends here due to the transient nature of Dubai. But in reality, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

There are some people who tend to flit between different social groups, but my core friends are a constant. Never have I been so in love with a group of people, but I honestly think my friends are the best. They’ve brought back my love for Dubai!

As a group, we’re always up to something, whether it’s having a BBQ, celebrating an engagement, throwing a dinner party, going away for the weekend, electrocuting ourselves, wakeboarding, singing karaoke, skinny dipping, taking Dubai’s bars by storm, watching porn or playing the pub quiz. And even though there may be some heartache and arguments along the way, every single moment is awesome.

Whether I’ve known them four years or four months, they feel like family. If you’re in trouble, you know they’ll rally together to support you. And I’m a firm believer that you get what you give, which is why none of the bad apples linger.

When you’re 3500 miles away from home, its these guys you want to befriend; they have it all. I love each and every one of them for the same reasons and for different reasons.

M&N, aka the Cool Couple (CC) - for love and laughs
E – for loyalty and genuinity
Mr A.P – for adrenaline and mischief
NJG – for advice and honesty
HC – for bluntness and a splash of colour
RRB – for those schoolgirl giggles
KB, CJ and ML - for sanity, stories and a little education

Last but not least, Little Miss LC…

Little Miss LC is my bestie in Dubai, we’ve been friends pretty much since I first moved here and, although we had a blip for a while thanks to a relationship wanker (a boy for those of you confused), we’re pretty much inseperable. People often ask if we come as a pair and, whenever I tell someone I’m going out on the lash, they’ll always assume it’s with her. They’d be right.

I love Little Miss LC as though she were my little sister. In fact, I probably love her more. We shop together, dine together, drink together. We talk about everything and absolutely nothing. There are no taboos - sex, drugs, periods, childbirth, men, bikini waxes… You name it, we’ve talked about it. We arrive at parties together and we leave parties together, we’re side-by-side pretty much the whole way.

We’ve shared so many good times – drunk Austrian men buying us drinks, road trips with the roof down, bumping into exes and pretending not to see, being spat on by stand-up comedians, hiding people’s cigarettes and shoes, singing karaoke on our own in my flat and laughing so hard it hurts and/or we pee ourselves.

But now, now it’s coming to an end… Two months until Amsterdam steals her and it feels like a boyfriend has just split up with me. I begin to wonder - who will the new girl be? Will she be as fun as me? Will she be prettier? Will bestie think of me when she’s sipping cocktails with her?

It might take me a while to move on. Right now I can’t even think about finding a new gal pal. I guess I’ll just have to make the most of the next two months, which may explain why we’ve been out on the razzle dazzle pretty much every night over the last few days. The realisation that it’s an end of an era has finally hit home… and it’s pretty sad.

How will I tell her what I think of her new boyfriend? How will she tell me what she makes of my new man? Who will tell me if something I’ve tried on in a shop looks hideous? Who’s going to get excited with me about shoes? And who is going to drink cocktail after cocktail after cocktail with me?

I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it… In the meantime, I just want her to know I love her and I’m gonna miss the Bestie Wanker like crazy!! Bring on the nights out over the next two months, lady. And bring on my trip to Amsterdam! Dubai… Watch out!!

xxxxxxxxx

Is it in his eyes?

2009-10-04T22:40:00.000+04:00

Cher once said if you wanna know if he loves you so, it’s in his kiss. I’m not so sure… Is taking advice from a fifty-something, gay icon with so much plastic surgery it almost makes Pete Burns look normal, a good thing? I highly doubt it.

Yes, I’m talking about Mr A.P. The last couple of weeks have all been, well, a bit of a head fuck really.

It all started getting complicated around the time of my dinner party. I thought we’d taken a step forward but, in hindsight, I think we took five steps back. The communication between the two of us has definitely stepped up a gear (there’s a lot of texting going on) but how that translates into where we are in terms of our friendship / relationship, I have no idea. And it’s not helped when most texts are either cryptic or start off by sounding like he’s interested and ending in a way to suggest we’re just friends. Why can’t men just be clear?!

So, after torturing myself thinking about it whilst I was in China and Japan (I even resorted to asking my little brother for advice. Oh the shame), I have returned to even more torture... A bunch of us took up the opportunity to rinse Dubai’s offer of free drinks on ladies night. The plan was to start at Hive (two free Cosmos), followed by Agency (two free glasses of wine), then onto Scarlett’s (five free cocktails) and hopefully ending up in Harry Ghatto’s. I think God gave us women all this free alcohol to ease the pain inflicted upon us by fuckwit men… I mean, give us a break! Us ladies already go through PMS and childbirth to bear you children and this is how you repay us?

Anyway, we all met in Hive and began down the road to oblivion. I tried to keep my distance from Mr A.P in order to guage his level of interest – would he make the effort and come over to me? Well, as it happens, he did. But I wondered on what level…

By the time we reached Harry Ghatto’s for some karaoke, we were all in our happy place. Naturally, I immediately got up to sing Alanis Morissette’s You Oughta Know. I know I sang other songs, but I have absolutely no recollection of what they were, or if I even had the ability to sing them!

The night still remains a series of blurry, alcohol induced memories. Some of which include calling a guy an egotistical wanker, stealing a bottle(!) of vodka, spilling my drink all over my dress, pinching nipples and… kissing. Yes, Mr A.P and I locked lips and, much like one of our first conversations, I was so into it that I had no idea how long it went on for. Soft, gentle and what could only be described as (if we weren’t so blindingly drunk) romantic kisses. Was this a clincher? They say your true feelings come out when you’re drunk… I hope so because our sober relationship is no more than flirty conversation, some eye contact and a few cheeky smiles.

Mid-tingling kiss, Mr A.P pulls back. This happened a few times, occasionally to look into each others eyes and smile, but this was not one of those pull backs. Nope, instead, he murmurs the words “Stop it, I shouldn’t be doing this” and then goes back to kissing me. Obviously being so hammered, it took me a few seconds to realise what he said. When I ask him what he meant, he started bleating on about the Aussie chick he’s obsessed with. Argh!! Why? Why ruin a perfectly good moment with stories about some other girl? And what makes it worse is I've heard reports that she's not that attractive and is also a complete bitch. Errmmm HELLO?! Am I missing something here?

Should I have been sober, I’d have been put off for the fear of her face popping into his head whilst we were mid pash. Eugh, that would be awful! But, being the drunken barbarian that I am, I was far too into the moment to give a fuck, so I just continued kissing him.

I do recall asking him if he loved her. He said he didn’t but I’m not sure I believe him. I mean how can a 38 year old man have such a schoolboy crush on a girl who treats him like shit and is cohabiting with another man... her boyfriend? I’m allowed obsessive crushes because I’m only 25 and obviously still have a lot to learn about men, but he really has no excuse.

So, after all the kissing that night, Mr A.P announced he was going home to crash at E’s. At that point, in my drunken haze, it made sense he came home with me, so I did the dutiful thing and offered… My offer was declined due to obsession mentioned above. Probably a good thing; wouldn’t want her popping into his head when we’re kissing, let alone during any heavier petting! Saying that, at the time I was pretty pissed off and as he went to kiss me goodbye, I pulled away.

You’d think that’d be the end of the drama for one night, but no, the next morning I find out one of the girls who came out with us tried to take Mr. A.P home at the end of the night too. Is that normal? Ok, I know I can’t really be upset about it, it's not like we're seeing each other, but I am a little shocked. If I saw a guy kissing a girl all night, there is no way on Earth I’d try to take him home because a) it’s slutty b) it’s totally inappropriate and c) I don’t have the balls for that.

Seriously though, is that what it’s coming to now? Is it acceptable to go for a guy who’s in a clinch with another girl? Am I too naïve in believing in a silent sisterhood? I didn’t realise rugby tackling other girls out of the way was order of the day in 2009!! And why is it always me this happens to? As The Bird reminded me this weekend, the same thing happened to me twice a couple of years ago – I’d really like a guy, which my friends knew about, yet said “friends” still launched themselves at the guys in question. I just can’t quite get my head around it… Ladies, opinions!

The next morning, obviously feeling a little worse for wear, I sat at my desk, bleary eyed and shaking from the alcohol abuse. (Dad, if you're reading this, I only had a couple of Malibu and Cokes.) I thought it best to send Mr A.P a text to clear the air before I start obsessing about what happened the night before. My text was quite casual, you know, along the lines of let’s just put the whole thing behind us and move on. I wasn’t really expecting a reply, but he did send one back. To me, it was cryptic. He didn’t say he wanted me, nor did it say he didn’t want me. Great! Now I’d spend the next two to three days obsessing about that text! Could he just not reply? Or would I obsess about that too? There really is no pleasing me…

Over the next couple of days, the texts went back and forth as they had been for the last couple of weeks. It wasn’t until Friday that I saw him again at the Cool Couple’s engagement party in Fujairah, and I must admit, I was a little embarrassed. I knew I had to distance myself from him and I managed to keep it up until just before he left…

My friends, however, were on a mission. Being the amazing girlfriends they are, they attempted to coax out Mr A.P’s true feelings for me (if he had any). HC, who lacks tact at the best of times, let alone when completely leathered, pulled Mr. A.P aside and got straight to the point – does he or does he not like me?

Apparently he does. During her conversation with Mr. A.P, HC took it upon herself to place bets with him on whether I was wearing underwear or not. Not your conventional gamble, but who am I to complain? There were also unconventional stakes… Shots for her, kissing me for him. I’m not going to say who bet on what, but I’ll tell you Mr A.P lost the bet.So, did he kiss me? Yes, but not because that was the deal, nor because he saw the light and finally realised I’m such an amazing girl. Why then? You know as well as I do… You don’t have a clue? Yeah, well that’s about as much as I know too!

In order to piece this puzzle together, let me explain where the kissing came in… Mr A.P intended to head back to Dubai rather than stay the night in Fujairah with the rest of us (apparently he had things to do). When it came to him leaving (he was hitching a ride with E), he started looking for his bag. In a last minute scramble to get him to stay, the girls told him they didn't think he really wanted to leave or he'd remember where his bag was. As Mr. A.P frantically searched for his bag, the girls continued to coerce him into staying. I don't know where I was when that was going on but I knew I'd have to make an attempt at getting him to stay...

I spotted him, grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him round the other side of the chalet so I could chat to him without the others around. We kissed. He pulled away. I asked him to stay. He said he couldn't. We kissed. Again. He pulled away. Again. Do you see a pattern here? This whole scenario started to irritate me. I asked him what the problem was this time and he said "It's messy". Don't I know it! For God's sake, boy, MAN UP!!! I told him I didn't understand him, that there comes a point (not sure what that point that is, but there is one) and I asked him if he really wanted to go. He told me he didn't and that he wanted to stay with us, hang out and drink but going home was the sensible thing to do.

The sensible thing to do? Is obsessing over a girl with a boyfriend the sensible thing to do? Is leading me on the sensible thing to do? No, but he does it! So where does sense come in? I told him if he wanted to go, he should go and then I stormed off and telling him I give up. He left.

Have I given up? Well, sort of. I'm trying to give up. He text me the next morning, just friendly chit chat stuff. I ignored it. I have to, otherwise we'll end up going round in circles. I'm doing to him exactly what he should be doing to Aussie chick.

Not heard from him today, so the temptation to text back wasn't there, which is great. E is having a BBQ tomorrow night. Part of me hopes he won't be there, but the other part of me hopes he will. I know I need to avoid him where possible but it's difficult when you're in the same circle of friends.

I need him to give me a definitive answer - Either; yes I like you but I need time to get over Aussie chick, no I'm not interested in you that way, or yes I like you but I have no intention of starting anything up with you. Stop leading me on and tell me the truth, it's the not knowing that's torture!! You know how I feel, if you're not interested, stop flirting with me, stop texting me everyday and stop bloody kissing me!!!

So Cher was wrong, you can't tell if it's in his kiss. In fact, as soft, gentle and amazing as his kiss is, it's quite probable that it's a load of bullshit.

Can't cook or won't cook?

2009-09-28T16:23:00.000+04:00

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I know this to be true having witnessed this from an early age. Watching my mother slave away in the kitchen to appease the hunger pangs of my father, brother and I. There are very few occasions I can recollect where my father had left food on his plate. In fact, the most vivid memories I have of family meals consist of jars of pickled onions, mango chutney and green peppers taking up the table, and my father’s dinner plate strewn with olive pips. Homer Simpson springs to mind.

I also recall my mother painstakingly preparing dinner for a number of guests my dad had invited to our home. As an Arab, my mother would never be satisfied with just serving a simple dish. There would be salads and dips, followed by meat and then a sweet she had baked. All this activity would take place whilst my father was in the living room entertaining guests, smugly knowing they were about to be blown away by the food on offer.

Perhaps naively, I wanted to recreate the satisfaction that I remember from my parents’ dinner parties, however I was so unprepared for the amount of effort it would take…

With Ramadan in full swing and dinner parties seemingly the new going out, I invited a few friends over for a casual dinner party. I only intended on inviting around six people (the capacity of my dining table) but this soon became nine, ten, eleven and then twelve. Yep, I’d set myself the mammoth task of cooking for twelve! Not something I’d seen my mother, whom I consider a culinary genius, do! As the big day edged closer, I found beads of sweat forming at my temples every time I thought about it.

Shopping for the ingredients was a chore in itself – why is it next to impossible to find Ricotta cheese in this city?! What hadn’t crossed my mind is where I was planning to seat everyone. With only a small dining table for six, I soon realised I better purchase a fold out table and some extra chairs.

As I struggled through the aisles of Carrefour, bumping into children on trainers with wheels, clinging to the fold out table I was about to purchase whilst pushing a trolley with three fold out chairs hanging from my forearm, I prayed hosting this dinner party would be worth it. I mean, could I really pull this off? I can barely cook for myself, let alone twelve people! Or is it that I won’t cook for myself?

I watched as the Filipino checkout lady swiped the barcodes of my purchases. The end result was a bit of a shocker, something my plastic credit card was definitely not expecting, but I perservered.

Luckily I’d bagged myself a parking spot close to the mall entrance, so the trolley journey to my car would be to painful. I loaded my car with the goods, leaving the table until last… To my horror, it wouldn’t fit in my car! I turned the table around, attempted to take the roof of my car down, stripped the table of it’s packaging, making it vulnerable to scratches and scrapes. Nothing worked. I pushed and pulled and after 20 minutes of struggling, finally managed to wedge the beast in. I was sweating. It felt like I’d just wrestled with a grizzly bear in the 45 degree heat and 80% humidity, only then to go home and slave away over a hot stove for two hours!

Despite the odd setback, I actually enjoyed preparing for my dinner party and found that I have a talent for baking cakes. Perfect wife material. I was in the kitchen until 2am, having completely forgotten to eat myself. I opened the fridge in the hope of finding a midnight snack to gorge on before bed… Nothing. Nothing but the ingredients for my dinner party. I was tempted to scoff some of the cheese but knew it was too important to sacrifice. And so I went to bed hungry, having fasted all day and knowing I’d be fasting all day the following day. At least I’d appreciate the meal I was cooking!

The day of the dinner party arrived and I rushed home from work to complete my task. All was going well and I was slightly comforted by the fact my flatmate, a former chef, would soon be returning home and could help me out. But before I knew it there was a knock at the door… E and Mr A.P had arrived. Arrrggghh! I looked a mess – lack of make-up, strapless dress with bra straps protruding… not a good look.

I gave them simple instructions on the small tasks left and went to spruce myself up. As my guests trickled through my front door, I began to feel a sense of self-pride. Is this how my mother felt when cooking for my father and his friends? Or was this a deeper satisfaction as I was cooking for people I’d invited?

I’d already laid the table out and decorated the room with candles and so there was nothing left to do except dish up. I hoped that my guests had had enough wine on an empty stomach to not notice any flaws in my lasagne… As we all huddled around the table, I began to wonder what would be said of my attempts at a feast. Would my friends be polite and pat their stomachs as they winced and swallowed another bite? I guess I’ll never really know what they thought, although I think the coffee cake I’d baked went down pretty well.

Is it even the food that matters? I hate to lessen the worth of my mother’s dedication in the kitchen all those years ago, but I can’t help but wonder if it really is just the company that makes or breaks a dinner party. Afterall, I was surrounded by my nearest and dearest and everyone at the dinner table that evening was worth the hours of effort. Or perhaps it’s the entertainment? If that’s the case, I recommend to anyone hosting a dinner party to purchase electrocution games, post it notes and porn!

All in all, the evening was a success and I was up until all hours playing electrocution roulette with the boys whilst they drank… tequila and coke!! I think the reason behind hosting the dinner party was achieved. It was definitely one of those nights I won’t forget. For so many reasons…

Not so action woman

2009-09-11T22:47:00.000+04:00

I haven't blogged for the last couple of weeks, mainly due to the lack of action I've been having, but also partially to my new-found love of all things active. I know! Who'd have thought? Me, doing physical activity! There's always a method behind the madness though, and what else would it be other than a man? Ok, that's not the only reason! I've also been getting active because a) It's ramadan and I haven't needed to take time out to nurse a hangover, b) I am getting sooo out of shape that it's become necessary for me to exercise and c) I need to meet new people and put myself back out there!

Well, I can tick off all three. Although B is perhaps debatable. So whilst it does kind of come down to a guy, I'm hoping it's something I'll continue regardless.

I bet some of you are wondering what these "activities" are exactly... No, it's not rampant sex. Unfortunately. But oddly, it feels almost as good. I'm talking endorphins, you twisted people!!

For months I'd been begging M to take me wakeboarding, but so little faith she had in my awakening skills after a night on the cosmos, that she never encouraged me. But alas, some of my friends have a little more faith and I'm incredibly grateful to E for showing me the light and taking me boarding.

Yes, waking up at 6am at the weekend to make the hours drive to the Marine Club in Um Al Quwain is torture and not my idea of fun (anyone who knows me will know I'm really not a morning person). But, the benefits are not to be ignored - beautiful sunrise, a clear Sheikh Zayed Road, silky smooth water, energy to take you through the day and still having the afternoon free to do other weekend activities. It's just a shame the drive isn't more aesthetically pleasing. The 311 highway really does offer very little in terms of visual stimulation, apart from the odd glimpse of a camel, which is now a rare sight in Dubai.

When you arrive at the Marine Club, there's a certain energy and community feel about the place. Most people there are wakeboarders and skiers and seem to bond over their mutual love for the sports. There's no booze at the club (sigh), but they do make fabulous milkshakes, so I can overlook that flaw for now. Everyone hangs out at the pool or in the restaurant watching wakeboarding DVDs and chatting away. But it's only when the boat pulls in, ready to take them out onto the water, when the real buzz kicks in.

We all pile into the boat and it tends to be the most experienced boarder who goes first. They make it look so easy, but I now know the reality! Everyone glides over the crystal waters, slaloming, jumping, switching, it's all very cool to watch... until it gets to me! I'm pulled over, under and backwards, never really managing to get up and filling my lungs with the saltiest sea water you can imagine. Hardly the picture of glamour I try to portray of myself!

Coughing, spluttering and hacking up all the water from my sinuses, I continue to give it another go. Granted it's only my second time wakeboarding but it's still highly frustrating. Having said that, the encouragement from other boarders is truly amazing and they're all the same with each other. The constructive points they all give each other (and me) really makes you want to stick at it and keep trying and trying and trying. And so I did.

I've managed to get up on the wakeboard now, which I consider a massive acheivement, and am very proud of myself. However, you really need patience and determination. Giving up isn't an option. Normally I'd have thrown the gauntlet down by the second attempt but, as the other wakeboarders were so encouraging, I've stuck at it. Usually, if there's the slightest whiff of competition and I'd bolt for the door, but it doesn't seem to be so much competitive as it is self-improvement.

The other benefit of wakeboarding is the eye candy. I'm not one to go for pretty boys, of whom there seem to be a few of at the club, but it makes a change from having to look at Dubai's usual set of absolute mingers you find in the bars. Plus, the pretty boys actually speak to you as you're there for the same reason as they are.

So I'm definitely sticking to the sport. Not buying a board yet, but once I can stay up for a decent amount of time, it is something I'll definitely consider investing in.

Aside from the wakeboarding, I've returned to swimming regularly. You really do take having a free outdoor pool on your front door step for granted. Having barely used it (except for tanning purposes) over the last 3 1/2 years, it's come as a surprise how wonderfully convenient it is. I wake up before work, swim a few lengths and feel surprisingly awake and ready for the day, rather than hitting my snooze button over and over again before waking at 8.50am and realising I have to be in the office in 10 minutes! Plus everyone knows swimming is one of the best sports to tone up. Who needs a gym and running on a treadmill when you can swim a few lengths in Dubai's glorious sunshine?!

Anyway, last but not least, the other sport I'm getting back into is rollerblading. Before I moved to Dubai, blading was one of the only sports I participated in. I'd been blading since I was about 13, up and down the road I grew up on, round the block and, of course, to roller-discos. When I lived in London, I continued to be a regular roller-disco goer - speed skating in circles to house music, to dressing up in 70's gear and skating backwards to disco grooves. I loved it! However my beloved blades were just to big and heavy to accommodate on my stingy baggage allowance when I moved to Dubai (yeah, thanks BA) and so blading became a thing of the past... until now.

Earlier this year, I bought myself a brand new pair of Nike Bauers. It was love at first sight and I couldn't wait to put them to good use. A couple of the girls in the office agreed that they'd come blading with me (I'm not keen on doing sports on my own) and I was too excited about the prospect! However, getting the girls to actually come blading was a different story altogether. Working hours and weather being the most common excuses used. So my poor blades sat in the boot of my car for a few months, untouched.

A couple of weeks ago, I got to talking about blading with some of my friends, and Mr A.P mentioned he had a pair and wouldn't mind giving it a bash after having not bladed for a few months. This was music to my ears and in my head I built up all kinds or romantic images of us roller-blading into the sunset together...

That couldn't have been further from the truth! One evening last week, Mr A.P and I met up for a quick sesh. Blading sesh that is! I couldn't wait to show off my spin-stops, jumps and backwards skating, and so off we went to Jumeirah Beach to use the skating track. I jumped out of the car and donned my blades immediately. It felt weird to be back on wheels after so long, but I was too excited to be weary.

We crossed the sand in our blades to the track. Mr A.P hopped on and started blading and then I stepped on to the track. The track was so smooth that, within one stroke, I felt myself going... downwards. Yep, I fell on my arse. I blame the fact the blades were so new and didn't have stoppers (although that wasn't a problem with my old pair). It was mortifyingly embarrassing. Not only had I bragged about how I used to skate, I fell (and rather heftily I might add) right in front of the guy I was trying to impress. My credibility left me at that moment, like a person's soul when they've just died.

Not wanting to show how much of a wuss I am, I quickly picked myself up and pretended I was fine. I did have a bit of a wobble to begin with, but I didn't fall over after that. I was still far from cool though, and after 15 minutes, I was so exhausted, I was struggling to blade. It really takes its toll on the old calves, you know. It actually came to the point where Mr. A.P had to push me along the track! Although, to be fair, it was almost 6pm and, as I was fasting, I hadn't had a drop to eat or drink all day, so my energy levels were pretty low.

He put his arms around my waist and shifted me along the track. I wanted to spin round and kiss him, but I thought better of it considering I'd already fallen over without trying to do anything! It was still nice to have some alone time with Mr. A.P, even if I was too chicken shit to make a move. And despite the amount of pain I felt, and still feel, in my coccyx, I'm looking forward to our next blading session, where I'm hoping there will be a little more movement...

2010 - The year of The Wedding

2009-08-28T17:44:00.000+04:00

I'm reaching that point in my life where fewer of my friends will be ticking the 'single' box on an application form when there's an enquiry about their single status. As each month passes by, another one of my friends becomes engaged...

It's become so ridiculous, that I even received a dual congratulatory email notice from my boss for two of my colleagues' (separate) engagements. It'd had only been two weeks since the last congratulatory engagement email. And there was another one a few weeks prior to that. There's only 23 of us in the bloody office, and that's including the ones who are married anyway!

I already have three weddings to attend in 2010 (and quite possibly one more if another of my friends say yes to their imminent proposal), and that's not including attending those of my colleagues. It looks like it might actually get to the point where I won't have time to sort out my own love life because I'll be off celebrating another couple's love for each other every weekend of the year. That'd be tragic. Although they do say it's the most likely place to meet your future spouse... Must be the romantic light we all see each other in.

Most magazines would cruelly point out that I'm jealous of my friends' blissful relationships, but they're wrong. I'm more concerned about how we'll maintain our friendships. It might be fine for a year or so after the wedding, but then you get the "I'm pregnant" announcement, which obviously means no boozy nights out as she can't drink and he's working all hours under the sun to prepare for the little one's arrival. Then along comes baby and it's all breast feeding and nappies. Don't get me wrong, I love kids and I don't mind hearing about their first step/word/poo but can we not do it over cocktails in a swish bar occasionally?

Is that selfish? I understand a husband/wife/child is a huge commitment and, ultimately, that's my aim too... one day. But I vow not to let my friendships slip away. After all, I'd appreciate my friends for still being my friends after nine months of being a bore. I'd also appreciate that just because I'm married or had a child, our friendship does not revolve around that and the occasional girls night out will still be needed, even if my arse does wobble.

Truth is, I'm worried I'm going to be left behind. A mere distant memory of the 'good old single days'... There will be no more dancing like a loon until 3am because she's too worried everyone can see she's carrying a little baby weight and has been too busy to hit the gym. There will be no dinner parties because they can't find someone to babysit, and they can't host because their living room is full of toys, not to mention a screaming, attention-seeking child.

So, may my days be full of baby gossip, child entertaining and warmth, whilst my nights are cold and lonely watching Sex and the City, longing for what might have been if we were all still single.

This is a story for the broken-hearted

2009-08-22T20:10:00.001+04:00

I'm writing this blog on behalf of all girls out there who have been in love, in lust and broken hearted. We all share your pain, every one of us has been there, some more often than others. Some of us take it hard, some of us deal with it very well but every girl goes through it.

My first love broke my heart 7 years ago and it's still as raw today as it was then. I compare every man I meet to him and I remember all the good times; the laughter, the kissing, the lingering looks. I crave that same love. Those same memories. I crave to find a guy that can make me feel the way he did. And then I remember how it ended and I remember the depression that set in on me. I couldn't move for 6 weeks. I thought I might die without his arms around me, either that or drown in my own tears. It was the worst pain I'd ever experienced.

Seven years on and I deal with these circumstances in a far less dramatic way, but rejection is never easy and we all grieve in one way or another. These days I tend to shrug my shoulders, blog about it and move on. Although the disappointment still lingers...

As some of you know, I finally met up with S last night and, as always, I loved being in his company. I love the way time flies when I'm with him. I love how our conversation flows and I love how I can just relax around him.

It was only when a random drunk girl began quizzing us about our relationship that I felt awkward. She thought S was hot and asked if he was my boyfriend, to which I replied he wasn't. But her questions didn't stop there. She then asked if he was gay, if we'd slept together, if we'd ever thought about sleeping together, amongst other things. It was one of those embarrassing moments where you just want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. But there was no sign of mercy and instead, the drunk girl just kept asking the same questions over and over again.

I was somewhat relieved when she left. Finally spared of any further embarrassment! Soon after, S called it a night. It was only 11.30, what had happened to my raucous drinking buddy? Normally we wouldn't stop until we were slurring our words and talking all kinds of random rubbish. I was disappointed my last night before a month of fasting was being cut short but I wasn't going to beg him to stay out.

S hugged me goodnight and I said I'd probably see him after Ramadan (seeing as we seem to be drinking buddies). He said he'd see me before, maybe go to the movies or something. At first I wasn't sure what to make of that, "movies" can swing both ways - platonic or conventional date. I guessed from the way the night had gone that it was going to be the former. I was right. But I still hoped.

So, this morning I receive a text from S explaining that he's not ready for a relationship and that what happened between us shouldn't have happened. I totally understand that he's not ready for a relationship, I mean neither am I really, but thinking what happened between us shouldn't have happened... oooh, ouch! That's hard to hear and changes the context of "I'm not ready for a relationship" to "I'm just not that into you". I wonder what changed between the last day we spent together and last night/today. I'd kind of understand if we were drunk and fooling around, but we weren't, it was the day after the night before. So what changed?

Something happened between then and today and I don't know what it is, and although I'm trying not to dwell on it, I think it's just what girls do. Seriously, why do I even care? He's made it quite clear that nothing is going to happen, so why has it tortured me all day?

You know what, fuck it. Yeah, fuck it. I knew I was building it all up in my head. He was away too long and I thought about it way too much. I mean take away the sex from a relationship and you're essentially left with a friendship. That's what happened with me and X. So what the fuck am I so gutted about? That S and I aren't going to sleep together? How can it be that simple? Why would sleeping with S be any different to sleeping with someone else? What is it about this guy?!?! FFS!

Wow, my options have been whittled down from four to just one in the space of a week. S is out, K has left the country and I've not heard from Danny again. That just leaves me with Mr. A.P and things haven't exactly taken off the ground yet. In fact, it's incredibly slow moving, but drawing it out is actually quite exciting. We had dinner at E's on Thursday night and there was some flirty conversation going on but if there's absolutely no movement tomorrow when we go skiing, I'm writing it off.

Moral of the story; ladies, don't get hung up on guys. Most of them wouldn't know a fabulous thing if it was tugging on their balls!

In the meantime ladies, feel free to introduce me to a guy that's going to blow me away! Preferably tall with blue eyes, killer smile and is not devoid of a personality. I need a new play thing!

I love mid-week surprises!

2009-08-19T23:11:00.004+04:00

Well, yesterday was an interesting one yet I was only expecting it to be a fairly routine Tuesday, just waiting for the day to pass as quickly as possible so it would be Thursday evening!

It was elevensies and I went downstairs for a cigarette. Floating in my own little world I was approached by a guy asking me for a lighter, to which I obliged. He then began chatting to me as I quickly inhaled a puff of nicotine-fused smoke. As I stubbed out my cigarette he asked me for my number. I couldn’t think of an excuse quickly enough to not give him my number, I was too taken aback. It’s been a while since I was approached in such a manner and even when I had been in the past it was a complete rarity.

So I gave him my number and rushed back upstairs. I put his number in my phone, but only so I would know not to answer. He was a friendly guy, with a good job as a banker, but he just didn’t do it for me physically and leading on one guy is more than enough!

As it neared lunchtime, our receptionist called me telling me there was Sugar Daddy’s here for me. For non-Dubaians, Sugar Daddy’s is arguably one of the best cake bakeries this side of the desert! I was confused, I hadn’t ordered anything from Sugar Daddy’s. I went to reception and a delivery man handed me a box of delicately decorated cupcakes. I asked who had ordered them…. It was X.

What am I supposed to do? It's not like I can send them back and anyone who knows me will tell you I can not resist a cupcake (or 4). So off I went, back to my desk armed with some of the most delectable cakes in town. The girls (and guys) in my office gave mixed reviews about X sending me cupcakes. "Too little too late" was one response. "He's really trying, you should give him a chance" was another. And one of the boys told me to stop leading him on.

Yes, well, I'm just not cruel enough to be blunt with him. I can't tell credit card salesmen to fuck off, so I can hardly say it to X, whom I still really care for. But then you do have to be cruel to be kind... What to do?

A little later in the day, I found myself caught up in a little email flirting. We're currently pitching for a fab event at work and have had to team up with an events management company. So when I met up with them one day, you can imagine my delight when I was introduced to a cute London boy (CLB) who'd be handling the event. The great thing was, I didn't even start the email flirt, he did.

So, with a smile on my face, I left the office to join the girls at the pub quiz. A fairly tame night for me in comparison to the revelry I've been enjoying of late, but we did win the quiz! Ok, the prize is shit but the satisfaction of winning can not be beaten (excuse the pun).

As for today, X emailed me again asking if I wanted to do something on Saturday. I've not said yes but I didn't say no either. As I'm now seeing S on Friday instead of Thursday, I'm kinda hoping I won't be leaving my bed all day on Saturday... 2 days to go!

The X Factor

2009-08-17T13:52:00.001+04:00

It was silly of me to have thought things would be plain sailing after ending my relationship with X. There are ALWAYS reprocussions from a break-up – either I realise I’ve mad a mistake, he finds a new girl within a week and parades he around like a Gucci man-bag, he goes psycho and spreads viscious rumours / generally make my life miserable or he just won’t let go.

Thankfully it’s nothing too dramatic, he’s just suffering the after effects of a break-up and refusing to let go… Problem is, I don’t know how to handle it. I certainly don’t want to lead him on and break his heart but at the same time I don’t want to not see him as friends.

At the weekend, I agreed to meet him as I don’t want it to be one of those break-ups where we can’t bear to be in the same room as each other. He told me he had a surprise for me and would pick me up just before 4pm.

As if like clockwork, he arrived and off we went down Sheikh Zayed Road heading towards Abu Dhabi. I didn’t have a clue where we were going, despite me begging him to tell me.

It soon became evident he was taking me shooting. I momentarily panicked thinking he might flip into a rage because I’d ended it and shooting me dead. I couldn’t get Nancy Sinatra’s Bang Bang out of my head… Bang bang, he shot me down, Bang bang, I hit the ground, Bang bang, that awful sound, Bang bang, my baby shot me down… Arghhh!!

Turns out he didn’t flip into a rage and we actually had a really good time shooting. And I was pretty good at it, my bullets tearing through the bull’s eye on several occasions. After shooting we went to Magic Planet to play Air Hockey, which I always win against X. Perhaps he thought by doing activities I was better at than him would win me over?

After Air Hockey and an iced coffee, it got to the stage where we were saying “what do you want to do?” and then not coming up with any ideas. That, for me, is a date killer. If you can’t just have fun in each others’ company without the need to do something exciting, then it’s not really going to work. I love trying new and adventurous things but it can’t be the basis of a relationship… Eventually, I’ll run out of money!

So, I asked X to take me home and he obliged. Literally. As in, he didn’t just drop me off, but came into the flat. I flopped on the couch and drifted off for a little snooze whilst he sat next to me not doing a lot. Then he said he was going to clear out the last of his stuff and go home. I agreed and said I had a lot to do, like make my lunch for the week and wash my bedsheets. To which he then piped up “I’ll do it for you”.

Now, that’s sweet and I appreciate the sentiment but the thing is; I want a man, not a maid! I know he’s just trying to win back my affections, the big sister saw him out on Friday night and he quizzed her about what he should do because he was really missing me.

So now the question is, how do I stop leading him on without hurting him? Or do I have to cause him pain for him to move on? I couldn’t bear to hurt him, the very thought of it saddens me, but I don’t want to give him false hope because in the long run that will hurt him more. Or he’ll hate me and I don’t want to lose him as a friend. I care too deeply about him.

The thing is, what if he sees me out with another guy? Surely I should tell him before he finds out for himself? Or maybe I should just not see him as much? That way it might be a gradual realisation that it’s not going to happen… Or maybe I’m a bitch for not being a bitch and letting him know? So many dilemmas. I’ll let you know what happens…

Countdown to seeing S… 3 days!!!

How to lose a girl in 10 days

2009-08-14T10:42:00.000+04:00

I guess some of you are wondering what happened with Mr. A.P last night? Well, in a word, nothing. And it's become so frustrating that I'm rapidly losing interest.

Whilst my friends assure me he is interested, I am beginning to think otherwise. So, he texts back, asks if I'm going out and is friendly when I see him, but last night made me realise that's just not enough. Oddly, if this was pre-X, I'd continue chasing but I've changed. I now put me first and if a guy isn't totally going to cut the mustard, he's out.

Whilst Mr. A.P is a great guy in many ways, he also is carrying more baggage than I realised. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for being understanding but he has to want to help himself first and that's not something I'm seeing with Mr. A.P, in fact quite the opposite. Let me explain what I'm talking about...

Yesterday evening it was my intention to go to Hopfest, the annual beer festival in Dubai. Mr. A.P text me during the day asking if I'd be going, to which I said I might if our mutual friend E would attend, as I didn't know anyone else going apart from himself and E. However, I later received an invitation from the CC. I love M's dinner parties; company is excellent, food is sublime and drinks flowing. When the CC said they'd invite Mr. A.P to dinner too, I said I'd go, thinking an intimate dinner with close friends is the perfect way to, well, get more intimate with Mr. A.P.

I sent Mr A.P a message that I might not go to Hopfest as I'd had a dinner invite and he told me he'd also been invited and wished he'd said yes as Hopfest was not his cup of tea. I tried to encourage him to come to the dinner party, but he didn't take the bait.

After dinner, I called him. I thought I might go down there or perhaps he'd come for after-dinner drinks. But nope. In my last vain attempt, this morning I asked if he'd be going back to the beer festival this afternoon, letting him know I'd be there for lunch. Again, nope.

All these missed opportunities, on top of Tuesday's window, has lead me to give up hope. I'm just too impatient to wait around only to come out of it broken-hearted. I know I'm waiting for S but at least when he is in the country, he makes an effort to see me.

Thing is with Mr. A.P is I don't think he's quite over his ex and she seems to manipulate and play him. Despite her being with another guy, Mr. A.P falls for her. And I'm not ready for all that bullshit. If he really wanted to be free of her games, I'm his ticket out of there. But I guess he doesn't, as he was with her yesterday evening...

I mean, I love the thrill of the chase and the excitement, but I'm not prepared to be part of a ripple effect because some girl I've not met can't decide what she wants. My game playing days are over and I'm not willing to play a losing game.

I'm not casting him off altogether, but I'm no longer going to make any effort. If he wakes up and smells the coffee, he knows where I am. Right now I'm on countdown to seeing S... 6 days to go!

Waiting for a bus out of Singledom

2009-08-13T16:00:00.000+04:00

Men are like buses… you wait around for one for ages and then three come along at the same time. Question is; which one will I ride? What’s the final destination? What happens if I get the wrong bus? How will I know I’ve taken the wrong bus until it’s off course and then it’s too late to change? Is it all about the destination or is it the journey that matters most?

Right now I’m bus-hopping, not quite sure upon which bus I should embark before they pull out of the station. There are delays and sometimes I wonder if the drivers want to switch destinations or, worst of all, create diversions. Or will they just shut the doors and drive on?Such has been my musings of late.

I feel like I’ve been in a waiting room for eternity. I was hoping for a clincher with Mr. A.P the other night, but he didn’t come out with us in the end. Neither did K. And S is still away, prolonging my suspense. So, instead, I drank myself into oblivion. Free drinks really don’t help my situation and I ended up in a karaoke bar, sans mon amies, being possessive over the microphone and puking on my own feet because I missed the target of the toilet basin. Hardly the girl Mr. A.P, K or S would want to be seen with!

Not knowing when to stop, I ended up meeting an old school friend for a drink at the other end of town. Not any drink though. Nope, that’d be silly. I went in all guns blazing and ordered a tiki puka puka. For those of you reading this outside of Dubai, a tiki puka puka is one of the drinks you only order when you want to be found in a pool of your own sick. Unfortunately, I wasn’t found…

I wish I hadn’t drank so much, I’d quite have liked to have had a proper catch up with my old school friend rather than overwhelm her with drunken ramblings! Poor lass. It was still great to see her though. It’s always nice to see someone you haven’t seen for so many years, to see the direction they’ve taken in life even though they pretty much started at the same point as you.

Anyway, after a night of drunken rampaging, I was woken up at 8.45am by my colleague waiting to pick me up to go to work. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!! Pyjamas off, work clothes on, brush teeth and out the door. Luckily, my friend drove so I could put on some make-up in the car but I was so hungover, my face was a blur. I definitely didn’t look my best. Or smell it.

I always thought it took litres of water, a fry-up and some panadol to cure a hangover, but do you know what cures it best of all? A text from a guy you’re lusting after. Mr. A.P sent me a message in the morning and it totally perked me up. In fact he text me a few times, and a couple of them even included a kiss at the end! Not sure why the letter x at an end of a text really makes all the difference, but oddly it does. I mean, is that like a peck-on-the-cheek x or is a grab-me-and-kiss-me-passionately x? I’m hoping the latter!

But still, with all this stuff with Mr. A.P going on, I’m waiting for S. He’s finally confirmed when he’s coming back and when we can hang out, but the only thing is it’s during Ramadan. I’m no devout Muslim, not by a long shot, but if I say I’m going to do something, I like to stick to it. It’s all about willpower for me and pushing myself that little bit further. And yes, even if that means abstaining for a month from both alcohol and sex.

I think I might buckle. I’ve been waiting for so long that I don’t think I can possibly hold out for another month. In fact thinking about another week is tough enough. I’ve been listening to Paula Cole’s Feelin’ Love on repeat, which probably hasn’t helped my desires, and I’m not a big believer in suppressing feelings. In fact the only feeling I suppress is anger, but I’m not sure I even suppress that. I guess I’m just not an angry person.

So, I have a whole week to continue fantasizing about what will happen with S and, yes, I will let my imagination get carried away. I’ve always been a dreamer, my parents told me that so many times, and they’re totally right. So why change old habits? In terms of reality, I’m hoping to see Mr. A.P tonight and for something to progress there. Something happen!! Please!!