Ramadan Revelry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gutted.

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

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

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

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

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take Me Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misreading the signs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sex Pest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Strings Attached

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crazy Cat Lady

As a young, single girl, I thought long and hard about taking the stray kitten, I'd fallen in love with, home. Not only is a pet hard work, but I was also worried that having a cat would see me labelled as a 'Crazy Cat Lady' by hot guys. To help me make a decision about whether I should welcome a little kitty into my home or not, I decided to ask some of my male friends if I would indeed be labelled a Crazy Cat Lady. The responses I received were mixed.

There are some guys who see a woman who owns a cat as a caring and affectionate person. That is, until she acquires more than two cats, after which, she will be branded the Crazy Cat Lady. Then there are the guys who seem to think a girl with a cat either a) has a dying need to nurture, and will therefore want to have babies with the next man she gets her claws into (excuse the pun), or b) is some weird, loner type who can only communicate with her feline friends. I, however, am neither of those stereotypes.

Originally, I had no intention of having a pet, they're a lot of hassle and I travel/party way too much to be able to give it the attention it would require. But a sad story of abandoned, stray kittens on the beach got the better of me, and I ended up taking one of the little blighters home.

Now, I absolutely adore my kitten. She has so much personality - She fetches, chases anything that moves and bounces around doing back-flips, which has proven to be a great source of entertainment. But, how has my love life fared up since I've had her?

Well, I do make a conscious effort not to bang on about my kitten all the time, as I think that'd freak most men out, but when I do mention her, guys are usually intrigued. Probably because she sounds more like a dog than a cat, and all guys love dogs. Having said that, one guy I met seemed quite put off that I had a cat. In fact, he looked positively repulsed. But as soon as he came back to my place, he was putty in my kitten's paws. So much so, I had to revert his attention back to another pussy...

On other occasions, my kitten has proven to be a hit from the word go. Mr. PL, for example, expressed his love for cats and, when I told him how cool my little feline friend was, he seemed keen on getting one for himself. Although, I'm not sure if he was speaking metaphorically! Another guy I met was a complete cat lover and couldn't wait to get back to mine to meet my kitten. Had I not told him about her, I don't think I'd have been able to lure him over to my place.

So, whilst my little fur-ball has, so far, seemed to help me reel men in, she has not been able to persuade them to stick around. Now, that could be down to me, but I prefer to blame her incessant miaowing, or scratching at the bedroom door, as the reason men don't seem to want to contact me again. I'm not going to lie, a screeching cat at the bedroom door in the throes of passion are a bit of a dampener. If I wasn't 35 floors up, I'd throw her outside, but living where I live, I have no option but to endure her screams for attention.

The other thing I worry about, is meeting the man of my dreams, only to find out he's allergic to cats or fur. What would I do then? Give up the cat or give up the man? I made a life-long commitment when I took home my kitten, but it'd be just my luck to fall in love with a guy who had cat allergies, leaving me to be a lonely old spinster, smelling of cat pee, with twenty odd felines crawling all over my home. An image that, quite frankly, scares the shit out of me.

I guess all I can do is hope my love interest doesn't have cat allergies. And as for the men who think a girl with a cat is a nutter, all I can say is; love me, love my pussy.

Ho Ho Ho

No, I'm not still in the Christmas spirit. I'm talking about the competition - the perfectly manicured women that are in abundance in all of Dubai's bars and clubs. Yes, the prostitutes.

I'd never really considered them competition before, but I now realise that's quite naive, and they're just as much competition as the next girl. I guess the image that pops into my head when I think of the word 'prostitute', is the toothless crack addicts I used to see hanging around King's Cross on my way to work at 7.30am, offering guys blow jobs for a fiver. Not what I'd class as competition!

Here in Dubai, the prostitutes I see hang out in classy watering holes, wear tight dresses that hug their curves and are waxed, polished and threaded to within an inch of their life. They have their flirting techniques down to an absolute tee; sultry glances and flirty smiles. Their opening lines are rehearsed to perfection and they manage to pull every night. How can I possibly compete with that?

You may think that type of guy I go for is not the kind of guy to sleep with a prostitute. But you're wrong. The majority of my male friends (regular British men in their late twenties to early forties) have all slept with a prostitute. Some more frequently than others. And, no, my male friends aren't complete animals or sex addicts. This just goes to show how alluring a prostitute can be. Especially considering the men have to empty their pockets to take them home.

Sometimes the prostitutes even manage to take home a guy who had no intention of sleeping with a hooker in the first place. They play it coy and aren't upfront about what they're up to. And just when the guy thinks he's hit the jackpot - BAM! That'll be a thousand dirhams, please. Poor unsuspecting guy either runs off home with his dick inbetween his legs, or he's coaxed into coughing up the money.

All of this activity wreaks havoc on my love life. For example, at a bar with a couple of friends last night, I scanned the room for talent. The only guy I spotted, that I quite liked the look of, was at the bar. But I didn't approach him because he was talking to a hooker. How do I know she was a hooker? Well, a guy once told me how to spot them - what they wear, how they act etc. I'd been in Dubai for years and was oblivious to the sex industry right before my eyes. Now, I spot them everywhere I go.

I was once out at Dubai's most notorious hooker joint, The Rattlesnake, with a couple of male friends. We were having an awesome night, and as the boys claimed they had never been to this particular bar, I insisted that we went there. For comedy value if nothing else. As soon as we walked in, the girls pounced on the boys; sidling up to them and whispering in their ears. It amused me greatly, especially as I was the only woman in the place that wasn't a prostitute.

One of the girls, a striking Iranian with beautiful green eyes and shiny jet-black hair, took a particular fancy to one of the lads I was with and was all over him. When she caught me gawking at them, she asked if the man in question was my boyfriend. Feeling sorry for my friend, who looked a little scared, I told her that he was. She then went on to ask why he was talking to her, was the other guy single and was he really my boyfriend. Now I felt sorry for her, and so I told her he wasn't my boyfriend. Then, she lost it...

She began ranting at me, telling me how I was messing up her business, that she needed to make money and asking me why I was there. She told me to be serious and tell her if either one of the guys I was with was single. I was shocked. I only went out for a few jars and laughs with the boys, not a bitch-fight with a hooker! There was nothing else to do except laugh and then tell her to back off.

So, if the prostitute saw me as being competition, then I guess she's also mine...

I guess there a lot of guys who sleep with prostitutes because they know exactly what they're getting - sex. There's no emotional attachment that comes with sleeping with a girl who isn't a hooker. Quite often, I think when a man has a one night stand with a girl, he immediately assumes she wants much more - a relationship, marriage and babies. And because he's used her for a one night stand, he feels guilty. To hide this, and not seem like a total wanker, he gives the girl his number or takes hers. He never calls her, but if she calls him to go out for a drink, he'll feel emotionally smothered. None of these feelings are felt when sleeping with a hooker.

Most Western men won't have an issue with handing over 1000 Dirhams to get their dicks wet without all the hassle. If he took a girl out to dinner to get into her knickers, it'd cost him near enough the same anyway, so I can see why they'd take the easy option.

Then there are the guys who love the thrill of it. So much so, they'd rather fuck a hooker than their own girlfriend. I will never truly understand why a man would do that, to me it makes absolutely no sense. Can't they role play with their partner? Or find a new thrill; like sex outdoors? That would definitely be a thrill in this city!

So, until Dubai authorities actually do something about the sex industry in this city, it looks like I'm stuck shooing away hookers, from a potential partner, with my clutch bag.

Google Is Your Friend

Most women won’t admit it, but I’m pretty sure they all do it; it’s become an integral way of finding out everything you need to know. Yes, that’s right, the Internet Stalk. Come on, ladies, you know what I’m talking about. If you insist that you have no idea what I mean, let me enlighten you… Whenever I meet (or further my relationship with) a guy, I like to find out a little more about them. And there is no better way than to pull out my Mac and type his name into Google.

The results can vary from ordinary to downright shocking. I’ve come across everything from their Facebook pages to comments on newspaper articles, compromising photos to personal addresses and articles they’ve written to open social networking sites. There’s a plethora of information out there about every one of us, a large chunk of which we have no control over. This, ladies, is the perfect way to uncover as much information about a guy you’re seeing as possible, without him thinking you’re a freak/internet stalker/bunny boiler.

Quite often, these internet searches determine whether or not I want to continue seeing the man in question. Sometimes, I’ll check out their photos on Facebook and realise that they look nothing like I remember from that drunken night out at the weekend. Sometimes their marital statuses have popped up, showing something I really wasn’t expecting. And other times, I read something they’ve written and think they’re just like me. In man form.

With all that information out there, would it be a waste of resources not to check them out? Or in 2011, do we take it too far and not give the other person a chance to divulge the details to us themselves? We’re in an age of wanting to know anything and everything immediately, and if we don’t, we assume the other person is hiding something or lying. Although, is it too far-fetched to think, after two dates, he may not yet feel comfortable telling you he’s leaving his wife? Or that he thinks he might scare you off if he told you he was head of the online crochet discussion forum? So how long do we wait to hear this information from the horse’s mouth? Do you try to prompt him for this information by asking questions such as, “So, what’s your most serious relationship?” or “Did you ever have to do Home Economics at school? I used to love the knitting class”?

The other thing about chatting to a guy you’ve internet searched, is it’s difficult to keep in check and remember whether they told you a certain bit of information, or if you read it on their MySpace or Bebo account. It’s a cringe-worthy when you start asking him how The Killers concert was, when he hasn’t so much as even discussed his music tastes with you. I mean, how do you get out of that? Unless you take a long shot and say you could tell he was into them by his dress sense.

Sometimes there will be times when you find yourself relieved to have Internet searched a guy before you agreed to go on that second date. He could be, for example, a womaniser who has several posts on Gumtree looking for casual sex. Or perhaps he has an alter-ego and goes by the name of Steph, instead of Steve, on a Friday night. Or maybe it’s more sinister and Interpol have a warrant for his arrest for sexual harassment charges. Whatever it is, typing his name into Google will at least give you some sort of peace of mind.

Then there are the guys you Google and end up liking even more. I must have spent ages reading about one particular guy, and everything I read made me want to know more. Unfortunately, in reality, the guy isn’t who I hoped he’d be – rude, arrogant and self-righteous – traits you can’t really detect online. But, as much as I hate him, I find it hard to refrain from typing his name into Google every now and then. I’ve completely fallen for his online personality and regularly dream up steamy scenarios in my head. But, there comes a time when I have to face the fact that it’s no longer acceptable for a woman of my age to have make-believe friends. No matter how much they turn me on. I’m not saying that time is today, but soon…

So, whilst Google and Facebook stalking a guy can bring up all sorts of vital information about him, it also runs the risk of us overlooking his traits in real life. I think, as long as that’s kept in perspective and we’re not getting caught up with what’s being said in cyberspace and becoming obsessive, it’s safe to Internet stalk him. After all, he’s probably too stupid to find out what you’re up to…

To blog or not to blog?

With Dubai seemingly the size of a Kyrgyzstani village, it’s rare I meet a guy who hasn’t read my blog. Or at least heard tales of its salaciousness. Some friends warned me that this would happen, and that I’m best to refrain from blogging because a guy won’t date a girl with an explicit blog. This is true, however the men who usually have an issue with me blogging are the ones who have something to hide. They’re usually either married or have several women on the go at once. Or both! So, actually, my blog has served as a wanker deterrent. Although, admittedly, it’s not always 100% reliable.

There have been occasions where I have been intimate with men who do not want me to blog about them. My response is a loud snort. Imagine! A sex and dating blogger being asked not to write about her sex and dating shenanigans. Shall we ask Bob Geldof not sing about starving children in Africa too? At the end of the day, if you don’t want me to blog about what happens between us, then I suggest you don’t date/sleep with me. Yes, it really is that simple.

Except it’s not that simple, because you’re a dog and you can’t resist nuzzling your face into my ample cleavage. You’re dying to feel my tongue roam all over your body and you're desperate to be into me... if you catch my drift. Well then, clearly your genitals are far more powerful than your common sense, if you have any at all. Not that I mind; I get what I want and I have excellent blogging material. Just don’t beg me to remove a post because your girlfriend might find out what happened that night. If you’re not smart enough to dodge a blog post by a girl who told you she’d write about you then, quite frankly, you don’t deserve a girlfriend. And when she finds out and leaves you, please don’t call me expecting to fill the gaping sexual hole (no pun intended) she’s left in your life.

Now, there are exceptions to the rule and, on the extremely rare occasion that I have not blogged about our little rendezvous, you can count yourself damn lucky. This either means a) I actually think you’re alright, b) we have too many friends in common that it could get messy, c) I want to fuck you again or d) I feel sorry for you. That’s not to say I won’t ever blog about it – if you get on the wrong side of me, I will probably end up posting it.

Some people might think that’s pretty harsh, but my advice is that if you don’t want people knowing about something you’ve done; DON’T DO IT! If you know you're doing something wrong, then you should pay the conequences...

A Midnight Message

Last night, I received a text message I wasn’t expecting. It was from a guy, Mr. AB, who I was flirting with about five months ago, but then never really heard from after I turned down his advances for a night of no-strings sex. I received the text at half-past midnight, and it read something like this: “Hey there pretty lady. How are you? Will you let me take u out for dinner this week? :)”.

In theory, I should be over overjoyed that I’ve finally been asked out on a date after three years of being dateless, but there was something about this text message that wasn’t quite right…

First thing is first, I haven’t heard from the guy in over five months. Now, I’m honoured if I’m still on his mind after so long (I’ve usually long forgotten a guy by then) but it does reek a little of going through one’s black book and sending the same message to all the girls in there, hoping at least one of them will respond so that he can get laid. Although, what if all the girls agreed? That would be a very time-consuming and expensive way of emptying his balls. Anyway, had he perhaps sent me a couple of text messages prior to the one I received last night, I may believe he had genuinely wanted to take me (and only me) out.

But what if he really does want to take me out for dinner? What if he’s been plucking up the courage over the last five months to ask me out? I’m wondering if I should reply. You know, just to find out. Then again, I really don’t want another Mr.PL situation where his invitation wasn’t sincere and I end up pining for a reply – it’s not my style. Saying that, if he does respond to me, this guy could be exactly what I need right now; a distraction from my recent conquests. Or, it could be that he’ll completely sweep me off my feet, make me fall madly in-love with him and then we’ll get married, have beautiful babies and live happily ever after… Ha! Ok, yeah, maybe not.

It could be that Mr.AB was drunk when he sent me the text, after all I did receive it at an unsociable hour, and drinking in Dubai is not only limited to the weekends. Are drunk texts a good thing? I would always text J when I was drunk because he was always on my mind, and he was my friend, but when a guy you haven’t heard from in five months texts you when he’s drunk, that can only mean one thing, right? Yes, “take you out for dinner” actually means “get you drunk and fuck you”. Not sure I really fancy that with Mr.AB. Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while will already know; I generally reserve my sexual relationships for guys who are either my friends or are at least friends of friends.

The other thing about Mr. AB’s out of the blue text message is the smiley face at the end. Dude, you’re in your mid-thirties, why are you sending me a message with emoticons that, even as a teenager chatting on msn in the late 90’s, are socially unacceptable. It’s just unnecessary.

I’m really in two minds about whether or not I should reply to Mr.AB’s text message. Does anyone have any insights?

What Men Want

Is it just me, or are men the most confusing things on Earth? I'm sure Isaac Newton had an easier time working out gravity than I do what's going through a man's mind!

At first, I wasn't sure whether I'd bother contacting Mr.PL or not. Not because the sex wasn't hot, not because he wasn't interesting or attractive, but because I just didn't want to give him the satisfaction. I absolutely despise the ball being in the guy's court. It comes from years of disappointment and let downs; whether it's just flirting, engaging in a casual fling or having a full blown relationship. I always imagine their smug faces when they hear from me, thinking, "Yeah, she's well into me and I just couldn't give a fuck. I'm the fucking man!" Eugh!! You twats.

Despite my initial reluctance, a few days later, I thought I'd drop Mr.PL a cheeky email. It's the least personal form of communication, which was ideal for the message I wanted to get across. The content, however, was personal. It referred to a conversation we'd had about a mutual interest but it was also intimate. Short and sweet, I was hoping he'd catch my drift.

At the time, I wasn't overly bothered whether Mr.PL emailed me back or not, but as the hours passed, I found myself becoming more and more obsessed with the email. Fuck! Had I let him get the better of me? Had I reopened the door of disappointment? I spent all day refreshing my emails, waiting for a reply, and it's driven me crazy. How did I make such a rookie mistake?

From Mr.PL being someone I had fun with but wasn't too fussed about, he has now become someone that pops into my head, uncontrollably, every five bloody minutes. And I hate it. I also hate him. Seriously, who the fuck does he think he is not replying to my email? And why did he bother giving me his business card in the first place if he had no intention of responding to me when I contacted him? I'd have quite happily walked out of his apartment that day and not looked back. But no, he had to dangle the metaphoric carrot in front of my face, the bastard. Not only that, but I initially snubbed his card for this very reason (which is why I ended up receiving it in two halves, after he seemed offended and ripped it)!

Anyway, this incessant need for an email from Mr.PL has led me to question myself and why he hasn't replied to me. Am I too fat? Am I not interesting enough? Am I not intelligent enough? Did I email too soon and now he thinks I'm needy? Is it because I threw Kettle chips around the apartment in a drunken rage? God, the questions just go on and on and I have no answers. Then I take a step back and think; "fuck him".

It's not like I'm some air-head bimbo, sucking some 50 year old man's cock, in the hope he'll buy me a Tiffany necklace. No, I'm a well travelled, well educated, sociable girl who goes for guys on a similar level. I have some pretty cool hobbies, great friends and I work damn hard to get what I want from life; so what's missing? Or is it that guys actually do prefer inferior women? Someone who will depend on them entirely, so that they know they're in control?

Perhaps it's that I'm too full on? God, I really hope I'm not! I know reading this blog you'd probably think I was, but you have to remember that these are all my honest thoughts, stripped down and bare, for everyone to see — don't mistake my heart-on-sleeve attitude with being full on.

So, even though I'd like to continue where I left off with Mr.PL, I don't think I'll contact him again. Well, not unless I feel like telling him he's a wanker. As for me, I know my email obsession will fade away in a few days if he doesn't reply to me. Mr.PL was good, but not that good.

Damned if I do, Damned if I don't

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.

The Unobtainables

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.

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

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...

When a good night goes bad

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.

Are you playing The Game by The Rules?

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...

Single girl etiquette

Ladies, if a 'gentleman' at a bar sends drinks over to you and your girlfriend, what do you do?

a) Nod and mouth 'Thank you'

b) Invite him over to chat

c) Take him to the dance floor

d) Fuck him

This weekend, Miss LC and I performed a little social experiment to find out exactly what a girl is to do...

Whilst drinking at one of Dubai's trendy clubs and eyeing up any potential eligible bachelors, Miss LC and I were handed another round of drinks by the bar staff. With the look of confusion on our faces, the bar staff, who were all lined up at the bar with equal space between each of them, immediately pointed to a man at the bar. Far from it being a sexy, smouldering man in a suit as it always is in American series', we were a little disappointed to see a nerdy blonde guy drinking at the bar on his own.

Unsure of which of the above options we were obliged to do, we asked our quintessentially English friend R on what we should do. Being no help at all, R suggested 'd' as the best option as it was 'the rules'. Clearly R is often the guy at the bar who sends over drinks to the ladies and expects to get laid. This is because it probably works for him, but no doubt it's the suave dress sense (as long as they don't look at his mismatched shoes), his schoolgirl laugh and the irresistible English charm that helps him win the ladies over, rather than the free cocktails. Mr. R, is that how you get so much gash?

Having ruled out option d, we decided we should probably invite him over for a chat. After all, he was on his own, staring at his drink and we thought what he did took balls. Feeling sorry for him, we agreed we'd invite him over for a chat. Earlier in the day I'd said to Miss LC that we really should make an effort to chat to more guys, even if they were minging, because they might have hot friends. That was a mistake, as this guy didn't have any friends, let alone good-looking ones!

Once he'd taken his eyes off his drink and looked up at us, I beckoned him over. I knew immediately that I'd made a mistake, but a minute later he sauntered over. Making polite conversation with him - what's your name, where are you from, what do you do - it became evidently clear that he was somewhat trashed. Swaying and knocking into us as he spoke, his alcohol breath was making us gag.

We established his name was Trinko, that he was Austrian and that he lived in Ajman. When asked where is friends were, he held out his arms towards me and Miss LC. Did he really constitute a three-question conversation as a friendship? Was he really that much of a loner that we were the closest people to him to be called friends? It wouldn't surprise me if that was the case.

As we sipped our drinks in an effort to finish them quickly, so that we could make our excuses and leave, the bar staff were all giving us the knowing look. Do you know the one I mean? The one where they're sympathetic but they're also kind of laughing too? They could see Trinko was was worse for wear and that we had just been polite in inviting him over, not expecting him to be so much of a tool. 

Not long into the conversation, Trinko walked off. We were relieved to say the least. By now, the bar staff were all laughing, and as I glanced at where Trinko had been standing, I noticed a bottle of Captain Morgan rum that had been mostly consumed already. Around the bottle were more drinks. This would have been a perfectly acceptable scene should it have been a group of friends at a bar or two big Russian guys coming to a business agreement, but this was one weedy Austrian guy all on his own.

As he trundled back to the bar, I asked him if he enjoyed drinking on his own. In reply, he managed to slur "I don't like alcohol". As much as I wanted to believe the swaying, rum-fume breathing loner, I couldn't contain myself and simply retorted "It sure doesn't smell like it". Miss LC and I couldn't contain our laughter. It was a sorry situation; two single girls drinking at a bar having only been able to pick up a half-cut, no make that totally-cut, lone ranger. Eugh.

Trinko didn't appreciate us laughing at him, but no sooner had we clocked him looking upset than he was propped up at the bar having a snooze. Yep, he was asleep. This was our opportunity to escape! We downed our drinks in an attempt to make a run for it but we were stopped in our tracks by the woken beast. Being the well-mannered girls that we are, we made our excuses, said goodbye and bolted. Like lightening.

So, the moral of the story is - if a guy sends over a drink to your table, stick to option a. Anything more is heading for disaster. Unless he's a quintessential Englishman, of course.

Seven thousand nine hundred and ninety six

There are over 100,000 Brits in Dubai. Supposedly 72% of Dubai's population are men. So if my calculations are correct, that means there are 72,000 British men in Dubai but we'll knock it down to 50,000 as that 72% includes an incredibly high number of Sub-Continent labourers.

Now, I'm not expecting all 50,000 male, British expats to be single or under 40, so we'll say half are single, and half of those are under 40. Then we'll estimate that a third of whoever's left is passable on the looks front. That means there are just over 8,000 Brit-boy hotties in this city. So, my question is... Where are they?

Now, I know I've had liaisons with about five or six of these guys already, but that still leaves 7,996 of them to discover! Let's face it, it's not like I lock myself away at home and I'm hardly the shy and retiring type. I venture out. I've trawled Dubai's nightclubs on many occasions, checking out the latest hotspots and the talent it may or may not host. I attend the events on Dubai's must-do social calendar -the Rugby 7's, the world cup, they're all there. So why is it so hard to spot cute guys?

Seriously, where do they hang out? Is it in the freezer aisle at Spinney's? Border's at Mall of the Emirates? Or are they all at the gym on a Friday night? Come on boys, we know you're out there, so why hide? Does the benevolent charmer feel intimidated by Dubai's women? With a reputation for being gold-digging, high maintenance Barbie dolls, I wouldn't be surprised if most men run for cover from the perfectly manicured claws. Or is that precisely what they're looking for and the reason us down-to-earth gals are barely given a glance, never mind a second one!

Not satisfied with my club trawling and shop hunting, I've decided to open my options to discover exactly where these 7,996 good-looking, intelligent Brit boys might be. I'm starting at the gym...

Not one for physical activity outside of the bedroom, I figured 'nothing ventured, nothing gained' and have signed myself up to a month's worth of kickboxing torture at Safa Park. Three time a week. That's right, I've joined a bootcamp. Yep, for one month, I'm sacrificing 850 Dirhams worth of dresses, shoes and cosmopolitans in a bid to find Mr. Right. Or at least Mr. Right Now. And let me tell you, that was no easy decision to make.

So boys, have a little heart and make some effort too. If you're cute, come over, say hi, we can talk about Man City splashing the cash, you're new 35 inch wheels on the Jeep or simply where you like to hang out. Don't worry, I won't scratch...