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…
Friday, 13 May 2011
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
Mysterious Man - Part Two
I'd been thinking about Mr. M.M for two weeks. Sure, I couldn't remember his name or how we began chatting, but I did remember how fabulous the sex was. Nobody had made me feel that way before apart from J, and that's because we'd been sleeping together for over seven years. As much as I pined for a repeat performance with Mr. M.M, I resigned myself into believing it was one of those beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime, romantic moments.
Which is why on, what was shaping up to be, an incredibly unsuccessful night out with Miss E.D, I was surprised to be greeted by a very handsome Mr. M.M. He was as cute as I remembered, if not more so, and I immediately felt my heart beat that little bit faster. The second I recognised him, my jaw dropped. He looked surprised that I looked surprised. This, I thought, must be fate.
Mr. M.M had no problem introducing me to his friend who seemed to; a) know Mr. M.M is married and b) be well aware of his extra-marital activity with me. Whilst I found it odd that Mr. M.M hadn’t tried to hide his cheating tendencies, it also made the situation easier. I didn’t have to lie or bite my tongue in case his friend caught a whiff of what had happened and reported it back to Mr. M.M’s wife. In fact, it meant I could be downright flirtatious. And I was.
Several drinks later, it was time to leave. Whilst Miss E.D. and my other friends argued about whose apartment to go back to for an afterparty, Mr. M.M and I quietly slipped into a taxi and eloped back to his place. Apparently, his wife was away on holiday for two weeks and he intended on making full use of a free apartment. Although, in my mind, whilst I had been flirtatious throughout the evening, I only intended to head back to his apartment for a few innocent drinks...
Back at Mr. M.M’s, we chatted about our families and music tastes. He then started spinning some tunes on his decks whilst I hung out of his 27th floor window, smoking cigarettes, until he played a tune I loved, and then I’d have a little dance in his living room. His apartment was like a bachelor pad. It was minimalistic and didn’t really seem to have a woman’s touch. In fact, I had forgotten he was married until I spotted a row of cards on a book shelf saying “Congratulations” and “Mum to be”. For some reason, I didn’t let those cards register in my mind until the next day. I, subconsciously, completely glossed over them.
Amidst the drinking, dancing and DJing, Mr. M.M caught me off guard, grabbed me around the waist, and kissed me. It was hot. And whilst I knew where the kiss would lead, there was just no way I could resist him. Remembering how good our previous encounter had been, all my morals (the few I have) went out of the window. The kiss was amazing and, when I say amazing, I mean absolutely perfect. Even thinking about it makes me horny.
After a lot of kissing, we ended up on the sofa. Naked. It was already 6am and the early sunrise lit the room beautifully. Mr. M.M looked at me in a way which made me feel like we were totally in love with each other. The chemistry was immense and as soon as he entered me, I felt this huge rush. It was as if love, lust, passion and desire rushed through my body at that very instant. It gave me such a high, it intensified the experience even more. A feeling I’d only ever experienced with J before this.
As we made love on the sofa, I remember thinking how I never wanted it to end. We moved to the bedroom, although Mr. M.M was careful to expose me to as little of his wife as possible, and so we headed for the spare room. We continued our session and, in between all the kissing, Mr. M.M and I agreed we’d spend the entirety of the next day in bed. We did. And we soaked up every inch of one another.
I left the next day, totally elated. It had been the most passionate and intense sexual encounter I’d had in a long time. With my head in the clouds, I completely forgot about my favourite watch that I’d left on Mr. M.M’s dining table, and it wasn’t until I made it back to my place that I realised I wasn’t wearing it.
Without wanting to appear like some kind of crazy, obsessed stalker, I thought the best way to get it back would be to email Mr. M.M. I Googled his name and up popped his phone number and email address. For a moment, I did consider sending him a text message, but I realised I would be far too tempted to continue messaging him even after I received my watch. I sent him an email. I was very nonchalant in my message but, secretly, I’d hoped it may result in another rendezvous before his wife came back from her holiday. Unfortunately, it didn’t. Instead, my beloved watch was sent back to me via courier.
I’ve not heard from Mr. M.M since. To be honest, I’m glad I haven’t. As much as I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, I do feel bad for his pregnant wife. Although I’m grateful he didn’t hide the fact he was married, as he’s the kind of guy I could totally fall for had he been single. As it was, his audacity put me off wanting to pursue him, making it far easier for me not to become emotionally attached to him. He’s clearly a dog and, whilst he says all the right things to make you melt, he will always be a scoundrel...
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...
Friday, 8 April 2011
Mysterious Man - Part One
One warm, sunny day in March, some of the world's top DJs descended upon a beach in Dubai. It was set to be a fabulous night at an amazing location, and so many groups of friends gathered at the beach to drink heavily, dance like they'd never danced before and have a whale of a time.
My group of friends were one of those to hit the sand, and the night truly lived up to its expectations. Arriving when the sun was still shining, I was in a great mood. The atmosphere was chilled out but you could feel it heating up, ready for a party. Some people were sat on towels and sunloungers along the shoreline, others were queueing up at the bar for a drink and some were already on the sandy dancefloor grooving away to eclectic beats.
Miss G.G and I rocked up to the bar, to buy a bottle of vodka, before settling down on towels along the shore. As the sunset, more and more people filled the beach. More of our friends joined us and our vodka was diminishing at an unimaginable rate. By the time all of our friends had arrived, I was already quite tipsy.
Another friend of mine, Miss S.S, took me on regular scouts of the entire venue, looking for hot men. I remember falling flat on my face three times. On one of those occasions, I had a beer in my hand and managed to spill it all over my own head. The night was reckless and feckless. It was unashamedly debaucherous, but everyone was having a good time.
Towards the end of the night, I remember chatting to a cute stranger, Mr.M.M. I don't recall much of our conversation, but I do remember discovering he was married. Shortly after finding out he had a wife, I walked off, but he pursued me and persuaded me to continue talking to him. We left the area where my friends were keeping a beady eye on me, and headed off for a stroll along the beach before heading to the bar for a drink.
Mr.M.M and I must have been chatting for quite some time because when we returned to where my friends were, it was as if they'd never been stood there at all. All that was left was my handbag perched on the table and an empty bottle of vodka slung on the sand. Mr.M.M and I decided to sprawl ourselves out on a sunlounger and chat some more. It would have been incredibly romantic if we weren't both completely annihilated.
As the gentle waves washed over our feet and the moon lit our faces, we had a little kiss. That kiss quickly turned into a passionate embrace, so we decided it was time to leave and both jumped into a cab together. As much as I wanted to rip his clothes off, I didn't intend to take him home, but it ended up happening anyway.
Back at my place, we continued drinking. We sat on my balcony, smoking and sharing stories about our felines. Mr.M.M loved my kitten and, as I've said before, love me, love my pussy. After a lengthy conversation, covering all sorts of topics, we moved to the bedroom, where we really got to know each other.
It was amazing. So much so, I'd go as far as to say it's the best I've had in a long while. He was strong, energetic and loving all at the same time. We weren't shy when it came to telling each other how much we were enjoying ourselves. It was intense, and we both knew we both felt how good it was.
When Mr.M.M left the next morning, it didn't surprise me that he didn't take my number, and there was absolutely no way I was going to ask him for his. It was what it was - a beautiful encounter that I would look back on fondly in the future... Until I realised I didn't even know his name. Or how I'd struck up conversation with him. I didn't even know what he did for work. All I could remember was that he used to have a cat named Captain Cocoa.
Over the next week, I wracked my brain trying to figure out who he was. I Facebooked what I thought was his first name, in the hope we'd have friends in common and his picture would pop up. It didn't. I quizzed all of my friends who were out that night, begging them for a lead as to who this beautiful stranger was, but they had no idea either.
Miss S.S thought it was possible she had his business card but, when she looked, she couldn't find it. My friends also had conflicting ideas of what Mr.M.M's name was. There was no hope, and so I resigned myself to the fact that I'd never find out who he was and, instead, I'd just have to cherish what I could remember...
My group of friends were one of those to hit the sand, and the night truly lived up to its expectations. Arriving when the sun was still shining, I was in a great mood. The atmosphere was chilled out but you could feel it heating up, ready for a party. Some people were sat on towels and sunloungers along the shoreline, others were queueing up at the bar for a drink and some were already on the sandy dancefloor grooving away to eclectic beats.
Miss G.G and I rocked up to the bar, to buy a bottle of vodka, before settling down on towels along the shore. As the sunset, more and more people filled the beach. More of our friends joined us and our vodka was diminishing at an unimaginable rate. By the time all of our friends had arrived, I was already quite tipsy.
Another friend of mine, Miss S.S, took me on regular scouts of the entire venue, looking for hot men. I remember falling flat on my face three times. On one of those occasions, I had a beer in my hand and managed to spill it all over my own head. The night was reckless and feckless. It was unashamedly debaucherous, but everyone was having a good time.
Towards the end of the night, I remember chatting to a cute stranger, Mr.M.M. I don't recall much of our conversation, but I do remember discovering he was married. Shortly after finding out he had a wife, I walked off, but he pursued me and persuaded me to continue talking to him. We left the area where my friends were keeping a beady eye on me, and headed off for a stroll along the beach before heading to the bar for a drink.
Mr.M.M and I must have been chatting for quite some time because when we returned to where my friends were, it was as if they'd never been stood there at all. All that was left was my handbag perched on the table and an empty bottle of vodka slung on the sand. Mr.M.M and I decided to sprawl ourselves out on a sunlounger and chat some more. It would have been incredibly romantic if we weren't both completely annihilated.
As the gentle waves washed over our feet and the moon lit our faces, we had a little kiss. That kiss quickly turned into a passionate embrace, so we decided it was time to leave and both jumped into a cab together. As much as I wanted to rip his clothes off, I didn't intend to take him home, but it ended up happening anyway.
Back at my place, we continued drinking. We sat on my balcony, smoking and sharing stories about our felines. Mr.M.M loved my kitten and, as I've said before, love me, love my pussy. After a lengthy conversation, covering all sorts of topics, we moved to the bedroom, where we really got to know each other.
It was amazing. So much so, I'd go as far as to say it's the best I've had in a long while. He was strong, energetic and loving all at the same time. We weren't shy when it came to telling each other how much we were enjoying ourselves. It was intense, and we both knew we both felt how good it was.
When Mr.M.M left the next morning, it didn't surprise me that he didn't take my number, and there was absolutely no way I was going to ask him for his. It was what it was - a beautiful encounter that I would look back on fondly in the future... Until I realised I didn't even know his name. Or how I'd struck up conversation with him. I didn't even know what he did for work. All I could remember was that he used to have a cat named Captain Cocoa.
Over the next week, I wracked my brain trying to figure out who he was. I Facebooked what I thought was his first name, in the hope we'd have friends in common and his picture would pop up. It didn't. I quizzed all of my friends who were out that night, begging them for a lead as to who this beautiful stranger was, but they had no idea either.
Miss S.S thought it was possible she had his business card but, when she looked, she couldn't find it. My friends also had conflicting ideas of what Mr.M.M's name was. There was no hope, and so I resigned myself to the fact that I'd never find out who he was and, instead, I'd just have to cherish what I could remember...
Misreading the signs
Let me tell you a little bit about me; I’m the kind of girl that likes to take the bull by the horns. I like to jump into things head first, and If I want something, I want it right now. I always grab what I want and run with it — my career, my move to Dubai, my education. I'm never one to sit back and hope good things come my way.
I’m hasty. I like to dive into the deep end, give the unknown a try. I buy it, take it home, try it on and if I don’t like it I return it to the store. I have the same philosophy with men — meet them, take them home, date them and dump them if I’m not sure. That's if it gets that far, of course.
However, sometimes, it doesn't do me any favours. I find myself so caught up in my typical Arian attitude, I disregard all the signs. Or I interpret them to be something I want them to be and not what they really are. It's not even that I necessarily want to be with these guys, I just thrive on the thrill of the chase.
All of my latest squeezes are laden with misread signs. I confused Mr.W.S's friendly cuddles for a deeper affection, and I assumed Mr. A.P's regular communication to be a sign of mutual attraction. I was wrong on both occasions. So very, very wrong. I seemed to forget men lie, bend the truth and are complete cowards when it comes to telling a woman exactly how they feel. They think, by not being blunt with you, they're being gentle with your feelings when, in reality, it's a slippery slope to infatuation and heartache.
When a guy calls you to invite you out, it's not because he's interested in you. If he snuggles up to you, holds your hand or smells your hair, it's not a sign that he wants to be closer to you beyond that moment. Just like us girls, guys also need to feel desired, and if that means using a girl friend and abusing her feelings, then so be it.
It doesn't matter if he's leading you on, because, in his eyes, as soon as you start reading into the signals he's giving you, you're some kind of crazy stalker girl. He'll automatically think you want his babies the second you wonder if there might be more to the relationship than being 'just friends'.
Men always make out that it's the women who are crazy psychos, that we're stalkers because our affections are not reciprocated. I've started to wonder if it's the other way around. I'm not so socially inept that I can't make my feelings known. Or is their lack of directness because they enjoy the attention and want to keep you on a back burner when there's nothing else around? Either way, it's not a woman's fault if she misreads the signs; we're so used to confused signals, that none of it makes sense anymore.
As much as I enjoy thinking a guy might be into me because he text me back within ten minutes, I now know that it's probably not true. Just as it's not true that he is into me because he didn't leave my place until dinner time after a night of romance. And, when he offers you his business card, don't take it thinking he actually wants to hear from you. It's more than likely he feels the need to offer it to you, when you're leaving is apartment, to relieve that awkward moment...
So, girls, it's perfectly normal to misread the signs, in fact, it's standard. And boys, don't be alarmed when me fall head over heels because you can't man up and tell us how you really feel.
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.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
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...
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...
Saturday, 26 February 2011
The Sex Prep Process
My sex life is so sporadic that, most of the time, I'm caught off-guard. Now, I love spontaneous sex - I love the thrill and the excitement of it - but, as I'm never prepared for it, it does make me feel self-conscious. I think it's because after so many years of arranged sex with J, and having the time to get ready for a session, anything else makes me a little apprehensive.
For example, two of the three times I've had sex this year, I've been between waxes. I hate shaving with a passion, which means two weeks out of every six, my legs are more Harold Bishop than Heidi Klum. I would have never have seen J in that state. I always used to make sure I was waxed, threaded and polished to within an inch of my life. I never left him any room to criticise me.
I'd also have a Brazilian or Hollywood done before seeing him. He never knew what he was going to get when he undressed me, and that excited him.
It wasn't only the waxing though. It also involved exfoliating, moisturising, manicures, pedicures, hair styling and outfit selection. It was a lengthy process, but I always wanted to make sure I looked my best. Getting naked in front of a guy can be pretty nerve-wracking but when I'm prepared, I feel far more confident and ready to let go of my inhibitions.
Underwear is another important factor in the preparation process. You don't want a Bridget Jones scenario where you finally take home a guy, only for him to find out you're wearing Spanx. Even if the sight of them hasn't completely turned him off, by the time you actually manage to pull them down, you can guarantee the moment will well and truly be over.
The other thing I find embarrassing is mismatched underwear. A sexy black bra will totally lose its effect when coupled with a pair of ugly beige pants. I've been caught out so many times with mismatched underwear and, in order to avoid it being noticed, I end up stripping far too quickly, which makes me look like some insatiable nymph rather than a sexy seductress. I find the best way to avoid this situation is simply by not wearing any knickers at all... and the boys love it!
Then there's the hair and make-up. I want to look good when you're fucking me, I don't want you to think I resemble Heather Trot after a night on the bullfrogs. And when we're having a post-coital cuddle, I want you to smell my coconut shampoo, not two days worth of stale cigarettes.
So, boys, when I get into bed with you and am not as smooth as a baby's backside, don't judge me and think I'm some sort of skanky, personal-hygeine-shy girl. I just wasn't planning to be in the sack with you that evening. Just be grateful you don't need to go through the same process - a shower, shit and shave and you're good to go.
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.
Monday, 21 February 2011
Gone with the Bullfrog
If you want to know how to fuck something up before it begins, make sure you come to me, as I'm a pro. I’m like an emotional bulldozer, knocking down any feelings that are still standing. Yep, I bulldozed my way through anything that might have been with Mr.W.S and I feel like shit.
The other day, I had a little chat on the phone with Mr.W.S, and I finally plucked up the courage to ask him what he was doing that evening. He told me he was going for dinner with friends so, when I mentioned I’d be in our favourite bar, he said he might see me in there around midnight. Of course I was looking forward to it, I love being around him and I enjoy my nights out so much more when he’s there.
That evening, at the bar, my friends and I were knocking back the free bullfrogs. It was the perfect pastime whilst waiting to see Mr.W.S. In fact I was having such a blast that when I looked at my phone, it was already half past midnight. I did a quick scout around the bar to see if he had already arrived, but when I didn’t see him, I thought I’d give him a call to tell him to hurry up.
Back in the bar, my friend had slipped off home but I decided to hang out and wait for Mr.W.S to turn up... He didn’t. I think it was then it dawned on me that he just wasn’t interested. And so I burst into tears. There I was, in the middle of the bar, alone and bawling my eyes out. The only comfort I had was being offered tissues from drunk strangers.
Mascara running down my face, I text Mr.W.S. Having read the messages back, they didn’t really make much sense, nor did they really portray how I felt. At all. I remember being so drunk, I was struggling to send text messages, so I called him instead. I really don’t remember what I said, I just remember crying uncontrollably and wanting to see him. I also recall thinking he must think I’m crazy. I’m not.
The only other part of the conversation I have a vague recollection of is him telling me to get in a taxi and then my phone battery dying. I sobbed all the way home. I felt so needy that I decided the only way to stop that would be to distance myself from Mr W.S. So, when I got home, I hit the delete button next to his name on Facebook. I didn’t want to but, in my drunken stupor, I thought it’d be for the best – for me and for him.
The next morning, not only did I wake up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck, I also looked a complete wreck and felt incredibly embarrassed. As soon as I opened my eyes, I turned on my Mac and typed his name into Facebook. I cringed when his wall didn’t appear. I wanted to kick myself. Great, now not only does he think I’m a complete lunatic, he probably also thinks I hate him. Fabulous. Just the scenario you want to be faced with on a Monday morning.
I stewed over it all day and wondered whether I should call or text him, but I couldn't imagine he’d want to hear from me. I’d been a massive twat and I was pretty certain there was no way of redeeming myself.
Luckily for me, Mr W.S called me that evening. And whilst I was completely mortified, I was so relieved that he didn't think I was a total idiot. Even if I do think so.
But, as always with me, I never receive good news without some bad news... Yep, he finally told me he's just not that into me. So, yes, some of you can now say "I told you so" and feel all smug that I've, once again, been flung onto the rejected pile. However, I'm cool with it. The way I see it is that I don't want to be with someone who isn't into me any more than I'd want to be with Frank Gallagher. So, as Rhett Butler once said, "frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn".
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".
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Knowing Me, Knowing You
In Dubai, it can be difficult to find people you connect well with, particularly on an emotional and intellectual level. And when I say connect well with, I mean having a real deep understanding and close affinity with someone. I have so many wonderful friends in Dubai, but I wouldn't say I have that kind of connection with many of them. That doesn't mean I love them any less, but I am perhaps less open with them about my deeper feelings.
When I first met Mr. W.S (sorry, babe!!), it didn't occur to me he might be someone I'd spend all night with, having heart-to-hearts. And it wasn't until eight months after our first meeting that I realised I'd opened up to him far more than I opened up to most people.
I'm an incredibly trusting person, and will always give people the benefit of the doubt. Having said that, there is part of me I keep totally under wraps. I have certain characteristics and emotions that I never tell anyone, and only those who truly pay attention to me will work me out. Mr. W.S has started to do just that...
During our first heart-to-heart, my barriers were still well and truly up. There was no way I was going to let some guy work out who I really am, what I'm really like and what I really want. By our second all-night conversation, I felt much more at ease in his company and I began to open up. By our third, I began showing some emotion. I was hesitant at first, perhaps due to past experiences, but Mr. W.S reciprocated and also opened up to me.
So, when I heard from friends that Mr.W.S hadn't been sincere with me, I was shocked and quite upset. I wondered how I could be so stupid as to let someone in who didn't really care. I also wondered why he'd bother wasting his time trying to work me out. I don't know if I was more angry at myself or him but, when I saw him, I lost it for a moment and snapped. It wasn't until he started talking and I looked at his face that I realised why I had opened up to him.
I felt like an idiot having snapped at him. Here was a guy who was genuine, someone I really enjoyed being with and could talk openly to. He wasn't in it to fuck me and take advantage. Perhaps that's what scares me. I'm so used to my relationships being based around sex, hanging out with a guy who wants to be friends with me is almost alien.
But that's part of the problem. Now, do I want to let someone in so deeply and risk being badly hurt? Or do I go with the flow and hope for the best? After all, he's still only scratched the surface...
I guess the way I see things is that I can no longer savour my virginity so, instead, I hold back my feelings and emotions, only letting those who truly deserve it in. I've only ever let two guys in before - J and Mr M.N - I had my heart ripped to shreds on both occasions, and I'm not sure I can go through all of that again.
Perhaps I'm naive in thinking there's anything else beyond being drinking buddies with Mr.W.S. Maybe the all-nighters are insignificant and the cuddles not as intense as I believe them to be. Maybe in my head this is what I think it might be like to be understood, in reality it's probably just a sympathetic rub on the back.
Whatever it is, it feels good at the time and I guess I should rinse it until I feel the hurt could outweigh the pleasure...
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...
Saturday, 12 February 2011
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...
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...
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Don't Stop Me Now
So, I dropped off the radar for a few days – no Facebook, no blog, no foursquare and no mobile phone. It was blissful. Nobody could tell me what a psycho I was for blogging about our sexual escapades, nobody could accuse me of stalking them and all the back-stabbing gossipers would have nothing to talk about and actually have to do some work. Amazing.
Whilst enjoying my hibernation, it didn’t once cross my mind that people would be worried about my whereabouts. But little did I know what a fuss I was causing in the virtual world. Friends and acquaintances thought I’d been slung into the slammer, run over by a bus, deported from Dubai… the assumptions as to where I’d disappeared to were in overdrive. In reality, all I’d really done was taken my Facebook down. Strange how we rely on an online social network to keep up to date with our friends’ welfare. Me included. What happened to popping round someone’s house for a cup of tea and a chit-chat?
When people learnt I was alive and well, the next question on their lips was why I’d decided to drop off the radar. Truth is, it’s this blog. I’d never expected it to turn into the popular read it seems to be, I just wanted to share my experiences with my best friends back home, as I don’t always have the time to Skype them. I didn’t think two thousand people across the world would be interested in reading about my sex life and subsequently gossiping about it.
With the spotlight on me, it’s made it very difficult to blog the way I want to. I’ve received phone calls and emails advising me to stop writing what I write. Boys have begged me not to write about them, girls have told me to watch my back. I’ve had to delete posts or explain myself profusely just to keep other people happy, which is not what my blog is about. This blog is about sexual relationships and the truth behind them, not an airbrushed porno.
And to the people slating me behind my back, don’t think I don’t know. You might think you’re superior to me or have far higher morals and standards, but we both know that’s not true, so get off your high horse. And let’s stop pretending I’m the only person in Dubai with a sex life. There’s some crazy stuff that happens in this city, and I certainly don’t participate. At the end of the day, I’m just a normal girl trying to find the right man and encountering a number of wrong ones along the way.
The only reason I’ve decided to come back from my hiatus is because so many people genuinely enjoy reading my blog, and I’m not caving in for the haters. So, you can all expect to see more shamelessly salacious blog posts, only this time, nothing will be edited or taken down to please others.
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.
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