Don't Be A Stranger

As most of my friends will tell you, when it comes to guys, I'm incredibly fussy. If I don't know them, it's a sure-fire way of knowing I'm not interested. However, there's always one that defies the rules, makes a play for the prize and, sometimes, actually wins...

Almost two years ago, I met a guy at a bar. Leeds was tall, cocky and had an underbite. Yes, that's right, I think underbites are sexy as hell. So, attraction established, he and I started chatting and it turned out that we had a lot of great banter. In fact, we got on so well, we ended up at Starbucks and subsequently taking a midnight stroll on the beach.

The more and more Leeds and I chatted, the more we realised we fancied each other and we ended up at my place. In my bed.

It was a good night and I'd have definitely been up for more of the same. The following week, we exchanged a few texts but after my last text, asking if he wanted to go out, I didn't hear back. That was fine by me, I didn't envision any great romance, so I put him in the 'great sex but a bit obnoxious' box.

I hadn't forgotten Leeds but I certainly didn't think of him on a regular basis. Then, twenty months later (yes, twenty MONTHS), he finally text me back. It came from a UK number, so I gathered he'd left Dubai, which it transpired he had. His text message read something along the lines of "...great sex, we should have done that more often".

I was surprised for a couple of reasons. Firstly, if he'd wanted to do it more often, he could have replied to my text all those months ago. Secondly, that he'd remembered me at all. But, not one for ignoring people, I replied. Back and forth messaging ensued, with me trying to figure out why he'd bothered getting in touch again after all this time. Eventually he told me that he was in Dubai for the rugby sevens and he was up for round two.

Round two? This guy had balls! Guys who can pick you up and then drop you like you're hot, no matter if you're serious or casual, just don't do it for me. The only guy that has got away with that with me is Mr. X.X., but it's a little bit different with him. There's some sort of longevity to whatever it is we have going on, and the constant drama has led to a love/hate relationship. Not only that, but the circles we're in make it difficult not to bump into one another. With Leeds, there's none of that, making it easier to not be bothered by his messages.

I told Leeds that I didn't want to engage in any intimate activity with someone I didn't really know, that is wasn't exciting for me. I'd only slept with two men in the last twelve months, one of whom I had been sleeping with for almost ten years, the other, I'm borderline in love with. If Leeds could prove this would be a mutually beneficial relationship, then I was willing to hear him out. If not, I had no intention of seeing him.

The rugby sevens was well underway but I hadn't heard from Leeds. Really, what was this guy's game? I find it incredibly irritating when guys are all talk and no action - stop wasting my time. To find out what was going on, I sent him a text asking what happened to him. Surprisingly, he replied asking if I was free to meet up. Admittedly, he was very forward and presumptuous, which I think he mistook for banter.

I was very straight-talking with Leeds. I didn't want him to just come over to my place, bang me and leave again, so unless he was going to reconsider his proposition, I wasn't going to make time for him. He did eventually suggest we go for coffee the next day but, whilst it was a start, we needed to make progress from our last meeting, so I told him I'd meet him for drinks in a bar convenient for both of us.

For the first time in two years, I wasn't bothered if a guy I'd arranged to go out with cancelled on me. Whilst I didn't think Leeds was a complete wanker, and that perhaps he just needed a little shove in the right direction when it comes to pursuing women, I wasn't entirely convinced by him either. But, Leeds didn't cancel on me, which led him one step closer to what he wanted...

From the second we greeted each other, it was non-stop banter, only stopping for sips of our mojitos. I think we were both reminded of the great time we had when we first met and we also learned a lot more about each other. The two-year hiatus aside, Leeds would be exactly the kind of guy I go for - well read, well travelled, ambitious, smart, fun and sexy - and it was only a couple of hours into the date before I realised how much I wanted to kiss him.

After five hours of chat and drinking, we decided we'd call it a night. We left the bar and went for coffee. As we walked back to mine, we held hands and, to me, I could feel that chemistry. We didn't mess around, and as soon as we got home, we kissing and stripping.

The sex with Leeds was unbelievable. The chemistry was so electric, there was such an intensity to our session. It was so good, it's actually difficult for me to explain. It goes beyond amazing orgasms, of which Leeds managed to produce several from me, and was a feeling in the pit of my stomach, as though I just couldn't possibly let him go. It was the kind of feeling you think two people in a sex scene in a movie would be having. It was unintentionally romantic.

Leeds and I would communicate how good it felt to one another, which I think only added to our chemistry. Or, at least mine. There were also moments where we would look into each others' eyes for extended periods of time and then passionately kiss. Whilst it might sound corny, it definitely added to the experience and, if we could have had sex forever, I would have done, as that's how good it felt.

It's only the second time I've ever had that feeling during sex, and I know I won't be forgetting my session with Leeds any time soon. But, whilst I think we enjoyed each others company and we obviously have a lot of sexual chemistry, I don't think I'll ever be able to get over the two year communication gap for me to see Leeds as anything more serious than a fuck buddy. If I ever become involved with a guy more seriously, he really needs to prove how much he wants me and that he deserves me. In the meantime, I'll stick with the hot sex with the guy that can't text back.

Since our rendezvous, Leeds and I have exchanged a few text messages but he is now back in the UK. Of course, this time, I hope there's not twenty months until our next meeting....

50 Shades of Grey in Dubai

So, EL James’ 50 Shades of Grey might be the bestselling book of all time, and I’m sure many of you will have had a peek into the world of BDSM by reading it but, let’s face it, it’s fiction. A woman in her late forties has put her fantasy on paper, but many people are questioning if her account is an accurate portrayal of this sexual preference. I’m by no means an expert, but I can tell you my story of my latest foray into the BDSM world.

Sexually, I’ve always been adventurous. Trying new things in the bedroom brings a great sense of excitement, anticipation and satisfaction to me. Role play, voyeurism, exhibitionism etc. all make regular appearances in my sex life. Handcuffs and blindfolds had popped up on occasion, but it’s always been more Ann Summers than Christian Grey’s Red Room. That was until an opportunity arose for me to take it a step further…

I was back in contact with an ex-lover of mine, Mr. X.X. (I’ll leave you to guess which of the men I’ve blogged about it might be), and recent text messages I’d received from him suggested he was interested in engaging in a little BDSM. But, unlike Anastasia Steele, I wasn’t to be the submissive one in this relationship. Instead, I assumed the role of Christian Grey, albeit a poorer, female version.

Initially, when Mr. X.X told me he needed disciplining, I was a little hesitant. After all, the times when we had been seeing each other were tumultuous and I wasn’t keen on giving without receiving. I weighed it up in my mind and decided I could take advantage of the opportunity, and so I agreed to discipline him, as long as I called the shots as to where and when it would happen.

Our first session was a last minute arrangement – my plans for the evening had been cancelled, so I decided I’d fill the gap with a little kinky fun. I sent Mr. X.X a text message telling him I would be coming over that evening and, if he had plans, to change them. He immediately agreed and, already, the control excited me.

I was unprepared for the session with Mr. X.X, so I nipped to the mall to pick up a couple of bits and pieces before heading over to his place. About an hour before I was due to turn up at his door, Mr. X.X sent me a message saying he wouldn’t be able to make it due to work commitments. His lack of respect for my time irritated me, so I granted him an extra hour and told him if he didn’t comply, the deal was off. He agreed.

I’ll admit, as I made my way over to Mr. X.X’s apartment, I felt nervous. I’d slept with him several times before, but this was different. This was entering into world I had little experience of, and I felt like I was about to lose my virginity all over again. I hadn’t really planned what I’d do to discipline Mr. X.X and, with no accessories, I was worried my performance would be poor.

Just after 10pm I knocked on Mr. X.X’s door. As he opened it, I pushed past him and strode in. One look at him and I knew I had it in me to punish him. Suddenly, I found my irritation at his lack of respect for my time, rise to the surface. I grabbed his chin, pushed him against the wall, and told him not to fuck with me. He cowered and apologised, which only infuriated me even more. I needed to smoke.

Having run out of cigarettes, I demanded Mr. X.X give me his pack. As he did so, I told him he had the time it took me to smoke a cigarette to get naked and on the bed. As I inhaled the smoke, I wondered how long the irritation I was showing had been bubbling beneath the surface. Was it just Mr. X.X or had I been suppressing something deeper? Ordinarily, I’m fairly calm and rarely lose my temper. Before I could overthink it, I’d finished my cigarette and headed back in to teach Mr. X.X a lesson for disrespecting me.

Like a good student, Mr. X.X had undressed and was laid out on the bed. I ripped the duvet off him, pulled out some silk scarves from my handbag and proceeded to tie him up. I started with his hands, tying them together above his head, and then moved onto his feet. As I made sure the bow was tight, I told him he wasn’t allowed to speak, that the only words he could say were the safe words. He nodded in agreement.

Before blindfolding him, I stripped down to my basque, stockings and heels. I was most definitely in the mood for teasing. I looked him up and down, deciding what my next move would be. I told him he was pathetic for trying to waste my time earlier, and forced him to apologise. Like a good student, he did so. I definitely got a kick out of being dominant over him.

I blindfolded Mr. X.X before straddling him. I now had complete power over him and oh, how I loved it. At that moment, I could have done anything to him and he would have had to take whatever it was I gave him... Then my onslaught began. I dug my nails into his chest and dragged them all the way to his hips, watching Mr. X.X wince as I did so. It felt so satisfying. I had no idea I was a sadist, but I took complete pleasure in seeing the marks my nails left behind in their wake. 

Each time Mr. X.X squirmed, I slapped him and cursed him for being so pathetic. He’d apologise, and so I’d slap him for disobeying me – talking when I hadn’t given him permission to do so. I continued scratching him all over his body, occasionally breaking it up with light licks or kisses. But, before he could begin to enjoy my more gentle touches, I’d dig my nails in again.

After I was satisfied that I’d covered every inch of Mr. X.X’s chest in scratch marks, I then ordered him to lay on his stomach. Watching him struggle to turn over whilst tied up amused me greatly. He was so weak and pathetic, and knowing that was my doing pleased me no end. I continued my assault on his back, occasionally smacking his buttocks, leaving a red-raw handprint on his skin. I then took to biting – neck, shoulders, bottom – any piece of flesh I could sink my teeth into was fair game.

I ordered Mr. X.X to flip over onto his back again, and told him I was going for a cigarette. I left him bound and blindfolded on the bed and headed out onto the balcony. When I returned, he was in the same position I’d left him in. I straddled him once more and gently kissed his lips before biting them.

I removed his blindfold and kissed him again before thrusting my breasts in his face. I could feel his hard-on between my legs and I knew he wanted to be inside me. But, I decided to drag the teasing out... I continued to push my breasts in his face. He opened his mouth, attempting to taste them but, instead, he was met with a slap. I instructed him to keep his tongue to himself. He obeyed.

By this point, I was incredibly turned on and I desperately wanted to slip him inside me, but I knew there was still more pleasure to be had before doing so. I kissed, I licked, I bit and I scratched, never allowing Mr. X.X to detect a pattern. I crept down to his hips and acted as though I was about to give him a blow-job. With my lips millimetres away from his cock, my breath caressing his skin, I grabbed his balls and swooped down to bite his thighs. He let out a hiss of pain, which only triggered me to slap him once more.

I resumed my straddling position and, again, pushed my breasts in his face. After a few minutes of doing so, I could feel his hips bucking. I knew he’d be able to feel how wet I was, and I didn’t want him to know he had the ability to do that to me. I ordered him to stop bucking. He obeyed.

Eventually, for the first time that evening, I took hold of his hard-on and placed it between my legs. As I kissed his lips and bit is neck, I felt him trying to inch into me. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that trying to enter me would not be tolerated. He obeyed. 

I would decide if, and when, I wanted to fuck him - he would not have a say. This was my game; he would play by my rules. Each time I felt him try to push into me, I’d lift my hips up. It was one step forward, two steps back for Mr. X.X and I was revelling in it.

For his good behaviour, I pulled my breasts out of my basque and let his tongue explore my nipples. Then, without warning, I pushed my hips down until Mr. X.X was all the way inside me. Never had it felt so good. Whilst I may have been teasing Mr. X.X, I had also worked myself into a frenzy.

We bucked like animals until I came. It was, by far, the best sex session I’d ever had with Mr. X.X. But, after two hours of being tied up, he couldn’t take any more and said the safe words. The second I untied him, we went back to being our usual, argumentative selves. How two people, who dislike each other so much, can have great sex like that, I have no idea. 

I dressed and we shared a cigarette on the balcony before I left. As I walked home, I replayed the session in my mind. I wasn’t sure how I’d performed as a Dominatrix and I was back to feeling like I’d just lost my virginity – satisfied and elated but insecure. Personally, I really enjoyed myself and I was ready to take it to the next level but, not knowing his limits, I was unsure of how far I could go, so I planned to take it just a little bit further each session.

I won’t give away what happened next in this post, I’ll save the next Mr. X.X story for another day, but I think Mr. X.X and I can already give Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey a run for their money.

Sex with a sociopath

My choice in men is, at best, questionable and, at worst, downright madness. Recently, the latter has been more applicable. Just as men love a crazy girl because the sex is hot, I love a crazy guy for the same reason. But, this time, I went beyond sleeping with a guy who was just a little kooky... I was involved with sexual sociopath.

From the offset, I knew this guy had deep, psychological issues. It was obvious. His lack of charm and affection, his tendency to blow hot and cold and his preference for kinky bedroom activities were all indicators of his dark personality. Although, it took some time for me to realize just how dark he was…

At first, I mistook him for being a stoic – seemingly unmoved whether I treated him with affection or aversion. Then I considered that, perhaps, like many men I’d been involved with in the past, he was a player. But it soon dawned on me that he was certainly no player, even though he tried to convince me otherwise.

It wasn’t his sexual deviancy that led me to believe he was a misguided soul, rather his inability to amalgamate sexual activity with any kind of emotion. It occurred to me that, during the handful of times we’d been intimate, we had only kissed a couple of times, both of which I’m fairly certain I had initiated. And there was only one occasion where we had fallen asleep whilst cuddled up to one another – a moment he will likely consider to be one of weakness.

Ordinarily, I’d think very little of such an embrace but, because this slight showing of affection was so out of character, it held a small amount of significance to me. Either consciously or subconsciously, I think he sensed that because, when we awoke in the morning, he threw me out of his apartment in the most ungentlemanly manner. Needless to say, it was the last time we were intimate.

When I looked back over our fucked-up affair, I realise how imbalanced he was. He’s incredibly ambitious and creative, but also fastidious and detached. If I hadn’t been physically and, to some extent, emotionally involved with him, it’s likely I’d have described him as intelligent. However, his lack of social skills and emotional detachment were so severe that I questioned his overall aptitude.

During the time we spent together, and when we conversed, he demonstrated a lack of concern towards my feelings. Despite my expectations being low to begin with, he remained unable to express even the slightest bit of respect for me. On the occasions when I pointed out he was treating me with contempt, in no way did he seem to feel guilty or show remorse. It was as though he was cut off from any sort of feelings beyond those of sexual gratification.


Whilst he may be a sociopath, that’s not to say he’s a demon – think Russell Brand (with less sex appeal) rather than Dexter. I never felt threatened by him, but I realised his lack of concern for anyone but himself could have been hurtful. Women who do become emotionally involved with him will be manipulated, chewed up and spat out. No amount of pleading or attempts to reason with him will change this.

Dr. Martha Stout, a Harvard Medical School psychiatrist, listed out some characteristics of a sociopath in her book ‘The Sociopath Next Door’. These characteristics included; egocentricity, callousness, exaggerated sexuality, an antagonistic nature, a depreciating attitude toward the opposite sex and a lack of interest in bonding with a sexual partner. All of these traits, unarguably, applied to this guy. Sociopaths are known for being oversexed, and whilst I don’t think he’s a player (he lacks the charm needed to enrapture a woman), I do think he’ll do whatever it takes to satisfy his carnal desires.

He’s like Aladdin’s cave - a deep character with so many hidden treasures but unlikely to let anyone explore it - touch anything and it will all cave in. Whilst no-strings attached sex can be great, if you never let anyone scratch beyond the surface, you’ll never experience some of life’s more intense pleasures...

Tonight I'm Fucking... Someone Else

It’s no big secret that I engage in casual relationships. In fact, I can be rather fond of them if the guy isn’t a complete dickhead. But that’s the thing though, isn’t it? Most guys are complete dickheads.

I don’t understand why men think that just because you’re having a casual relationship, respect and decency can be thrown out of the window. It’s as though they go out of their way to prove to you they don’t want to get into anything serious. As if the slightest bit of communication or affection from them might trigger women to fall head over heels in love with them. Unlikely.

An example of this complete lack of respect happened to me not so long ago. One evening, I was feeling the need to get a little physical, so I sent a text to the guy I was currently hooking up with, telling him I’d be coming over. He’s usually the obsequious type, so I thought he’d be accommodating, particularly as it had been a few weeks since we’d seen each other.

He eventually replied to my message, telling me he was across the other side of town at someone’s place. My response was ‘So? Make your way back’. I wasn’t in the mood for messing around, I wanted to cut to the chase and get some action. But, being the rather arrogant and insensitive guy that he is, he thought he’d tell me he was with another girl.

That drove me insane. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? No girl needs to hear that. Ever. No matter how casual my relationship is with a guy, I do not want to hear him telling me he’s fucking some other girl. Yeah, I know it happens - it was only a week earlier that I was with J - but I would never tell the guy that. It’s rude, unnecessary and potentially hurtful, and that’s what drove me over the edge.

As a woman, you do invest some level of emotion into any sort of relationship, casual or not. That doesn’t mean I want to marry the guy and have his babies, but it does mean I respect him and wouldn’t be so callous as to imply I was sleeping with another guy. So to receive a message from him like that was shocking. And, yes, I’ll admit it, I was hurt. What girl wouldn’t be? He clearly had no regard for how it might make me feel, which was a little disappointing.

What he received from me in return was a flood of drunken abuse. I was outraged and I did not intend to let it lie. He obviously didn’t care what I thought of him, so I didn’t care what he thought of me. Problem was, I also lost sight of what I thought of myself. Upon sober reflection, I realized I may have gone slightly overboard on the abuse but, at the time, I was fuming and I wanted to make that very clear to him.

It’s funny, the entire episode was reminiscent to an incident at university, when I was sort of seeing this guy, Mr. D.F., who was in the year above me. It was Halloween and we were at a party at the student union. I was dressed in a black PVC nurses outfit and, after a few drinks, I managed to lure Mr. D.F. back to my room at the halls of residence for a quickie.

After we’d had sex (and I remember this so clearly), he got up, wiped his cock on my duvet and told me how much he wanted to fuck the girl with the blonde curly hair, who had been stood near us at the bar. I was mortified. At the time, I was so stunned, I didn’t say anything, but that moment has haunted me ever since.

Now that I’m older and (hopefully) wiser, I realise how humiliating and cruel such statements are. Back then, I probably thought I wasn’t good enough, but I now know the opposite is true. I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but guys who make those sorts of statements are cowardly and insecure. What’s wrong with saying “I think you’re a great girl but… I can’t give you what you need/this is getting too serious/you’re not the one”?

These days, I’d go as far as to say I despise men who think they’re better than the women they’re sleeping with. In Dubai, men seem to suffer from sanctimony far more than their counterparts in other parts of the world do. Perhaps their perception is one of ‘when in Rome…’. Whatever their reasoning, it’s disgraceful behaviour. Stop being dickheads and have a little respect.

Out with the old, in with the older

As you may have guessed from the absence of recent blog posts, 2012 has, so far, been an incredibly busy year. Working, studying, travelling and socialising have all taken their toll - mostly at the expense of my love life. This has meant I've had far less time to invest in seeking out suitable males to court, which, as a libidinous woman, became highly frustrating.

My body took pleasure in reminding me of how I'd starved it of sexual attention, so much so that I often found myself slipping into a reverie at the most unsuitable times. Once, I was making the short walk to my bank but became so wrapped up in an erotic daydream, I walked straight past it. Not just a few steps past, but almost half a kilometre. Then there was the time I became so aroused on the train, I could feel myself blushing. I could have sworn some of the people around me could tell just by looking at my face.

I decided I could no longer go on as I had throughout the first few weeks of the year. Instead, I decided to take matters into my own hands (so to speak). With no time to seek out new suitors, I decided to find some old ones. No, not the white-haired, wrinkly type, but rather men of my past. Yes, that's right, I recycled.

It didn't matter whether I knew them from five years ago or five months ago, if they were single and I'd been there before, they were fair game. 

The first man I recycled in 2012 was Mr. P.G., whom I once dated for a couple of months about five years ago. We had recently been reacquainted through mutual friends and quickly realised that none of the chemistry had been lost. Mr. P.G. is a very manly man but is never disrespectful, which is partly the reason I decided I'd recycle him.

Physically, he's exactly the type I'd go for - tall, broad shoulders, a hairy chest and the most beautiful eyes I've ever come across. He's also a well-rounded guy - into sports, smart, good job and lovely friends. Not just that, but he also has good taste in music, great banter and is a lovely guy. So, why am I not head over heels in love with him? Well, I don't know. Mr. P.G. is my ideal man, but there's something vital missing and I can't put my finger on it.

Falling back into a casual groove with Mr. P.G. was easy, and not once did he make me regret the decision. In fact, he really rather made me feel good about myself. We shared lingering kisses, one of which I'm sure must have lasted more than an hour, the sex was tender but exciting and he'd make me a bacon sandwich in the mornings. My recycling project was going well.

But, as it was one of those casual relationships where we would only hook up when we saw each other at friends' parties and social gatherings, it means it was often sporadic. Mr. P.G. and I don't text or call each other, but that's the way it's happened and it works. However, not knowing when I might see him again means I had to pursue other avenues in order to scratch the itch that never disappears.

My next recycling project is Mr. D.F., another friend of a friend who I occasionally hook up with but is completely different to Mr. P.G.. Mr. D.F. and I also dated two or three years ago, but it was pretty unsuccessful on every level. I now see Mr. D.F. only when I'm really craving attention. I don't even fancy him anymore and, just as he uses me, I use him to stop myself from ending up pulling a random chauvinist pig at the bar. This prevents me from regretting a decision and feeling low about myself, so I keep Mr. D.F. on a constant back burner.

Mr. D.F. is a nice guy and he certainly has the gift of the gab, but he always skips foreplay and heads straight in for the kill. He's also not as considerate as Mr. P.G., but he's not as selfish as other guys I've been with. There will also never be a quiet moment with Mr. D.F.. In fact, I'm fairly certain he has ADD. But I don't mind, as I only hook up with him three or four times a year, so it doesn't grate me as much as it might if I saw him regularly.

Then there's J, who I'm not sure if I consider a recycling project or not. It's always been an ongoing thing, it's just a shame it's limited to when I'm in the UK. Our relationship is like one of those drawn out stories in a movie, except ours doesn't have the happy ending. You can't not be emotionally tied to someone you've been in a sexual relationship with for nine years. My relationship with J has outlasted some of my friendships. We text, call and Skype at least once a week and every time it comes to seeing him in the UK, I get butterflies in my stomach.

We've been seeing each other so long, J and I are almost inseparable. I'm not sure we'll ever stop what we're doing until I meet a guy I'm serious about and who is serious about me. We've reached a stage where it's become difficult to stop seeing each other, even when we fight and argue, we always put our differences aside and reconcile. Over the years, I've come to love J so much. Sometimes it's hard to swallow that we probably won't ever end up together, but just knowing he's a constant in my life is so comforting. 

Having known each other so long, we also know each others' sexual style inside out. J is probably the only guy in the world who knows exactly how I like it, and the time we've invested in each other has certainly paid off. He can flick me on like a switch, and he's so in tune with my body, he can make me orgasm in minutes. We're also so comfortable with one another, we're not shy and we have a lot of fun. It really is like sleeping with my best friend, who I happen to have great chemistry with and find very attractive.

My final recycling project so far this year is someone who makes my friends shake their heads when I tell them I've seen him. He's someone who I shouldn't give the time of day to. He's someone who is so deluded when it comes to women, he forgets our lives don't revolve around him. He is full of self-importance, yet he is so far removed from reality, he doesn't have the ability to reflect inward. His name is Mr. P.L.

I won't go into why I recycled Mr. P.L., I'll go into that in my next blog post, but I did and it has fluctuated between pure hedonistic encounters and borderline psychotic tendencies. It's not a healthy relationship and I know it, yet I go back for more. It's as if I can let myself go with Mr. P.L., saying and doing whatever I like, because nothing will make me as crazy as him. 

The sex is kinky and satisfying, but Mr. P.L.'s attitude stinks and it definitely brings down the overall sexual experience. Being the arrogant cock that he is, Mr. P.L. doesn't realise women need a little affection for us to consider the experience a good one. We don't judge a sexual encounter based on the sex alone - the way a man treats us will also affect his overall rating. Mr. P.L. either doesn't realise this, or he's so selfish that he doesn't care to entertain it, as he wants the woman out as quickly as possible.

Mr. P.L. and I did embark upon a short sexual relationship this year but, as you can imagine, it was a mental and draining experience, and it has recently come to a not-so-friendly end. This is probably one recycling project that I should finally lay to rest on the scrap heap. Like an electrical appliance with loose wires — you think you need it, but it's too dangerous and should be discarded. After all, we don't want the place to catch fire...

Recycling men has benefits - it keeps the notches on my bedpost from reaching an absurd number, it requires less small talk and I know how the guy likes it. It's the bad girls way of keeping a (relatively) good girl image. But it also has drawbacks. Being sexually involved with a guy over prolonged periods of time can result in emotional attachment and, if the feeling isn't reciprocated, it can lead to heartache. That's why I recycle a number of guys, never relying on one of them to satisfy my needs and therefore limiting the chances of me becoming too involved. Overall, I think recycling is a great way of scratching the reoccurring itch, so to speak. And, as long as the guys aren't complete arseholes, there's no reason it shouldn't result in some healthy, casual fun.

Now, for those of you who want to read all the details (trust me, they're highly entertaining) about my recycling of Mr. P.L., a blog post will be up very soon...

I Just Want Your Extra Time...

I was 18 years old, sat on a sofa, glass of wine on the table. Nobody else mattered. The only sound I could hear was my own heart beating, and my surroundings completely forgotten. My eyes were closed and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end, yet I felt nothing but warmth.

As I opened my eyes, I found myself staring into a deep blue ocean. It was the most beautiful ocean I’d ever dipped into, and I didn’t want to get out.  I felt a closeness that filled my soul with contentedness and happiness. It was an ethereal moment that’s a rare occurrence in my life.

I closed my eyes again, took a deep breath in through my nose, and pulled Mr. M.N. closer. Even though my eyes were shut, I could feel him smiling. I reciprocated, which led us to both let out a little giggle. But we didn’t speak a word. Our lips were locked - soft, gentle and, for that moment, full of love.  

I haven’t been kissed like that since.

More or less ten years on, I’m left wondering if that kiss was a one off. I’ve come close to it once or twice, but neither of those were as all-consuming as that kiss with Mr. M.N. Perhaps it’s something we’re supposed to have grown out of? Most of us are now in such a hurry to get to the main event, we ignore how close kissing can bring two people.

Unlike sex, you’re not concentrating on having an orgasm. You’re always in each others’ eye-line when you kiss, and eyes are supposedly the window to the soul…

Whilst sex should probably be more intimate, in my experience, that intimacy has largely been lost. Through the entertainment industry, it’s almost as though we’ve become desensitized to sex. It’s now become a functional act, often requiring little emotional investment.

Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs would support this statement – sex appears at the foundation of the pyramid, classed as a ‘Physiological’ need, it’s the first of five types of need, according to Maslow, that humans require to reach self-actualisation. However, kissing comes under ‘Love and Belonging’, which is the third step on the pyramid. Ok, it’s labeled as ‘sexual intimacy’, but I really do believe kissing is incredibly intimate.

There’s something about a kiss that tells you so much about the other person. It’s passion beyond animalistic urges. It’s affection packaged in the most beautiful way. It’s innocence and care all rolled into one.

But kissing isn’t just foreplay, it’s a standalone intimacy and no two kisses are ever the same. There are varying levels of intensity and different kinds of emotions tied to it. There’s a strong feeling of great affection when I share a lingering kiss with someone, and once I start, I find it very difficult to stop.

I recently hooked up with an ex and, before getting up to leave, we had a kissing session. I felt so close to him, like I could snuggle in close and nothing would harm me. It gave me butterflies in my tummy, and during that time we spent kissing, I felt so content. When I left, I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. It had been the most caring kiss I’d had in a long time and I felt disheartened that I probably wouldn’t enjoy that feeling again for some time…

When a kiss can connect two people in a way sometimes sex can’t, I wonder why it’s so often overlooked. Perhaps I haven’t met many men I feel comfortable being so affectionate with. Maybe they have no desire to share that level of affection with me. Whatever it is, I’m making a conscious effort to spend some extra time and... Kiss.

Thunderbolt and Lightning

Before I start relaying all of my sordid stories from the last three months, I want to look forward into 2012. It is, after all, the new year.

After spending the majority of the festive period, in the UK, surrounded by all of my loved-up friends, I realised just how mental life in Dubai can be. Far from working a 9-5 job in the city and spending my weekends shopping at Tesco, cooking for my other half and watching some shit reality TV show. Instead, I travel the world, drink far too much, count bar nuts as one of my three meals a day and sleep with totally inappropriate men.

So why do I feel as though the grass is greener on the other side? Perhaps I'm a marketing mug, having fallen into the trap of believing Christmas is about sitting between the fire and the Christmas tree, gazing into the eyes of your other half and savouring all those sweet, gift-giving moments... No, that actually almost made me want to vomit. However, there is something a little unfulfilling about relationships in Dubai.

I'm not a believer of "the bolt" but I am a believer of mutual respect, deep friendship and irresistible attraction. My friends put my agnostic attitude towards "the bolt" as lack of experience. I, on the other hand, put it down to pragmatism. It's just not realistic. We're animals, driven by sexual desire and the need to nurture in order to procreate successfully.

Love, in my opinion, is merely a marketing ploy, aimed at extracting dollar bills from the impressionable, whilst duping them into believing they live a wholly contented life. Sure, I've felt incredibly attracted to some guys, I've pined for them, stared at my phone hoping they'll call, but that's not a "bolt", that's simply sexual attraction and me thinking it could be more because I was bored, lonely and craved excitement.

So, in 2012, instead of searching for the fictional bolt, I intend to find what it really is that I'm looking for, be it sex, love or understanding.

When The Messer Becomes The Messee

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ramadan Revelry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gutted.

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

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

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

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

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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