I’d tipped my wardrobe upside-down searching for the right outfit for my third outfit with Mr. S.P. I wanted something playful, flirty, flattering and sexy. I opted for my, incredibly short and low-cut, navy wrap dress that has little red polka dots on it. Teamed with red heels and red lips, I was fairly certain this was the outfit that would stay in Mr. S.P.’s mind.
With my hair in curls and smouldering, dark eyes, I felt confident. Perhaps it had been Mr. S.P.’s perusal of me that had given me an extra boost. I felt excited and I prayed that, on this date, there would be chemistry. If there wasn’t so much as a quick snog, I thought, I wouldn’t continue seeing Mr. S.P. This was the third, and final, chance.
In the taxi, I kept checking my hair and make-up. Dubai’s summer heat made it incredibly difficult to look flawless after stepping outside for more than half a minute. I also wondered what Mr. S.P. had in store for me on this date. He’d asked me to bring a bikini and comfy clothes with me, which made me think we might be dipping into a pool or that he’d booked an evening at the spa. Neither of those guesses were right…
As the taxi approached the hotel, I finally felt a flutter in my tummy. I savoured the feeling, fearing I may not feel it again for a while. I walked into the restaurant and coolly took a seat at the bar. Mr. S.P. hadn’t arrived yet and I was aware that most of the men in the bar were staring at my cleavage.
I ordered a white wine and, as soon as I put the glass to my lips, Mr. S.P. appeared. He looked cute, with a huge smile on his face. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a compliment on my outfit. I don’t think it was how I looked that made Mr. S.P. smile, I think it was more that I had the confidence to wear the dress in the first place.
As usual, I was immediately comfortable in Mr. S.P.’s company and we chatted without stopping, only pausing to order another wine. Several vinos later and we were famished. We relocated to a table by the window and began studying the menu. Three courses and several more glasses of wine later, and we were both having a great time together.
I begged Mr. S.P. to let me in on what we’d be doing in the next part of our date, but my begging was futile. We did, however, decide it was time to move on to the next part of the date and the suspense was killing me. As soon as we’d hopped into a taxi and Mr. S.P. had told the taxi driver where to go, I knew we were going to Mr. S.P.’s place. But why did he tell me to bring a bikini?
When we arrived at Mr. S.P.’s, he poured me a drink and told me to put on my bikini and wait downstairs until he was ready. At this point, I had absolutely no idea what was happening. It was the first time I’d been to his place and, as I changed into my bikini, I looked around and noticed how immaculate and neatly placed everything was. Then I heard my name being called from upstairs.
I walked up the marble steps and onto the landing. Mr. S.P. took my hand and led me to the bedroom. Bearing in mind we hadn’t even shared a kiss, I was wondering what to expect. As I took a step into his room, I could see he had filled it with candles. Whilst, admittedly, I did find it a little corny, it also filled me with delight. No guy had ever made that much effort for me before and I was really touched.
On the bed, Mr. S.P. had laid out a massage mat and he’d lined up all his massage oils on the bedside table. He asked me if I was ok and then told me to lie down on my front. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel awkward, which must have been something to do with the wine. Mr. S.P. let me choose some music to play from my iPhone, and then he began to massage my back.
His hands were warm and soft and his touch was gentle but effective. As his hands worked my body, I felt it tingle. As soon as he unhooked my bikini top, I knew I wanted his hands to explore the rest of my body. And as he caressed me, I drifted off into an ethereal state. It was quite possibly the best massage I had ever experienced.
As soon as Mr. S.P. had finished, I pulled myself up. His groin was level with my face, but he leant down and we finally shared our first kiss. Whilst it was most certainly passionate, he wasn’t the best kisser I’d ever come across. What pops into my mind when I think of that kiss is... teeth. After a minute or two, Mr. S.P. was lying on top of me and I was feeling the full force of his kissing. I pushed him up by his chest to control the force, which seemed to help, and we shared a slightly more delicate kiss.
I was already topless from the massage, so I felt it was only fair to pull Mr. S.P.’s t-shirt off. His body impressed me. Despite his slender frame, he was perfectly toned without having overdone it. It was very sexy, and when he pushed his chest against mine, I immediately knew I wanted to have him.
I continued to strip him, until he was completely naked and I received, yet another, pleasant surprise. Mr. S.P. may have not been the 6’3” guy I’d normally go for, but he most definitely made up for his shortcomings. I could not have been more pleased with the result when I pulled off his boxer shorts.
Mr. S.P.’s length and width were exactly what I would have hoped for and, just like his apartment, everything was clean and tidy. I could have squealed and clapped with delight! However, I managed to contain myself, instead showing my appreciation through the act of fellatio. And Mr. S.P. loved it.
Mr. S.P. then returned the favour, and I’m fairly certain I expressed my appreciation just as much as he had to me. Four minutes and one orgasm later, I was aching for him, but he had other ideas and teased me with his fingers instead. He flicked his tongue over my nipples and watched as I arched my back in pure pleasure. Enough was enough. For both of us. Mr. S.P. leaned over to his top draw and pulled out a condom. As soon as he’d put it on, he was sliding inside me.
Initially, Mr. S.P.’s size made it a little uncomfortable, but I soon became used to it and the sex was fun, caring and adventurous. It was all going so smoothly for the first time you sleep with someone, perhaps even too smoothly. There were no bumped heads, bitten lips or bruised thighs. But, as usual, my love-life cannot be without drama and, as Mr. S.P. flipped me over, I noticed blood on the sheets. At first we ignored it, but then it began to look like a murder scene.
I rushed to his bathroom to wash off and wondered what the hell was happening. It couldn’t possibly be my period, that was still another 10 days away. Had his size torn me? Had I developed polycystic ovaries? What was going on? Every time I stopped bleeding, Mr. S.P. and I would have sex again but then I’d begin bleeding. Again.
It was frustrating, irritating and, not to mention, embarrassing. Eventually, we gave up and decided to just snuggle in bed instead. It was still nice, and Mr. S.P. made sure to reassure me that it hadn't put him off me. He was concerned about my wellbeing though, which made me fall for him a little bit more. I was now completely smitten and so I decided to go to the doctor, to make sure everything was in working order, before the next time Mr. S.P. and I would get into bed…
Showing posts with label date. Show all posts
Showing posts with label date. Show all posts
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Thursday, 14 July 2011
Take Two
I’d come to the agreement with Mr. S.P. that I’d organise our second date. I wanted to give him a taste of who I was. No, pick your mind out of the gutter, I didn’t mean it literally. That would come later…
The first part of my second date with Mr. S.P was dinner. He picked me up from work in a taxi, and as I slid in next to him, I felt my tummy do a little flip. Was this the first sign of chemistry between us? I kept looking at him the entire journey, and I came to the conclusion that I did fancy him, but in more of a I-want-you-to-fancy-me kind of way, rather than the intense urge to rip his clothes off.
At dinner, conversation flowed and, yet again, I was intrigued by Mr. S.P. Tucked away in a quiet corner, we sipped wine, shared food and exchanged accidental, but electrifying, touches. Despite living very different lives – me; the eternally single, twenty-something, party girl with a flair for words and him; the forty-something, divorced, doting father with a passion for science – we seemed to have so much in common. Perhaps our commonalities come from our Mediterranean/British genes or the similarity of our upbringing, despite the age gap. Whatever it was, somehow, it had me hooked.
As a modern day woman, I paid for dinner. I wanted to. For a man to pay is expected but when a woman pays, I think it shows a lot more. I am financially independent, I’ve worked hard to be able to afford these luxuries, I have a generous nature, I do not take men for granted and I do not want you to think I will jump into bed with you because you buy me dinner. I like to start as I mean to go on and, in my mind, paying for a date shows that I’m an equal. There’s plenty of room for chivalry, but at no point do I want to feel that if I need to flee this relationship, will I feel bad for doing so because of all the expensive dates you’ve taken me on, without me doing anything in return.
After dinner, we strolled over to the mall. Mr. S.P kept frantically trying to guess what we would be doing next, but I decided to keep him guessing. It added a bit of mysteriousness to our dates and kept them fresh. It was only when he saw the ice rink that Mr. S.P realised what we would be doing. Now, I’m no pro on ice, but I’m no rookie either, so I figured I wouldn’t embarrass myself too much. Mr.S.P didn’t lag too far behind me when it came to ice-skating skills, although it took him far longer to get used to it than I did. We chased each other around the rink, gave each other rides and I even tried to teach him how to skate backwards. It was great fun, and after the bottle of wine at dinner, we both had enough dutch-courage to give it our best shot without being too drunk to stand up on skates.
We’d been skating for just over an hour and both of us had worked up a sweat, so we decided we deserved a well earned drink. Back in our regular shoes, we jumped in a cab and headed off for the third and final part of our date. Luckily, when I told the cab driver where to take us, Mr. S.P still had no idea where we would be going. I led him upstairs in Emirates Towers and into a small, smoky room with TV screens. Yes, I took him to karaoke!
Anyone who knows me will tell you I love karaoke. It’s entertaining for everyone; the amazing singers who show off their talent, the drunk group having a laugh and the non-participants who can’t help but sing along anyway. Mr. S.P. was pleased with the discovery of a new bar and he laughed at my confidence and creativity. I sang. Twice. And I think my self-assurance was attractive to Mr. S.P.
At the end of the evening, as we walked towards the taxi rank, Mr. S.P. slipped his arm around my waist. That was the most physical contact we’d had and, in a way, it was incredibly intimate without it being intimate at all. I reciprocated by putting my arm around him and tilting my head onto his shoulder. I felt so close to Mr. S.P. but the chemistry was still missing and it was then I questioned if I could continue dating Mr.S.P. There would definitely be one more date, as we had already agreed that it was his turn to arrange something, but beyond that, I was starting to think it might be a lost cause.
At the taxi rank, we wished each other goodnight. I desperately wanted to find out if there was any chemistry between Mr. S.P and I and so I tried to give him a peck on the lips, in the hope it would leave me wanting more, but he turned his head slightly so I ended up kissing him on the cheek. It was disappointing.
In the taxi, on my way home, Mr. S.P. sent me a flurry of text messages telling me how much of a good time he had. This was then followed by a phone call when I made it home. Now, I don’t know much about men, but I know a guy is keen when he follows up after a date like that. I’m not going to lie, it was nice and I was flattered, but I felt bad that I didn’t feel the same way. I wanted to feel like ripping his clothes off, I wanted to feel as though I couldn’t keep my hands off him and I wanted to feel that I wasn’t seeing him enough but, the truth is, I didn’t feel any of those things. All I could do was hope that our third date would finally set sparks flying…
The first part of my second date with Mr. S.P was dinner. He picked me up from work in a taxi, and as I slid in next to him, I felt my tummy do a little flip. Was this the first sign of chemistry between us? I kept looking at him the entire journey, and I came to the conclusion that I did fancy him, but in more of a I-want-you-to-fancy-me kind of way, rather than the intense urge to rip his clothes off.
At dinner, conversation flowed and, yet again, I was intrigued by Mr. S.P. Tucked away in a quiet corner, we sipped wine, shared food and exchanged accidental, but electrifying, touches. Despite living very different lives – me; the eternally single, twenty-something, party girl with a flair for words and him; the forty-something, divorced, doting father with a passion for science – we seemed to have so much in common. Perhaps our commonalities come from our Mediterranean/British genes or the similarity of our upbringing, despite the age gap. Whatever it was, somehow, it had me hooked.
As a modern day woman, I paid for dinner. I wanted to. For a man to pay is expected but when a woman pays, I think it shows a lot more. I am financially independent, I’ve worked hard to be able to afford these luxuries, I have a generous nature, I do not take men for granted and I do not want you to think I will jump into bed with you because you buy me dinner. I like to start as I mean to go on and, in my mind, paying for a date shows that I’m an equal. There’s plenty of room for chivalry, but at no point do I want to feel that if I need to flee this relationship, will I feel bad for doing so because of all the expensive dates you’ve taken me on, without me doing anything in return.
After dinner, we strolled over to the mall. Mr. S.P kept frantically trying to guess what we would be doing next, but I decided to keep him guessing. It added a bit of mysteriousness to our dates and kept them fresh. It was only when he saw the ice rink that Mr. S.P realised what we would be doing. Now, I’m no pro on ice, but I’m no rookie either, so I figured I wouldn’t embarrass myself too much. Mr.S.P didn’t lag too far behind me when it came to ice-skating skills, although it took him far longer to get used to it than I did. We chased each other around the rink, gave each other rides and I even tried to teach him how to skate backwards. It was great fun, and after the bottle of wine at dinner, we both had enough dutch-courage to give it our best shot without being too drunk to stand up on skates.
We’d been skating for just over an hour and both of us had worked up a sweat, so we decided we deserved a well earned drink. Back in our regular shoes, we jumped in a cab and headed off for the third and final part of our date. Luckily, when I told the cab driver where to take us, Mr. S.P still had no idea where we would be going. I led him upstairs in Emirates Towers and into a small, smoky room with TV screens. Yes, I took him to karaoke!
Anyone who knows me will tell you I love karaoke. It’s entertaining for everyone; the amazing singers who show off their talent, the drunk group having a laugh and the non-participants who can’t help but sing along anyway. Mr. S.P. was pleased with the discovery of a new bar and he laughed at my confidence and creativity. I sang. Twice. And I think my self-assurance was attractive to Mr. S.P.
At the end of the evening, as we walked towards the taxi rank, Mr. S.P. slipped his arm around my waist. That was the most physical contact we’d had and, in a way, it was incredibly intimate without it being intimate at all. I reciprocated by putting my arm around him and tilting my head onto his shoulder. I felt so close to Mr. S.P. but the chemistry was still missing and it was then I questioned if I could continue dating Mr.S.P. There would definitely be one more date, as we had already agreed that it was his turn to arrange something, but beyond that, I was starting to think it might be a lost cause.
At the taxi rank, we wished each other goodnight. I desperately wanted to find out if there was any chemistry between Mr. S.P and I and so I tried to give him a peck on the lips, in the hope it would leave me wanting more, but he turned his head slightly so I ended up kissing him on the cheek. It was disappointing.
In the taxi, on my way home, Mr. S.P. sent me a flurry of text messages telling me how much of a good time he had. This was then followed by a phone call when I made it home. Now, I don’t know much about men, but I know a guy is keen when he follows up after a date like that. I’m not going to lie, it was nice and I was flattered, but I felt bad that I didn’t feel the same way. I wanted to feel like ripping his clothes off, I wanted to feel as though I couldn’t keep my hands off him and I wanted to feel that I wasn’t seeing him enough but, the truth is, I didn’t feel any of those things. All I could do was hope that our third date would finally set sparks flying…
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...
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