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...
Thursday, 10 March 2011
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.
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
How to be a dirty stop-out
I’ve become something of an expert when it comes to the Walk Of Shame. Earlier this month, I was caught out twice in the space of one week and, when I lived in Spain for a few months, the Walk Of Shame was so regular that it was no longer shameful. And that’s where the art of the Walk Of Shame lies - confidence.
When I initially moved to Dubai, I would nearly always take a guy back to my place just to avoid the Walk Of Shame. After a night of romping with a handsome man, the last thing you want is for strangers to see you with your make-up smeared, clothes creased and the non-Tigi version of bed head. The knowing smile and nod from a passerby always used to make me cringe, but there are ways to do the Walk Of Shame and avoid people staring.
First up, if you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, then people will stare at you thinking you’re either; a) a dirty-stop out, b) a victim of a heinous crime or c) a homeless person. So, there are basic items that every young, free and single woman needs to stuff into her clutch bag to avoid this. These are:
1. Mints or gum – A handbag staple at all times, even if you are on your period. Leaving the house without mints is like leaving the house without money; nobody will want to be your friend. After all those vodkas and cigarettes, you will have breath like a warthog’s backside and no man in his right mind will want to come within five feet of you, let alone stick his tongue down your throat. So, invest and reap the benefits. Mints and gum are also excellent for the interim period between waking up and being able to brush your teeth.
2. Contraceptive – Nobody wants a life-long reminder of bumping uglies with a drunken stranger, so remember to take condoms and your pill with you.
3. A hair band – Not only is this important whilst in the sack with your latest squeeze - thought it was a pube you were picking off your tongue? No, it was one of your own hairs - it’s also important for your journey home. With no space for a hairbrush, sweep back those long locks into a ponytail. This will divert anyone’s attention from your bed head.
4. Cotton buds – You only need one or two, which means you won’t miss out on that all-important space in your bag. The reason you need cotton buds is to remove that black eyeliner that now makes you look like a panda. I never find tissue paper effectively removes those horrible crusty bits close to the lash line but a damp cotton bud works wonders.
5. Make-up – After washing your face and removing the remnants of last night’s make-up/human fluids, spruce yourself up with a little bit of foundation and/or blusher. It’ll make you feel a hundred times better and ready to face the outdoors.
6. Perfume – Woken up next to a beast and want to hot-foot it out before he wakes? Get out, woman, there’s no time for a shower! Clothes and hair smell of cigarette smoke? Spritz a bit of perfume on them to mask the smell. Also use as a deodorant. There is nothing worse than being sat next to someone on the metro who smells of sweat, even though you might be pleased it’s sex sweat. There’s also no need to take out the 250ml bottle of Gucci Rush your mum bought you for Xmas. Head to Debenham’s and ask them for a couple of samples that come in those small tubes - perfect handbag size!
7. Now, I guess for some of you there will be a number seven – spare underwear. I personally prefer to go commando, eliminating the need to carry underwear out with me. But, if you are a knicker wearer, take a spare pair with you. There’s nothing worse than having to endure wearing the same pair of pants two days in a row. Particularly ones that are covered in good-time juices.
With all these things in place, you’re more or less good to go. Just remember not to leave your clothes in a heap on the floor when you're giving him a sexy (read:drunk) strip tease to Paula Cole's Feelin' Love. Try to place them on the back of a chair to avoid creases, the sixteen year old boy look is never a good one.
Ok, I realise it’s far from ideal to wear last night’s clothes, but there’s nothing you can do about that so you'll just have to convince yourself that's what you planned to wear that day. For example, at 3pm on New Year’s Day, I left Mr. PL's place and walked across Dubai Marina in a full length, flowing white gown. In order to not look sheepish, and give the game away to passersby, I kept telling myself I was heading to a wedding. Only I’ll know that I’m not.
Last but not least, when you hit the road, hold your head up high, stride confidently and think to yourself what an awesome sex session you've just had. Act like an embarrassed, dirty stop-out and you’ll look like one.
Happy shagging!
When I initially moved to Dubai, I would nearly always take a guy back to my place just to avoid the Walk Of Shame. After a night of romping with a handsome man, the last thing you want is for strangers to see you with your make-up smeared, clothes creased and the non-Tigi version of bed head. The knowing smile and nod from a passerby always used to make me cringe, but there are ways to do the Walk Of Shame and avoid people staring.
First up, if you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, then people will stare at you thinking you’re either; a) a dirty-stop out, b) a victim of a heinous crime or c) a homeless person. So, there are basic items that every young, free and single woman needs to stuff into her clutch bag to avoid this. These are:
1. Mints or gum – A handbag staple at all times, even if you are on your period. Leaving the house without mints is like leaving the house without money; nobody will want to be your friend. After all those vodkas and cigarettes, you will have breath like a warthog’s backside and no man in his right mind will want to come within five feet of you, let alone stick his tongue down your throat. So, invest and reap the benefits. Mints and gum are also excellent for the interim period between waking up and being able to brush your teeth.
2. Contraceptive – Nobody wants a life-long reminder of bumping uglies with a drunken stranger, so remember to take condoms and your pill with you.
3. A hair band – Not only is this important whilst in the sack with your latest squeeze - thought it was a pube you were picking off your tongue? No, it was one of your own hairs - it’s also important for your journey home. With no space for a hairbrush, sweep back those long locks into a ponytail. This will divert anyone’s attention from your bed head.
4. Cotton buds – You only need one or two, which means you won’t miss out on that all-important space in your bag. The reason you need cotton buds is to remove that black eyeliner that now makes you look like a panda. I never find tissue paper effectively removes those horrible crusty bits close to the lash line but a damp cotton bud works wonders.
5. Make-up – After washing your face and removing the remnants of last night’s make-up/human fluids, spruce yourself up with a little bit of foundation and/or blusher. It’ll make you feel a hundred times better and ready to face the outdoors.
6. Perfume – Woken up next to a beast and want to hot-foot it out before he wakes? Get out, woman, there’s no time for a shower! Clothes and hair smell of cigarette smoke? Spritz a bit of perfume on them to mask the smell. Also use as a deodorant. There is nothing worse than being sat next to someone on the metro who smells of sweat, even though you might be pleased it’s sex sweat. There’s also no need to take out the 250ml bottle of Gucci Rush your mum bought you for Xmas. Head to Debenham’s and ask them for a couple of samples that come in those small tubes - perfect handbag size!
7. Now, I guess for some of you there will be a number seven – spare underwear. I personally prefer to go commando, eliminating the need to carry underwear out with me. But, if you are a knicker wearer, take a spare pair with you. There’s nothing worse than having to endure wearing the same pair of pants two days in a row. Particularly ones that are covered in good-time juices.
With all these things in place, you’re more or less good to go. Just remember not to leave your clothes in a heap on the floor when you're giving him a sexy (read:drunk) strip tease to Paula Cole's Feelin' Love. Try to place them on the back of a chair to avoid creases, the sixteen year old boy look is never a good one.
Ok, I realise it’s far from ideal to wear last night’s clothes, but there’s nothing you can do about that so you'll just have to convince yourself that's what you planned to wear that day. For example, at 3pm on New Year’s Day, I left Mr. PL's place and walked across Dubai Marina in a full length, flowing white gown. In order to not look sheepish, and give the game away to passersby, I kept telling myself I was heading to a wedding. Only I’ll know that I’m not.
Last but not least, when you hit the road, hold your head up high, stride confidently and think to yourself what an awesome sex session you've just had. Act like an embarrassed, dirty stop-out and you’ll look like one.
Happy shagging!
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Crazy Cat Lady
As a young, single girl, I thought long and hard about taking the stray kitten, I'd fallen in love with, home. Not only is a pet hard work, but I was also worried that having a cat would see me labelled as a 'Crazy Cat Lady' by hot guys. To help me make a decision about whether I should welcome a little kitty into my home or not, I decided to ask some of my male friends if I would indeed be labelled a Crazy Cat Lady. The responses I received were mixed.
There are some guys who see a woman who owns a cat as a caring and affectionate person. That is, until she acquires more than two cats, after which, she will be branded the Crazy Cat Lady. Then there are the guys who seem to think a girl with a cat either a) has a dying need to nurture, and will therefore want to have babies with the next man she gets her claws into (excuse the pun), or b) is some weird, loner type who can only communicate with her feline friends. I, however, am neither of those stereotypes.
Originally, I had no intention of having a pet, they're a lot of hassle and I travel/party way too much to be able to give it the attention it would require. But a sad story of abandoned, stray kittens on the beach got the better of me, and I ended up taking one of the little blighters home.
Now, I absolutely adore my kitten. She has so much personality - She fetches, chases anything that moves and bounces around doing back-flips, which has proven to be a great source of entertainment. But, how has my love life fared up since I've had her?
Well, I do make a conscious effort not to bang on about my kitten all the time, as I think that'd freak most men out, but when I do mention her, guys are usually intrigued. Probably because she sounds more like a dog than a cat, and all guys love dogs. Having said that, one guy I met seemed quite put off that I had a cat. In fact, he looked positively repulsed. But as soon as he came back to my place, he was putty in my kitten's paws. So much so, I had to revert his attention back to another pussy...
On other occasions, my kitten has proven to be a hit from the word go. Mr. PL, for example, expressed his love for cats and, when I told him how cool my little feline friend was, he seemed keen on getting one for himself. Although, I'm not sure if he was speaking metaphorically! Another guy I met was a complete cat lover and couldn't wait to get back to mine to meet my kitten. Had I not told him about her, I don't think I'd have been able to lure him over to my place.
So, whilst my little fur-ball has, so far, seemed to help me reel men in, she has not been able to persuade them to stick around. Now, that could be down to me, but I prefer to blame her incessant miaowing, or scratching at the bedroom door, as the reason men don't seem to want to contact me again. I'm not going to lie, a screeching cat at the bedroom door in the throes of passion are a bit of a dampener. If I wasn't 35 floors up, I'd throw her outside, but living where I live, I have no option but to endure her screams for attention.
The other thing I worry about, is meeting the man of my dreams, only to find out he's allergic to cats or fur. What would I do then? Give up the cat or give up the man? I made a life-long commitment when I took home my kitten, but it'd be just my luck to fall in love with a guy who had cat allergies, leaving me to be a lonely old spinster, smelling of cat pee, with twenty odd felines crawling all over my home. An image that, quite frankly, scares the shit out of me.
I guess all I can do is hope my love interest doesn't have cat allergies. And as for the men who think a girl with a cat is a nutter, all I can say is; love me, love my pussy.
There are some guys who see a woman who owns a cat as a caring and affectionate person. That is, until she acquires more than two cats, after which, she will be branded the Crazy Cat Lady. Then there are the guys who seem to think a girl with a cat either a) has a dying need to nurture, and will therefore want to have babies with the next man she gets her claws into (excuse the pun), or b) is some weird, loner type who can only communicate with her feline friends. I, however, am neither of those stereotypes.
Originally, I had no intention of having a pet, they're a lot of hassle and I travel/party way too much to be able to give it the attention it would require. But a sad story of abandoned, stray kittens on the beach got the better of me, and I ended up taking one of the little blighters home.
Now, I absolutely adore my kitten. She has so much personality - She fetches, chases anything that moves and bounces around doing back-flips, which has proven to be a great source of entertainment. But, how has my love life fared up since I've had her?
Well, I do make a conscious effort not to bang on about my kitten all the time, as I think that'd freak most men out, but when I do mention her, guys are usually intrigued. Probably because she sounds more like a dog than a cat, and all guys love dogs. Having said that, one guy I met seemed quite put off that I had a cat. In fact, he looked positively repulsed. But as soon as he came back to my place, he was putty in my kitten's paws. So much so, I had to revert his attention back to another pussy...
On other occasions, my kitten has proven to be a hit from the word go. Mr. PL, for example, expressed his love for cats and, when I told him how cool my little feline friend was, he seemed keen on getting one for himself. Although, I'm not sure if he was speaking metaphorically! Another guy I met was a complete cat lover and couldn't wait to get back to mine to meet my kitten. Had I not told him about her, I don't think I'd have been able to lure him over to my place.
So, whilst my little fur-ball has, so far, seemed to help me reel men in, she has not been able to persuade them to stick around. Now, that could be down to me, but I prefer to blame her incessant miaowing, or scratching at the bedroom door, as the reason men don't seem to want to contact me again. I'm not going to lie, a screeching cat at the bedroom door in the throes of passion are a bit of a dampener. If I wasn't 35 floors up, I'd throw her outside, but living where I live, I have no option but to endure her screams for attention.
The other thing I worry about, is meeting the man of my dreams, only to find out he's allergic to cats or fur. What would I do then? Give up the cat or give up the man? I made a life-long commitment when I took home my kitten, but it'd be just my luck to fall in love with a guy who had cat allergies, leaving me to be a lonely old spinster, smelling of cat pee, with twenty odd felines crawling all over my home. An image that, quite frankly, scares the shit out of me.
I guess all I can do is hope my love interest doesn't have cat allergies. And as for the men who think a girl with a cat is a nutter, all I can say is; love me, love my pussy.
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Me, Myself & I
Self-love; an important act that is, quite often, swept under the rug. Yes, Sam from Sex and the City did glorify the Rampant Rabbit, but as sex toys are banned in Dubai, there must be all sorts of ways that girls get themselves off. So, why aren't they talked about? And why is male masturbation also a taboo?
In a society where people are encouraged to preserve their virginity, why is it that we're not open about self-love? Is it that it's still not acceptable? Or is it because it's so personal, we don't want to divulge what we do, or how many times we do it, in case it's seen as 'weird'?
Some girls struggle to please themselves, having never explored their own nether regions. Others, like most men, just need their hand and a few minutes alone.
There a plenty of substitutes for the Rampant Rabbit; some of which I've never needed to explore. For example, I know some women use, what is effectively, a frozen dildo by filling a condom with water and popping it in the freezer. Then there are some girls who use vegetables... In fact, you can use a lot of things. Does anyone remember that episode of UK Big Brother where one of the girls went into the garden and substituted a vibrator for the neck of a wine bottle? It wouldn't be my cup of tea, but it clearly worked for her!
Perhaps this shows the lengths people will go to when they don't have the sufficient tools. So maybe Dubai putting a ban on sex toys actually drives people to use stranger, and less safe, items. Surely this is where weird fetishes begin?
Women also have the benefit of having a few areas to explore in order to pleasure themselves. The G-spot and the clitoris being the usual suspects. Although the latter is sometimes bypassed, but girls who don't want to insert anything inside themselves should probably pay more attention to it. Sometimes all you need is a gentle rub to set you off...
It's also the one when indulging in a little bit of discreet self-love. I've been in some very public places (yes, in Dubai) and managed to enjoy myself. A little bit of pressure on the pubic bone and I'm away! However, I'm quite lucky, I don't necessarily require any visual or written stimulation to help me along. My imagination is vivid, so I just come up with some sexy scenarios in my head. If I am out and about and in need of some visual stimulation, I'll drop my friend in the UK, Mr. HC, a text asking him for a picture. He'll know exactly what I mean by that and send me just what I need to see to send me over the edge.
The pictures, the text messages and the online chats with Mr. HC, all play a huge part in my self-love enjoyment. Without him, I wouldn't enjoy it as much as I do. And the mediums we use aren't restricted by the authorities, so I can say and see what I like.
But what if you're not as lucky as I am? What if you need some help in reaching that point of no return? With nearly every webpage with a reference to sex on it blocked by Internet Service Providers in Dubai, a lack of steamy novels on the city's bookshelves and every sexy photo in magazines, imported from abroad, manually blacked out with a marker pen, it's tricky to get what you need.
I do often wonder how men cope. Sometimes I think it's almost a chore for them - a physical release that needs to happen and not something they take the time to enjoy. As a woman, I can make mine as quick as I like or, with so many different areas to explore and so many tools to use, I can draw it out and let my imagination run wild. For men, it seems there's only one area - the shaft. Correct me if I'm wrong, guys, but the balls are like women's breasts; yes, it might make you tingle and they're great to pay attention to when with a partner, but when alone it's not going to send you over the edge.
So, what do guys do to spice up their self-love lives? Do blow-up dolls ever really come into the equation? And where do you get the visual stimulation from? Or is it a case of hand, shaft, tug?
Whatever it is that gets you going, I don't think self-love is anything to be ashamed of. It's certainly seen me through some dry spells.
In a society where people are encouraged to preserve their virginity, why is it that we're not open about self-love? Is it that it's still not acceptable? Or is it because it's so personal, we don't want to divulge what we do, or how many times we do it, in case it's seen as 'weird'?
Some girls struggle to please themselves, having never explored their own nether regions. Others, like most men, just need their hand and a few minutes alone.
There a plenty of substitutes for the Rampant Rabbit; some of which I've never needed to explore. For example, I know some women use, what is effectively, a frozen dildo by filling a condom with water and popping it in the freezer. Then there are some girls who use vegetables... In fact, you can use a lot of things. Does anyone remember that episode of UK Big Brother where one of the girls went into the garden and substituted a vibrator for the neck of a wine bottle? It wouldn't be my cup of tea, but it clearly worked for her!
Perhaps this shows the lengths people will go to when they don't have the sufficient tools. So maybe Dubai putting a ban on sex toys actually drives people to use stranger, and less safe, items. Surely this is where weird fetishes begin?
Women also have the benefit of having a few areas to explore in order to pleasure themselves. The G-spot and the clitoris being the usual suspects. Although the latter is sometimes bypassed, but girls who don't want to insert anything inside themselves should probably pay more attention to it. Sometimes all you need is a gentle rub to set you off...
It's also the one when indulging in a little bit of discreet self-love. I've been in some very public places (yes, in Dubai) and managed to enjoy myself. A little bit of pressure on the pubic bone and I'm away! However, I'm quite lucky, I don't necessarily require any visual or written stimulation to help me along. My imagination is vivid, so I just come up with some sexy scenarios in my head. If I am out and about and in need of some visual stimulation, I'll drop my friend in the UK, Mr. HC, a text asking him for a picture. He'll know exactly what I mean by that and send me just what I need to see to send me over the edge.
The pictures, the text messages and the online chats with Mr. HC, all play a huge part in my self-love enjoyment. Without him, I wouldn't enjoy it as much as I do. And the mediums we use aren't restricted by the authorities, so I can say and see what I like.
But what if you're not as lucky as I am? What if you need some help in reaching that point of no return? With nearly every webpage with a reference to sex on it blocked by Internet Service Providers in Dubai, a lack of steamy novels on the city's bookshelves and every sexy photo in magazines, imported from abroad, manually blacked out with a marker pen, it's tricky to get what you need.
I do often wonder how men cope. Sometimes I think it's almost a chore for them - a physical release that needs to happen and not something they take the time to enjoy. As a woman, I can make mine as quick as I like or, with so many different areas to explore and so many tools to use, I can draw it out and let my imagination run wild. For men, it seems there's only one area - the shaft. Correct me if I'm wrong, guys, but the balls are like women's breasts; yes, it might make you tingle and they're great to pay attention to when with a partner, but when alone it's not going to send you over the edge.
So, what do guys do to spice up their self-love lives? Do blow-up dolls ever really come into the equation? And where do you get the visual stimulation from? Or is it a case of hand, shaft, tug?
Whatever it is that gets you going, I don't think self-love is anything to be ashamed of. It's certainly seen me through some dry spells.
Friday, 21 January 2011
Ho Ho Ho
No, I'm not still in the Christmas spirit. I'm talking about the competition - the perfectly manicured women that are in abundance in all of Dubai's bars and clubs. Yes, the prostitutes.
I'd never really considered them competition before, but I now realise that's quite naive, and they're just as much competition as the next girl. I guess the image that pops into my head when I think of the word 'prostitute', is the toothless crack addicts I used to see hanging around King's Cross on my way to work at 7.30am, offering guys blow jobs for a fiver. Not what I'd class as competition!
Here in Dubai, the prostitutes I see hang out in classy watering holes, wear tight dresses that hug their curves and are waxed, polished and threaded to within an inch of their life. They have their flirting techniques down to an absolute tee; sultry glances and flirty smiles. Their opening lines are rehearsed to perfection and they manage to pull every night. How can I possibly compete with that?
You may think that type of guy I go for is not the kind of guy to sleep with a prostitute. But you're wrong. The majority of my male friends (regular British men in their late twenties to early forties) have all slept with a prostitute. Some more frequently than others. And, no, my male friends aren't complete animals or sex addicts. This just goes to show how alluring a prostitute can be. Especially considering the men have to empty their pockets to take them home.
Sometimes the prostitutes even manage to take home a guy who had no intention of sleeping with a hooker in the first place. They play it coy and aren't upfront about what they're up to. And just when the guy thinks he's hit the jackpot - BAM! That'll be a thousand dirhams, please. Poor unsuspecting guy either runs off home with his dick inbetween his legs, or he's coaxed into coughing up the money.
All of this activity wreaks havoc on my love life. For example, at a bar with a couple of friends last night, I scanned the room for talent. The only guy I spotted, that I quite liked the look of, was at the bar. But I didn't approach him because he was talking to a hooker. How do I know she was a hooker? Well, a guy once told me how to spot them - what they wear, how they act etc. I'd been in Dubai for years and was oblivious to the sex industry right before my eyes. Now, I spot them everywhere I go.
I was once out at Dubai's most notorious hooker joint, The Rattlesnake, with a couple of male friends. We were having an awesome night, and as the boys claimed they had never been to this particular bar, I insisted that we went there. For comedy value if nothing else. As soon as we walked in, the girls pounced on the boys; sidling up to them and whispering in their ears. It amused me greatly, especially as I was the only woman in the place that wasn't a prostitute.
One of the girls, a striking Iranian with beautiful green eyes and shiny jet-black hair, took a particular fancy to one of the lads I was with and was all over him. When she caught me gawking at them, she asked if the man in question was my boyfriend. Feeling sorry for my friend, who looked a little scared, I told her that he was. She then went on to ask why he was talking to her, was the other guy single and was he really my boyfriend. Now I felt sorry for her, and so I told her he wasn't my boyfriend. Then, she lost it...
She began ranting at me, telling me how I was messing up her business, that she needed to make money and asking me why I was there. She told me to be serious and tell her if either one of the guys I was with was single. I was shocked. I only went out for a few jars and laughs with the boys, not a bitch-fight with a hooker! There was nothing else to do except laugh and then tell her to back off.
So, if the prostitute saw me as being competition, then I guess she's also mine...
I guess there a lot of guys who sleep with prostitutes because they know exactly what they're getting - sex. There's no emotional attachment that comes with sleeping with a girl who isn't a hooker. Quite often, I think when a man has a one night stand with a girl, he immediately assumes she wants much more - a relationship, marriage and babies. And because he's used her for a one night stand, he feels guilty. To hide this, and not seem like a total wanker, he gives the girl his number or takes hers. He never calls her, but if she calls him to go out for a drink, he'll feel emotionally smothered. None of these feelings are felt when sleeping with a hooker.
Most Western men won't have an issue with handing over 1000 Dirhams to get their dicks wet without all the hassle. If he took a girl out to dinner to get into her knickers, it'd cost him near enough the same anyway, so I can see why they'd take the easy option.
Then there are the guys who love the thrill of it. So much so, they'd rather fuck a hooker than their own girlfriend. I will never truly understand why a man would do that, to me it makes absolutely no sense. Can't they role play with their partner? Or find a new thrill; like sex outdoors? That would definitely be a thrill in this city!
So, until Dubai authorities actually do something about the sex industry in this city, it looks like I'm stuck shooing away hookers, from a potential partner, with my clutch bag.
I'd never really considered them competition before, but I now realise that's quite naive, and they're just as much competition as the next girl. I guess the image that pops into my head when I think of the word 'prostitute', is the toothless crack addicts I used to see hanging around King's Cross on my way to work at 7.30am, offering guys blow jobs for a fiver. Not what I'd class as competition!
Here in Dubai, the prostitutes I see hang out in classy watering holes, wear tight dresses that hug their curves and are waxed, polished and threaded to within an inch of their life. They have their flirting techniques down to an absolute tee; sultry glances and flirty smiles. Their opening lines are rehearsed to perfection and they manage to pull every night. How can I possibly compete with that?
You may think that type of guy I go for is not the kind of guy to sleep with a prostitute. But you're wrong. The majority of my male friends (regular British men in their late twenties to early forties) have all slept with a prostitute. Some more frequently than others. And, no, my male friends aren't complete animals or sex addicts. This just goes to show how alluring a prostitute can be. Especially considering the men have to empty their pockets to take them home.
Sometimes the prostitutes even manage to take home a guy who had no intention of sleeping with a hooker in the first place. They play it coy and aren't upfront about what they're up to. And just when the guy thinks he's hit the jackpot - BAM! That'll be a thousand dirhams, please. Poor unsuspecting guy either runs off home with his dick inbetween his legs, or he's coaxed into coughing up the money.
All of this activity wreaks havoc on my love life. For example, at a bar with a couple of friends last night, I scanned the room for talent. The only guy I spotted, that I quite liked the look of, was at the bar. But I didn't approach him because he was talking to a hooker. How do I know she was a hooker? Well, a guy once told me how to spot them - what they wear, how they act etc. I'd been in Dubai for years and was oblivious to the sex industry right before my eyes. Now, I spot them everywhere I go.
I was once out at Dubai's most notorious hooker joint, The Rattlesnake, with a couple of male friends. We were having an awesome night, and as the boys claimed they had never been to this particular bar, I insisted that we went there. For comedy value if nothing else. As soon as we walked in, the girls pounced on the boys; sidling up to them and whispering in their ears. It amused me greatly, especially as I was the only woman in the place that wasn't a prostitute.
One of the girls, a striking Iranian with beautiful green eyes and shiny jet-black hair, took a particular fancy to one of the lads I was with and was all over him. When she caught me gawking at them, she asked if the man in question was my boyfriend. Feeling sorry for my friend, who looked a little scared, I told her that he was. She then went on to ask why he was talking to her, was the other guy single and was he really my boyfriend. Now I felt sorry for her, and so I told her he wasn't my boyfriend. Then, she lost it...
She began ranting at me, telling me how I was messing up her business, that she needed to make money and asking me why I was there. She told me to be serious and tell her if either one of the guys I was with was single. I was shocked. I only went out for a few jars and laughs with the boys, not a bitch-fight with a hooker! There was nothing else to do except laugh and then tell her to back off.
So, if the prostitute saw me as being competition, then I guess she's also mine...
I guess there a lot of guys who sleep with prostitutes because they know exactly what they're getting - sex. There's no emotional attachment that comes with sleeping with a girl who isn't a hooker. Quite often, I think when a man has a one night stand with a girl, he immediately assumes she wants much more - a relationship, marriage and babies. And because he's used her for a one night stand, he feels guilty. To hide this, and not seem like a total wanker, he gives the girl his number or takes hers. He never calls her, but if she calls him to go out for a drink, he'll feel emotionally smothered. None of these feelings are felt when sleeping with a hooker.
Most Western men won't have an issue with handing over 1000 Dirhams to get their dicks wet without all the hassle. If he took a girl out to dinner to get into her knickers, it'd cost him near enough the same anyway, so I can see why they'd take the easy option.
Then there are the guys who love the thrill of it. So much so, they'd rather fuck a hooker than their own girlfriend. I will never truly understand why a man would do that, to me it makes absolutely no sense. Can't they role play with their partner? Or find a new thrill; like sex outdoors? That would definitely be a thrill in this city!
So, until Dubai authorities actually do something about the sex industry in this city, it looks like I'm stuck shooing away hookers, from a potential partner, with my clutch bag.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)