Hello, hello. I wanted to write something but I’m not sure what it is I want to say so I’m just going to scribble and see what comes out . . .
This weekend I had the heart-warming experience of hearing that someone had highly recommended my blog to my best friend not realising the connection or indeed who I was. I was so excited by this news that I literally jumped up and down beaming in front of a room full of strangers. I was also drunk – but you could argue, when am I not? And judging by the number of people who seem to know the intimate details of my ‘love’ (I use that term in the loosest sense) life the blog is very much out there in the world - although if someone would please just post a comment directly rather than emailing me I would probably seek them out and snog them. Perhaps this is why people don’t comment?
Still, people are reading it and that makes me happy, but for the first time I’m also experiencing a certain amount of disapproval . . . a certain eyebrow-raising at my blasé attitude. Granted these are people who’ve never joined the internet dating craze and don’t know how heavily insulated your heart, and ego, has to be to survive, especially if you’re a naturally thin-skinned creature as I am. But funnily enough although the person who gave me a huge mouthful about it the other night claimed never to have internet dated I had actually seen his (rubbish) profile on GSM a year before! He insisted – loudly in front of a pub full of people - that men only date for sex, vehemently affirmed that I would never have a meaningful relationship with someone I met on the net and that what I really ought to do to meet men was join a book club (or some such wholesome activity). He was more than a little pissed off therefore when I pointed out that the reason he was bitter was cos he’d tried and failed at it. Still, whatever his motives, it was a nasty shock and it reminded me that dating is an incredibly emotive topic – after all it literally could not be more personal. And after nearly 2 years of emotional upheavals of all varieties I think I may have finally reached total burn out. So guess what?
NEWSFLASH: I’M, LIKE, SO OVER IT.
And I even wonder if the truth of the matter is I actually don’t want a boyfriend at all. I know, I know, I’ve made these protestations before and the Man Ban didn’t exactly work out so well but this time I really mean it. Ok, technically I’m seeing someone – let’s call him TV man - at the moment but it’s pretty half-hearted so I’m gonna let that one run its course. And I’ll see how tonight goes with Clapham Dough Boy (yes 4 months between dates is unorthodox but hey, he wore me down) but again unlikely to go anywhere.
Right now it’s all about having my very own roof over my head, finally emptying out that suitcase, getting my doggies back and re-embracing the gentle art of domesticity. Hackneygirl is going back to Hackney, and for now anyway, she’s offline-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Friday, 20 May 2011
COUGARTASTIC
Cougar:
An attractive woman in her 30s or 40s who is on the hunt once again - the cougar is woman in her sexual prime who prefers to hunt rather than be hunted. A cougar's victims are usually under 25, as cougars prefer to mate with men who still have hair. Cougars generally feed and then continue hunting, as they enjoy role reversal. She will not play the usual bullshit games that women in their early twenties participate in. End state, she will be going for the kill, just like you.
All of which paints a frighteningly accurate picture of a recent encounter of mine.
If you’ve been paying attention you will know that I am now knocking on 31 years old. I do not know how this happened and I do not like it one little bit, particularly when my darling little brother recently accused me of entering ‘middle age’. Dear god. Brother dearest defines it thusly: 0-30 years = young, 30-60 = middle age and 60-90 = old. I’m not sure what that means for those of 90+ but right now that is not my main concern. My main concern is that, while I had been happily labouring under the impression that I didn’t look a day over 21 (aided and abetted by Sainsbury’s’s (how to apostrophise??) overzealous alcohol IDing policy) I have in fact moved firmly into the COUGAR camp.
This was brought home to me recently when I met a beautiful, but very young, boy at a party. He looked like the result of some kind of weird scientific experiment where my two favourite ex-boyfriends (both from my late teens) had been spliced together to form my ideal man and then served up to me in 2011. Unfortunately I’m not 19 any more – a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by his friends who, as I hunted him mercilessly from party to pub to club, were a little disgruntled when I walked in on their conversation about how I was ‘like, a cougar’. And when pressed they put my age at 35. Ouch. Undeterred, by the end of the night I had hunted my prey to ground and drunkenly exchanged numbers before stalking off into the wilds of Finsbury Park.
48 hours later, and with my post Royal wedding hangover finally in check, I headed over to the boy’s house to take him up on his offer of a ‘cup of tea’. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? ‘Tea’ turned out to be sitting in his bedroom being subjected to dreadful pop psychology and ‘difficult’ jazz LPs but eventually we cut to the chase and believe me, it was worth it. I drew the line at being offered a family bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken as a post-coital snack though. Tsk, students.
So, I’ve decided that cougarism is mutually beneficial – I got youth, beauty and stamina and he got to avoid an awkward scene the next day – mainly because I hopped it home that night…there was no way I was letting him see my crumpled, mascara-smeared, middle-aged face in the morning! Oh and, assuming he gets all his homework done in time, he’s invited himself to mine for ‘dinner’ this weekend. I really can’t wait. . .
An attractive woman in her 30s or 40s who is on the hunt once again - the cougar is woman in her sexual prime who prefers to hunt rather than be hunted. A cougar's victims are usually under 25, as cougars prefer to mate with men who still have hair. Cougars generally feed and then continue hunting, as they enjoy role reversal. She will not play the usual bullshit games that women in their early twenties participate in. End state, she will be going for the kill, just like you.
All of which paints a frighteningly accurate picture of a recent encounter of mine.
If you’ve been paying attention you will know that I am now knocking on 31 years old. I do not know how this happened and I do not like it one little bit, particularly when my darling little brother recently accused me of entering ‘middle age’. Dear god. Brother dearest defines it thusly: 0-30 years = young, 30-60 = middle age and 60-90 = old. I’m not sure what that means for those of 90+ but right now that is not my main concern. My main concern is that, while I had been happily labouring under the impression that I didn’t look a day over 21 (aided and abetted by Sainsbury’s’s (how to apostrophise??) overzealous alcohol IDing policy) I have in fact moved firmly into the COUGAR camp.
This was brought home to me recently when I met a beautiful, but very young, boy at a party. He looked like the result of some kind of weird scientific experiment where my two favourite ex-boyfriends (both from my late teens) had been spliced together to form my ideal man and then served up to me in 2011. Unfortunately I’m not 19 any more – a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by his friends who, as I hunted him mercilessly from party to pub to club, were a little disgruntled when I walked in on their conversation about how I was ‘like, a cougar’. And when pressed they put my age at 35. Ouch. Undeterred, by the end of the night I had hunted my prey to ground and drunkenly exchanged numbers before stalking off into the wilds of Finsbury Park.
48 hours later, and with my post Royal wedding hangover finally in check, I headed over to the boy’s house to take him up on his offer of a ‘cup of tea’. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? ‘Tea’ turned out to be sitting in his bedroom being subjected to dreadful pop psychology and ‘difficult’ jazz LPs but eventually we cut to the chase and believe me, it was worth it. I drew the line at being offered a family bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken as a post-coital snack though. Tsk, students.
So, I’ve decided that cougarism is mutually beneficial – I got youth, beauty and stamina and he got to avoid an awkward scene the next day – mainly because I hopped it home that night…there was no way I was letting him see my crumpled, mascara-smeared, middle-aged face in the morning! Oh and, assuming he gets all his homework done in time, he’s invited himself to mine for ‘dinner’ this weekend. I really can’t wait. . .
Thursday, 19 May 2011
HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me! HDOJM is 1 year old. . .
And I’m still single. Whoopdeedoo! BUT it’s been a lot of fun getting here and although my body has definitely aged in dog years rather than human ones I’ve learnt a lot, laughed a lot and cried a helluva lot to match.
So, I think it fitting to give you some round-up nerdy dating stats as your birthday gift. I had a quick tally up last night and discovered that, including today’s super tedious lunch date (sobriety sucks), the total number of men dated in the past 12 months comes to a surprisingly low 25. However throw in the ones I dated more than once, the 6 months of the past 12 when I was actually pretending to be a girlfriend (with various different men) and suddenly I realise why I’ve been so tired all the time! Passion kiss conversion rate stands at almost dead on 50% which ain’t bad if you ask me and the dead pet tally still stands at 1. Which is a relief, particularly if you are small and feathery.
Oh, and the Man Ban? Yeah, that didn’t work out so well…or at all. I may have taken one day off – does that count?
So, I think it fitting to give you some round-up nerdy dating stats as your birthday gift. I had a quick tally up last night and discovered that, including today’s super tedious lunch date (sobriety sucks), the total number of men dated in the past 12 months comes to a surprisingly low 25. However throw in the ones I dated more than once, the 6 months of the past 12 when I was actually pretending to be a girlfriend (with various different men) and suddenly I realise why I’ve been so tired all the time! Passion kiss conversion rate stands at almost dead on 50% which ain’t bad if you ask me and the dead pet tally still stands at 1. Which is a relief, particularly if you are small and feathery.
Oh, and the Man Ban? Yeah, that didn’t work out so well…or at all. I may have taken one day off – does that count?
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Tales from the frontline of dateland
Readers I am wounded in action. I am writing to you in the throes of yet another post-date hangover and with yet another serious case of rejection. I have therefore decided it’s time for a tactical temporary retirement – otherwise known as the MAN BAN. My Soulmates subscription expires on 25th April and after that the Man Ban will be in force until the 1st June. Hopefully this will give me time to heave my self esteem back off the floor, make peace with my liver and patch the hole in my wallet.
In the meantime I might as well go nuts which means I will be sending the totally inappropriate text I have drafted to last night’s date even though I’m 99.9% sure he’s not interested. After all I have literally no pride left to lose.
In the meantime I might as well go nuts which means I will be sending the totally inappropriate text I have drafted to last night’s date even though I’m 99.9% sure he’s not interested. After all I have literally no pride left to lose.
Monday, 4 April 2011
Full Frontal Frottage
Today's post comes courtesy of an anonymous guest blogger. Enjoy!
Frottage: see ‘dry humping’ or any other non-penetration body grinding done with or without clothes* in public or in private.
Unaccustomised as I am to blogging (don’t get me wrong, I’m more than qualified at internet dating – 5 years on and off, and counting), I find myself harangued into sharing a recent first date experience.
Now, I’m not really sure if frottage is a made up word, or whether it’s local to our collective shires, but wherever it’s from it’s certainly not something I expected to experience on a first date at Shoreditch house on a Sarruday night.
The invitation from a rather cute music mogul to a first date at the ‘whoreditch’ was a rather bold move designed solely to impress. I therefore decided to ignore a couple of the gayer photos in his GSM collection and chipped up at the allotted time only to be greeted by a quite effeminate media-darhling who knew everybody and instantly explained the various complexities of the cocktail list to me. Said cocktails were re-examined, appraised and sunk in great detail over a 4-5 hour period, which helped ease my blindness to the effeminate leg crossing, Julia Andrews-esque sweeping hand gestures and emotive kiss and hand to heart salute to his departing best guy friend. All the more surprising then when he invited me over to the sofa area before launching into a swift neck kiss manoeuvre which soon led to a ‘breath of fresh air and cigarette’ around the pool. Yes, pool. It was freezing. So, getting seductively under the blanket,** we started to snog like teenagers. Hands wandered and before I knew it, I was experiencing a serious case of full-frontal frottage by the rooftop pool of da whoreditch. Classy. Briefly stopping to remove his steamed-up glasses ‘muso massif’ turned to me and said . . . so shall we go back to my house? Um, no actually – I don’t do first date sex…I’m a good girl see (more shire speak).
Clearly seriously put out at my refusal to, well, put out, the next thing I knew he had extricated himself from underneath the blanket and was jumping up to arrange me a cab home. Then, just as he was fetching my coat, he turned to me and said, “but, but . . . I touched your vag!?***”
Huh? I couldn’t help but wonder as I weaved my way home (with 3 arse slaps from random men en route - was I putting out some serious pheromones that night??) - does he also think that if he touches my belly button I will get pregnant?
*In this case very definitely with.
*This is physically impossible after a 5hr cocktail bender
**For the purposes of this article some names have been changed he actually used the more formal; vagina
Frottage: see ‘dry humping’ or any other non-penetration body grinding done with or without clothes* in public or in private.
Unaccustomised as I am to blogging (don’t get me wrong, I’m more than qualified at internet dating – 5 years on and off, and counting), I find myself harangued into sharing a recent first date experience.
Now, I’m not really sure if frottage is a made up word, or whether it’s local to our collective shires, but wherever it’s from it’s certainly not something I expected to experience on a first date at Shoreditch house on a Sarruday night.
The invitation from a rather cute music mogul to a first date at the ‘whoreditch’ was a rather bold move designed solely to impress. I therefore decided to ignore a couple of the gayer photos in his GSM collection and chipped up at the allotted time only to be greeted by a quite effeminate media-darhling who knew everybody and instantly explained the various complexities of the cocktail list to me. Said cocktails were re-examined, appraised and sunk in great detail over a 4-5 hour period, which helped ease my blindness to the effeminate leg crossing, Julia Andrews-esque sweeping hand gestures and emotive kiss and hand to heart salute to his departing best guy friend. All the more surprising then when he invited me over to the sofa area before launching into a swift neck kiss manoeuvre which soon led to a ‘breath of fresh air and cigarette’ around the pool. Yes, pool. It was freezing. So, getting seductively under the blanket,** we started to snog like teenagers. Hands wandered and before I knew it, I was experiencing a serious case of full-frontal frottage by the rooftop pool of da whoreditch. Classy. Briefly stopping to remove his steamed-up glasses ‘muso massif’ turned to me and said . . . so shall we go back to my house? Um, no actually – I don’t do first date sex…I’m a good girl see (more shire speak).
Clearly seriously put out at my refusal to, well, put out, the next thing I knew he had extricated himself from underneath the blanket and was jumping up to arrange me a cab home. Then, just as he was fetching my coat, he turned to me and said, “but, but . . . I touched your vag!?***”
Huh? I couldn’t help but wonder as I weaved my way home (with 3 arse slaps from random men en route - was I putting out some serious pheromones that night??) - does he also think that if he touches my belly button I will get pregnant?
*In this case very definitely with.
*This is physically impossible after a 5hr cocktail bender
**For the purposes of this article some names have been changed he actually used the more formal; vagina
Friday, 1 April 2011
mmmm, chalky
I was feeling left out of today's posting frenzy so thought I'd share a little story told to me by a friend last night.
Said friend is in foreign country, alone, and has managed to hook up with a gang of impossibly cool and good looking guys, one of whom she has bagged the night before. She is heading out to meet said crowd in a little restaurant and as she exits her hotel she spies them walking up ahead. It's too far to run (this is a hot country) but she speeds up a little bit to try and catch up with them. Gaining on them rapidly, she realises she ought to freshen up a bit and starts to attempt make-up application - this goes reasonably well. The next task is to freshen breath - but reaching into her handbag she realises she is out of chewing gum. However, further rummaging produces gum shaped results, and, only metres away from the impossibly gorgeous man whose face she has been kissing only hours previously, she pops her findings in her mouth and chews vigourously.
Only to realise that although one of the items she has put in her mouth is definitely chewing gum (albeit a little fluffy), the other would more accurately be described as ibuprofen.
The two substances combine to form a gluey sticky chalky horrifying mess in her mouth, but for some reason this does not prompt her to slow down and deal with the problem elegantly. No, she keeps pace. She is gaining on them fast, all the while spitting and gagging and dribbling a viscose white goo from her mouth . . . You'll be pleased to know she managed to wipe the spaff-like substance from her face before the gorgeous boy turned round, but it was a bloody close thing.
The lesson? Clean out your handbag ladies, or, at the very least, don't put anything in your mouth unless you've had a good look at it first.
Said friend is in foreign country, alone, and has managed to hook up with a gang of impossibly cool and good looking guys, one of whom she has bagged the night before. She is heading out to meet said crowd in a little restaurant and as she exits her hotel she spies them walking up ahead. It's too far to run (this is a hot country) but she speeds up a little bit to try and catch up with them. Gaining on them rapidly, she realises she ought to freshen up a bit and starts to attempt make-up application - this goes reasonably well. The next task is to freshen breath - but reaching into her handbag she realises she is out of chewing gum. However, further rummaging produces gum shaped results, and, only metres away from the impossibly gorgeous man whose face she has been kissing only hours previously, she pops her findings in her mouth and chews vigourously.
Only to realise that although one of the items she has put in her mouth is definitely chewing gum (albeit a little fluffy), the other would more accurately be described as ibuprofen.
The two substances combine to form a gluey sticky chalky horrifying mess in her mouth, but for some reason this does not prompt her to slow down and deal with the problem elegantly. No, she keeps pace. She is gaining on them fast, all the while spitting and gagging and dribbling a viscose white goo from her mouth . . . You'll be pleased to know she managed to wipe the spaff-like substance from her face before the gorgeous boy turned round, but it was a bloody close thing.
The lesson? Clean out your handbag ladies, or, at the very least, don't put anything in your mouth unless you've had a good look at it first.
GINGER CHEST HAIR
The world’s gone topsy turvy all of a sudden. This week I have moved into a shed, faced my ultimate fear and seen my former stalker rise up into the Soulmates ‘popular’ charts. What on earth is going on?
The shed has absolutely nothing to do with dating (and given it’s at the bottom of someone’s garden and has no curtains I really think it should stay that way) but I just thought I’d mention it. The former stalker I can only put down to a major glitch in the Soulmates website revamp, and the facing of the ultimate fear came about as a result of this . . .
Last Saturday. 2nd date with a man I’d met the weekend before with a stomping hangover and only 3 hours sleep. My judgement was a little impaired. I was due to meet him at a pub but instead he was waiting for me at the bus stop. And he was wearing jeans and a blazer with a white scoop neck t-shirt underneath exposing a vast swathe of ginger chest hair. Lunch (thai curry) arrived and he picked up his napkin and tucked it in to the top of said t-shirt. My face must have been a picture because he rapidly untucked it and put it on his lap. So far, so definitely don’t fancy him but he knew I'd come all the way from the other side of London and had to go to a party nearby at 8pm (we met at 2) so I couldn't see how to escape. So, in an attempt to deflect attention from myself somehow I ended up inviting a long-suffering friend to join us. Obviously this was his cue to quietly slip away but then my friend’s boyfriend rocked up to join the party and suggested we all go out for dinner. The next thing you know he’d cancelled his evening plans and we were off on some kind of crazy double date!
Now, bear in mind that this marathon date lasted for 8 whole hours. 8 hours made bearable by lakes of highly alcoholic Weston’s cider. There was, therefore, and I’m ashamed to say it but none of you will be surprised to hear, an inevitable amount of passion kissing. So, in summary, 8 hours, met my friends, lots of snogging. I had totally given him the wrong impression.
He texted me the next day. I brushed it off.
He texted again.
And again the following day saying, and I quote: "What's your surname; I want to facebook stalk you?"
And so unless I was to let my cowardice dictate my choice of future husband my fear of fears had to be faced. It was my mission, and I had to accept it, to write down in cold, hard words: I do not fancy you.
The result? He took it exceptionally well. Why have I been being such a baby about this? So that’s it – my days as a procrastinator par excellence are behind me, and anyway I spent hours crafting that text so it would be a shame not to use it again.
The shed has absolutely nothing to do with dating (and given it’s at the bottom of someone’s garden and has no curtains I really think it should stay that way) but I just thought I’d mention it. The former stalker I can only put down to a major glitch in the Soulmates website revamp, and the facing of the ultimate fear came about as a result of this . . .
Last Saturday. 2nd date with a man I’d met the weekend before with a stomping hangover and only 3 hours sleep. My judgement was a little impaired. I was due to meet him at a pub but instead he was waiting for me at the bus stop. And he was wearing jeans and a blazer with a white scoop neck t-shirt underneath exposing a vast swathe of ginger chest hair. Lunch (thai curry) arrived and he picked up his napkin and tucked it in to the top of said t-shirt. My face must have been a picture because he rapidly untucked it and put it on his lap. So far, so definitely don’t fancy him but he knew I'd come all the way from the other side of London and had to go to a party nearby at 8pm (we met at 2) so I couldn't see how to escape. So, in an attempt to deflect attention from myself somehow I ended up inviting a long-suffering friend to join us. Obviously this was his cue to quietly slip away but then my friend’s boyfriend rocked up to join the party and suggested we all go out for dinner. The next thing you know he’d cancelled his evening plans and we were off on some kind of crazy double date!
Now, bear in mind that this marathon date lasted for 8 whole hours. 8 hours made bearable by lakes of highly alcoholic Weston’s cider. There was, therefore, and I’m ashamed to say it but none of you will be surprised to hear, an inevitable amount of passion kissing. So, in summary, 8 hours, met my friends, lots of snogging. I had totally given him the wrong impression.
He texted me the next day. I brushed it off.
He texted again.
And again the following day saying, and I quote: "What's your surname; I want to facebook stalk you?"
And so unless I was to let my cowardice dictate my choice of future husband my fear of fears had to be faced. It was my mission, and I had to accept it, to write down in cold, hard words: I do not fancy you.
The result? He took it exceptionally well. Why have I been being such a baby about this? So that’s it – my days as a procrastinator par excellence are behind me, and anyway I spent hours crafting that text so it would be a shame not to use it again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
