tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26172994509246478792024-02-20T00:19:58.804-08:00Back In The Field - Dispatches from the Dating Frontline“You can have love for nothing up to the age of forty. After that, you have to tell a story to get it” - Ian Fleming.
The experiences of a 40-something man thrust unexpectedly back into the dating scene. It's the 2010's, and nothing at all is as you remember it …Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-36111244431920041152012-06-05T03:27:00.001-07:002012-06-05T03:31:17.323-07:00On One Hand This, On The Other That<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now</span>,
don't get me wrong. Like I said, there were plenty of profiles from
women who seemed attractive, reasonably literate, and almost normal.
But even then the profiles rarely told you anything. Allow me to
deconstruct one example:</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;"><i>About
Me<br />Hi, Don't want to write too much about myself here.</i></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;">[Heaven
forbid you should know what I'm really like]</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;"><i>I
am fun, honest and genuine and strongly believe in treating people
the way you yourself expect to be treated.</i>[Unlike all the
others who claim to be dull, dishonest and fake and who say they
believe in treating people badly]</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;"><i>I
do enjoy going out and having a vodka or two, but also just as happy
to chill out at home with good company.</i>[I like going out, but
I also like staying in]</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;"><i>I
have chosen 'looking for a relationship' option but certainly not
wanting to rush into anything....what will be will be</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;">[I
may be looking for something serious but reserve the right to dump
you if you start getting clingy]</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;"><i>I
don't mean to appear rude if I don't reply to a message, just don't
want to waste your time or mine.</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;">[Give
it your best shot but don't be surprised if you fail to meet my
incredibly high standards]</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;">Just
what exactly are you supposed to write to someone like that? She has
revealed precisely nothing about her personality (other then how
capricious and indecisive she is), any interests that you may have in
common, or much of any reason at all why you would <i>want</i> to
date her. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;">But,
the sad truth is that this sort of profile is good enough to ensure
that a woman with reasonably attractive photos will attract plenty of
interest. And, given that she hadn't written anything truly awful
that would immediately rule her out as a potential prospect (no sign
of mad catwoman tendencies, hideously chavvy children, or merchant
navy grade tattoos), I was forced to send her one of my standard
opening mails.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;">I
wished it were otherwise. I wished online dating was actually the way
I thought it would be when I first started: selecting perhaps one or
two from a series of detailed profiles, where it seemed we really had
something in common and there was that magical "chemistry".
Then, writing something considered and meaningful, that touched upon
our potential connection ... and, who knows, maybe even some woman
doing something similar to me?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;">That
notion was swiftly disabused by the appallingly low signal-to-noise
ratio found on online dating sites. Basically, to get a reply, you
had send at least ten mails, and chances are that one reply won't be
followed up any further. I had, of course, very little idea what the
female experience of dating sites was, and, while I expected it was
probably also pretty negative (most guys are arseholes, after all),
it had to be <i>different</i>. It really was just an online version
of the old bar or club, with the few girls dressed up and looking
pretty, while massively outnumbered by all the horny guys constantly
trying to hit on them in various unsubtle ways.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;">So,
I was resigned to it being a numbers game. But, at least, unlike that
old bar or club, the online process was vastly cheaper, less
humiliating and more efficient. So, if one was prepared to send out
opening mails with the frequency of a black market Viagra supplier,
one would eventually find a few takers.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif; font-size: small;">And,
so it proved, with a number of replies which seemed quite promising.</span></div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-11181141600231876332012-04-22T05:49:00.003-07:002012-04-22T06:12:33.874-07:00When Swamp Donkeys Attack<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The remainder of my weekend with Jenny could not end quickly enough. Once I'd given up trying to seduce her, and settled on the frankly more appealing target of sleep, Saturday night had passed in deep unconsciousness. I was vaguely aware of Jenny leaving early on Sunday morning, to give Pugsly his morning walk, but did not emerge myself until she had returned, and was preparing for a much longer walk with both the hideous little dogs. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I went with her. What the hell else I going to do? Not sit around and talk to Sarah, that was for sure, and my train home wasn't until the Sunday afternoon. So, I suffered my way through an extended trek around the park, followed by lunch in The George, before I was finally able to make my escape. Jenny and I told each other what a lovely weekend we'd had, hugged briefly, kissed on the cheek, and then I was off. No mention was made of my having my hand down her pants the preceding night. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Coming home was a blessed relief. Jenny and I exchanged a couple of texts, but I think we both knew what had happened. For me, I suppose the overwhelming feeling was one of closure. To be sure, I had been hoping for something more - a spot of old-times-sakes, uncomplicated, sex would have been just dandy for me. But life moves on. And onwards may not necessarily be upwards, but it is <i>onwards</i>. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, once home, it wasn't long before I got back online and starting checking out my options. And, hey, there was interest! Messages from women! Let's check them out!</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It's a common feature of all these dating sites that they'll email you when someone sends you a message. It's also a common feature that they won't include a photo or any details of your match in the email – you have to log into the site to find out anything. That's fair enough, I suppose – it makes it that bit more secure for people, and also forces you to be exposed to the site's advertisers. But, it does tend to generate a degree of excitement that is usually unwarranted. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">This occasion was no different. My first message was from “Sparklingeyes73” - a good choice of user name, if I am honest. Because, trying to focus attention on her eyes was a good move, given what the rest of her looked like. The profile photo was simply horrific – an immense, shapeless blob of a woman, who could have been any age from twenty to sixty, with her features set in a grim-faced expression and more chins than the Chinese phone-book. A true swamp donkey, unredeemed by any sign of definable curves, or even an welcoming smile.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">What truly amazed me was the extent of her opening message (“Hi! Howya doin'?” - that was <i>it</i>) and the equal brevity of her profile description. I mean, I know I am particularly shallow when it comes to appearance, but surely no one could ever think that that photo looked <i>good</i>? So, given that you have to play the hand you're dealt, did it not occur to Sparklingeyes to try demonstrating a few positive features, that would indicate intelligence, empathy, or just someone who is fun to be around? Nope, that's your lot: a big fat ugly munter says hello. Over to you, pal, now do all the chasing. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Sorry, love, but I think I'll pass. Next up, “Carlathemermaid” (where do they get these user names?). Now, Carla certainly had a bit more going for her in the messaging department. Here I feel I have to quote:</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: LilyUPC,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">wow- can't believe your single- loved your photos<br />
sorry i haven't got one on here, i could do with some one taking one LOL!<br />
so if you fancy a trip to my town any time- let me know<br />
<br />
good luck Carla x x </span></span> </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Now, that is how to get a guy's attention. Ok, the grammar may not be up to much, and the content is of course as cheesy as a ripe Stilton, but we don't need subtlety. Compliments are rare enough in an average man's life. And, the rest of Carla's profile description wasn't bad, except …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">No photo is never a good sign. In the modern age, I find it very difficult to believe that anyone doesn't possess a selection of electronic self-portraits, taken on phones or posted on Facebook or similar. No, anyone on a dating site with no photo has something to hide.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, at age fifty-one, it was quite that likely Carla had plenty to hide. Still, let's keep an open mind, and wasn't Nigella Lawson fifty-two? And, I absolutely <i>worshipped</i> Nigella Lawson. So, I sent her a slightly cagey reply:</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: LilyUPC,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hi Carla,<br />
<br />
Thanks for your mail. I like to think it's because I'm choosey! <br />
Your profile seems really nice. You must have a recent snap somewhere you could send me?<br />
<br />
Xxx Ben</span></span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Succinct and to the point – clearly indicating that I had no interest in getting into any more email ping-pong until I knew what she looked like. Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm not on here to make friends. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">With those two out of the way (and, let's face it, I never expected many women to make the first move, online any more than in real life), it was time to run a search. I set my criteria fairly broad, with the exception of distance – I'm not really interested in trekking more than a dozen miles away for a first date that, odds-on, will be a complete waste of time. And I firmly believe that you know nothing about someone until you actually meet them in person – the online stuff just establishes whether the most basic of criteria are met. Charlotte was the classic example of that – the image I had of her when we were messaging was absolutely nothing like the real girl when we finally met. Based only on our online exchanges, I was fairly indifferent, but I fell for her quite hopelessly in the course of date one, and thought her the love of my life a few dates later. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But, onwards and … er … onwards! Sorting the results by the newest members (let's try and get in there before they become totally disillusioned by all the sub-human male trolls messaging them fifty times a day, looking for web-can fun), I had a long list of prospects. And, now it was time to start winnowing them down.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Those with no photo, or a photo which clearly resembled a stegosaurus, were rejected at once. I <i>try</i> to remain open-minded with regard to pictures, given that few people look really good in an average phone-camera snap, but it has to be said that some of these women were irredeemably unattractive. Their images really should be sketched into the unexplored areas of old seafarers' maps, to warn captains to steer well away. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, then there were the frustrating photos. The ones which show no one at all, but a picture of a sunset or a landscape. With most sites, these are technically forbidden, but some munters post them anyway, hoping to lure someone in with their personality and artistic appreciation. I am not fooled – someone else with something to hide (most probably a face like a dog's bum).</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And then there are the photo's taken too far away, often on holiday with the subject disguised by a pair of dark glasses and a floppy hat. Yes, it's nice to know you've been to the Pyramids and that you're a keen skier, but I'd like to see your face, please! In fact, I'm only really interested in one of your holiday snaps if it shows you in your bikini. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Similar to these are the fancy dress photo's. It's great to know what a fun person you are and what wacky times we might one day share, but can I please see what you look like without the clown make-up, orange wig and comedy glasses? Unless that's really what you look like when you're ready for the office?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The group photo's. A whole gang of girls enjoying a fab night out on the cocktails, dressed to the nines and looking hot. Except … which one are you? There's usually no indication, but if you look closely, you'll be able to tell. Yes, that's right – she's the ugly one.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Photo's of their pets. Christ, like we care … well, actually, pet photo's are a good disqualifier. A single dog can often be fine, but anyone with a photo of three vicious-looking Staffordshire Bull Terriers labelled “My gorgeous boys” is to be avoided. Even worse are multiple cats, or those who have a whole menagerie of horses, dogs, cats, rabbits, etc. You'll always be well-down the priority list with these women.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I find it very strange indeed that some women post photo's of their children. Frankly, the sites should ban such photo's – who knows what manner of sick pervert may be searching for their next victim? I wouldn't even post an unobscured photo of another adult – I think that is a violation of others' privacy. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I can't say as I can come up with any objection to the odd <i>lingerie</i> shot some women post on their profiles. I wouldn't exactly recommend it, unless a girl really is just looking for meaningless sex, but they will always get a message from me in any case. And I'm quite prepared to make it meaningful.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Photo's aside, what of the profiles themselves? Do men care?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There are of course plenty of women who write as little as possible. Unlike poor deluded Sparklingeyes above, yes, some of them can get away with it, simply because their photo is hot. And, in that respect, I'm no deeper than the next man – I'll drop them a brief, standard line. But no more than that – partly because I don't think they deserve it (how arrogant is that attitude?), but also because I simply find it difficult to come up with much to say. If they don't reveal <i>any</i> facet of their personality, how can I come up with a message that will be in any way meaningful or interesting? So, I don't bother – just a quick “like your photo; doing anything interesting this weekend?” one-liner. The chances of them writing back are tiny, in any case.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, yes, I at least do care what women have to say. And, some of it is awful.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There was this one. “Up for a challenge?” was her opening line. The rest of her profile described how “fiesty, firey, strong-willed and high-maintenance” she was, and how she wanted a man who was “strong enough” to put up with all this bullshit. Feeble-minded enough, would be more like it. Why on earth anyone would think those to be attractive qualities I cannot imagine. I've had enough challenges in my life, love – I'd like someone to actually be nice to me for a change. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then there are the supposed extreme sports/activity fanatics. The ones who are into hiking, mountain-biking, climbing, bungee-jumping, sky-diving, white water rafting, surfing, etc., all while managing to hold down a full-time job and be a single mother of three. Yeah, right …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The entitlement princesses. The ones who want to be flown to the Paris for a first date, taken on holiday to the Seychelles, showered with gifts of flowers and jewellery, and spoiled, spoiled, <i>spoiled,</i> by a “real gentleman” who is stupid enough to fork out for it all. One of them even blatantly described her preferred first date: “You choose, because you'll be paying”. Or, you could just visit an honest prostitute instead. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
The functional illiterates. These women do have something to say, but what it is is generally unintelligible. It's either hideously abbreviated text-speak, or (what I would hope) is deliberately misspelled English in an attempt to look cool. The worst of the latter, is, undoubtedly the term “gawjus”, usually applied to their Ritalin-addicted toddlers or vicious-faced little dogs. One on my list did not want to say much about herself, but encouraged men to message her and then “all will be reviled”. Yes, I'm sure it will, love …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then there was one who sounded ok, until she got to the point where she revealed “I have eleven tattoos – does that put you off?”. Yes, it does - if I want to date a stoker in the merchant navy I'll start hanging around the docks.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But the most common unappealing female profile is one that says nothing about them whatsoever, but simply consists of a long list of qualities which you, the poor aspiring male, must measure up to. These are, usually, resolutely conventional: tall (you can have a face like a baboon's arse but still be a big hit with the ladies, provided you are 6'2”), preferably dark, athletic, confident, successful, professional, affluent, handsome, etc. One girl had list exactly like every dopey tart's dream guy, but also added the qualifiers “not big-headed or arrogant, and not a cheater or a player”. Yeah, good luck finding that combination, baby. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">You get the odd variation on what they are looking for – some of them openly look for “bad boys, tattoos, motorbikes, muscles, attitude”, and maybe bald instead of dark (but always TALL, even when they are 5'1”). What these women should simply put is “I want to be treated like dirt, battered senseless and cheated on at every available opportunity”. I'm sure they are generally successful in their quest. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, it wasn't hard to whittle down my list to more manageable proportions. But, in truth, there were still plenty of attractive, independent, normal-sounding women who could at least string a sentence together. By the time I had messaged them all, I had received a reply back from the mysterious Carla, who enclosed the requested photo. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Which appeared to be of Yoda's sister, and not the Nigella look-alike I was hoping for. Oh, well, surely one of the ones I've messaged has to go somewhere!</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-3865853565300946762012-04-08T05:11:00.000-07:002012-04-08T05:11:55.629-07:00The Shark Does Not Swim Backwards<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I've always found Thai food to be a winner for dates. It's got that touch of the exotic, while appearing much more upmarket than Chinese or Indian, and the restaurant service is usually immaculate. And, it's not <i>too</i> spicy (you don't want an overpowering after-taste when it's time to move onto kissing), while still offering plenty of those dishes which invite sharing and intimacy.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Dinner with Jenny was going well, despite the extended trek back from Sarah's to the restaurant. I had suggested calling a cab, but Jenny dismissed the idea: not willing to admit, I think, that where Sarah lived was not “just round the corner” at all. Pugsly, thank God, had been left behind, despite his plaintive yelps, and had been assured that “Auntie Sarah” would look after him (was the creature ever actually left alone, I wondered).</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It seemed Jenny had known Sarah for less than a year, but the two clearly shared a mutual interest in dogs – pugs in particular. Jenny also confirmed what had been my growing suspicion since meeting Sarah – that she was not entirely what might be termed “the full quid”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sarah's had a few problems,” Jenny admitted, “but she's been out of hospital for quite a while now, and just has a care worker popping round once a week or so, to make sure she's taking her medication and keeping on top of things. Her father was a High Court judge, you know – he bought her that house so she would always have somewhere to stay”. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ah, so now the fabulous town-house made sense. It seemed that Sarah took in lodgers – she was obviously incapable of working – so I guessed it was through a combination of their rent, the welfare state, and whatever trust fund her late daddy had left her that she was able to support herself. I felt sorry for her now, although I thought she made an odd choice of friend for Jenny – nothing like the much younger girls she used to hang out with. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Although, the flap we had experienced just before leaving Sarah's had been some indication. Jenny suddenly announced with horror that she didn't know where she'd left her handbag, and both women worked themselves up into a near frenzy of mutual self-recrimination. “Oh, I don't see it anywhere in the kitchen, Jenny,” said Sarah, “That's why I use one of those belts with the pouches – if I have a bag I know I'll put it down and forget about it.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes,” said Jenny, “I am getting a bit absent-minded these days. Oooh, I hope I haven't left it in The George … Ben, did you see me bring it back from The George? Oooh, where is it now? How silly of me ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eventually, I was forced to do the obvious thing and look in the hallway by the door, where of course Jenny's bag was to be found. I don't think I'd have received a more rapturous response if I'd discovered Maddie McCann alive and well. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But, now I had left my overnight bag in one of the bedrooms on Sarah's top floor, and Jenny and I were enjoying our Thai meal, while I attempted to get as much Pinot Grigio down her neck as was humanly possible. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The conversation was flowing easily, and was moving onto old times and past mutual friends. Jenny was surprised to learn that Bernie was married, and had recently become a father: “Wow! I thought he was the eternal bachelor. And what about little Sabrina, then – what's she doing these days?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh, she's married as well, now – to Gareth. They've got two daughters and live in the West Country.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sabrina and Gareth? They got back together then?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” I tried to ensure my voice betrayed no hint of emotion. I think I got away with it – fifteen years, after all.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Gosh, I remember they split up just before we did.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Yes, Jenny, do the math, as the Americans say. But, either Jenny had never put two and two together, or she had learned to be almost as good a liar as me.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I am so sorry, you know, Jenny,” I judged it was time for the big apology, “You never did … anything to deserve what happened. I was … I don't know what I was … But I've only ever thought of you with the greatest of affection, and the greatest of regret about … how we ended ...”</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you for saying that, Ben. I was really upset, you know. For a while things … were a bit of a mess. You were the love of my life ...”</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And now I really did feel lower than dog dirt. But, still, needs must. I reached out and held her hand. </div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm lucky that Mum was there for me,” Jenny continued, “It was a difficult time. But, you know,” she smiled with genuine warmth, “life goes on, and I did get over it eventually. Then there was Steve, who was bit immature, really, and Dave, who was a bit of a wet blanket. I did really like Keith, but he turned out to be a boozer ...”</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The list of Jenny's post-me men turned out to be long and unedifying, and I began to feel a lot less guilty. She'd certainly made a determined effort to get over the “love of her life”. Damn' her for not joining a convent instead!</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well, I can't say that my relationships after you have worked out very well,” I said. Confession time – up to a point. “I did start seeing someone after you, but it only lasted a short time, then after that I met my ex-wife. I don't know what I was thinking about there ...”</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That must have been quite soon after me, then?” Was Jenny probing? I back-tracked.</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It was a few months later,” I continued. <i>Tell me no secrets, tell me some lies</i> … “As I say, it didn't last long, and then I met my ex-wife almost immediately after. I think with her it was a case of both seeming to want the same things - to settle down, start a family - but the problem was we were really two completely different people.”</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Had that worked? Deflecting attention away from you-know-who to the Screaming Banshee? Who I didn't want to slate too much at this stage – you get nowhere with women by sounding bitter and twisted.</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm sorry about that, Ben. You seemed so happy in your wedding photos.” Happy? More a case of the Stockholm Syndrome, I'd say. But I seem to have performed a successful <i>segue</i> over certain unpleasant facts. </div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well, I tried everything I could. That's why I moved out of London – to be nearer her family, as I thought it would make her happy. But nothing worked, in the end. I've been on quite a few dates, since my divorce – even saw this one girl for a while last year – but ultimately that didn't work either.”</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Aw, why not?”</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Too big an age gap, I think – she was twenty years younger than me, and I think that got to her in the end.” Was that too cruel, given Jenny's advancing years? Or was Charlotte an appropriate demonstration of value?</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It didn't seem to do me any harm. The conversation continued to flow throughout the rest of dinner, as we caught up with our lives, expressed our regrets, and made our vows of friendship. More importantly, we managed to get through two bottles of Pinot Grigio, and I ensured that Jenny's glass was always well-filled.</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, then the meal was over, and what were we to do? It was Jenny who suggested another drink at The George. I'd have preferred to have gone straight back to her flat, but, if more alcohol was required, who was I to argue? I paid the bill and we moved on.</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was swing night at The George, and well-attended by a mixed crowd of 1940's throw-backs. I found it hard to believe that any of them could have been part of The George's original clientèle. A DJ was playing a constant stream of jazz and big band numbers, and the brylcreamed guys and girls were jiving and lindy hopping across the wooden floor, now cleared of tables to become a dance venue.</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Neither Jenny or I could actually dance – at least, not the sort of dancing which involved prescribed steps, physical co-ordination and practice. So, we took our position next to the bar, and it seemed only natural that my arm should slip around her waist. Jenny not only did not object, but moved her body closer to mine, so that we moulded together. I could smell her hair, and her perfume, and feel the rising intoxication of arousal. </div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I took a chance, and kissed her softly on the side of the neck. Jenny swayed closer to me – was that an intake of breath? I pushed further, and kissed her on the lips. </div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">No objection, but no tongues, either. No words were spoken – well, it would have been difficult to hear over the blaring jazz. But we'd already said enough that evening; it was time to hold each other close, to rediscover the old, familiar feel of each others bodies, and watch the dancers spin and gyrate.</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was nearing midnight when I suggested that we leave. Jenny agreed readily – she had to be up early, she claimed, to take Pugsly for his morning walk. We stepped outside, and I told Jenny I would walk her home.</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No,” she replied, “We have to go to Sarah's. I need to get Pugsly and take him home – and I need to show you the way. Bet you can't remember.”</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It would have taken me a while to find it, that was true. And, I could tell that Jenny was rather drunk. Ok, then, let's go and get Pugsly – then I can insist on escorting you back home again.</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The long trek back to Sarah's was mostly spent supporting Jenny, who was no longer very sure of foot. At one point, I found it easier to carry her – no great feat considering how tiny she was. The afternoon's charade was repeated – a ring of the bell, a tirade of furious barking, Sarah's ineffectual attempts to calm the yapping beasts, and then the door finally opened. God only knows what the neighbours thought.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once more, Jenny's attention was totally absorbed by Pugsly, rearing up with joy at her return. His rampant pink appendage glistened revoltingly under the streetlights. My patience was at an end.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Let's get inside, shall we?” I said, taking Jenny's arm. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Something approaching calm eventually prevailed in the kitchen. I sat down in a chair, while Jenny first leaned back against the wall, then slipped slowly to the floor. She sat there beside Pugsly, who began compliantly licking her hand. She was very, very drunk. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Sarah fussed around offering unnecessary coffees, which I eventually accepted just to shut her up. Christ only knows what she made it with – it was the foulest, bitterest cup of undrinkable sludge I have ever been presented with. I pretended to sip at it, while the situation resolved itself.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Right, then,” slurred Jenny, “I shuppose I'd better be heading home ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh, no,” said Sarah, “Jenny, you've had far too much to drink. Why don't you stay here and go home in the morning? You're quite welcome to the sofa.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No, I should go home now,” Jenny murmured, her eyes already closed.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Look,” I said, “There's no way you can go home alone. I'll take you, if you want to go ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yesh,” said Jenny, “But then you'll never find your way back here … can't have you wandering the streets all night, Ben ...” </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Well, that's certainly what I was hoping. Let me do the chivalrous thing and escort Jenny back home, then it would seem like cruel and unusual punishment to turf me out into the night once more. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But, it seemed Jenny was resolved not to allow me across the threshold. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'sh alright, I'll be fine,” she said, “It'sh only a couple of minutes away. I'll have Pugsly with me ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Yes, that little yapping penis-with-legs would certainly deter any assailant, I thought. Jenny tried to rise, pushing her back half-way up the wall, but then abandoned the unequal struggle and sank once more to the floor.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe I will shtay here, then, if that'sh all right Sarah ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course it is, you know that,” said Sarah, apparently relishing the prospect of someone else to fuss over in the morning. “I'll go and make up the sofa.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'sh fine, don't bother,” Jenny continued, “I'll jusht shleep upshtairs with Ben ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Game on! Result! It looked as though Jenny had already made her mind up, and further seduction moves were no longer required. I felt my blood begin to rise. Time to press the advantage home.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Right, I don't know about anyone else, but I'm ready for my bed,” I said decisively. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There was a flurry of thanks and goodnights, then Jenny and I headed upstairs. We entered what was now our room, and Jenny immediately slumped in the one chair and closed her eyes once more. I debated internally for a second, and then decided that brushing my teeth would be a good move. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">When I returned from the bathroom, Jenny was no longer alone. Pugsly had found her, and was curled up beneath her chair. He remained silent, but regarded me with a baleful stare that spoke of pure venom.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I sat on the bed. It was only a single, but surely that was even better, if I could just get Jenny into it. Or did she intend to spend all night in that bloody chair? I was at a loss how to proceed. If I went anywhere near her, the fucking dog was bound to kick off, and waking everyone in the house was the last thing I needed. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The best I could do was leave her to it. The chair did not look very comfortable, and was also directly under the ceiling light, which I had no intention of switching off. Not until Jenny had done the sensible thing and gotten into bed with me. I just had to hope that she wasn't so drunk that she could actually sleep as she was.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I was proven correct after a few minutes. Jenny's eyes suddenly snapped open. “Think I'd better lie down,” she said, “Can I go on the inside, next to the wall?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Naturally, I was only too happy to oblige. I stood up, to allow her access, and Jenny slipped off her leather jacket and high heels. The rest of her clothes, however, she left on, and she then slipped under the duvet.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I snapped off the light, plunging the little room into darkness, and quickly slipped out of my clothes. I didn't want to leave her in any doubt as to my intentions, and remembered how she had thrilled to my naked body in the past. I slid under the duvet beside her, necessarily close in the narrow cot. Pugsly seemed to have settled, thank God, so it was finally time to proceed. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Jenny had her back to me, but instinctively moulded her body into mine, so that we spooned together. Her gorgeous little arse was pushed against my crotch, and the effect was electric. She always knew how that turned me on. But, clearly, another round of seduction was expected.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I kissed the back of her neck softly, while caressing her thigh through her jeans. Jenny murmured, and wriggled slightly so that she moved against my erection. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips, feeling her yielding softly, but still not allowing me to explore her mouth with my tongue. More work required.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I slid my hand up the front of her t-shirt, feeling her small but beautifully-formed breasts. Her right nipple hardened to my touch; I played with it for a while, then slid my hand down her stomach towards her crotch, all the while planting little kisses along the line of her neck. In a moment, I expected, she'd turn around and take me in her arms.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But, she didn't. Jenny remained resolutely in the spooning position, occasionally moving slightly against me, but at no point did she attempt to touch me anywhere. Nor would she kiss me properly. She wasn't stopping me, but she was definitely drawing a line as to what was permitted.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I pressed further, remembering Jenny from the past as a submissive who needed to be led, but who once aroused was prepared to do just about any filthy thing my mind could come up with. I undid the fastening of her jeans and pushed my hand inside, confident that I was good at that sort of thing. After all, even in our current lets-just-be-friends relationship, Charlotte still reckoned I should be giving lessons to other men. And she had certainly had plenty to compare me against.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I took my time, gently massaging Jenny's pussy through her knickers, building a teasing tension that should have had her gagging for it by the time I made my next move. If history was any guide, she should have been dripping wet by the time I actually got around to touching the bare flesh. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But, when I finally did slip my hand inside, there was nothing doing. No sign of arousal at all. Christ, was this the same girl I knew fifteen years ago?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ok, then, time for stronger measures. If it's oral action she needs …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I undid her jeans further, and started to pull them down her hips. But, then, Jenny grunted and pulled away from me. Clearly, I was going a step too far.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And you know what, Jenny, I suddenly thought. Fuck you. Fuck you and your bloody so-far-and-no-further, fuck your bloody dog, your mad friend, your absent-mindedness and your big long treks that are “just around the corner”. Fuck your “let's get old Ben to stand for an expensive dinner”, fuck your mixed-up life, fuck your bloody cow of a mother, and fuck this whole bloody waste of a weekend. Because I don't want you back, I never really loved you in the first place, and you irritated the hell out of me all the time that we lived together. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And there's absolutely no fucking way was I going to jump through whatever hoops she intended to set out for me, just so that I could get a shag. It was the 21<sup>st</sup> century, for Christ's sake, and she had to be pushing sixty years old. Wasn't it about time we got away from the whole idea of sex being something women reluctantly give to men, in return for their supplication, commitment and material expenditure?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It's not that I was entirely against the idea of supplication, commitment and material expenditure (God knows, I had promised Charlotte <i>anything</i>), but certainly not with Jenny. I'd been hoping for something mutually pleasurable but with no strings - perhaps just the once for old times sake – but it was clear that was not on her agenda. Perhaps nothing was, other than leading me on and then knocking me back. Perhaps that was Jenny's revenge.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In which case, fair enough – I suppose I deserved it. But, the past is a foreign country. And, there's a reason why sharks do not swim backwards.</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-27623378278134460822012-04-06T09:56:00.001-07:002012-04-06T09:58:10.086-07:00The Plan Unfolds<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oooh! You're there already?” Jenny sounded shocked. Obviously, my earlier text had not been noticed.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah, I got an earlier connection,” I said, thinking that there was, surely, no big problem. I knew Jenny's flat was only a few minutes walk away. Unfortunately, after fifteen years, I couldn't quite remember <i>where</i>. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm not quite ready yet,” Jenny continued. “Emm … why don't you go to a pub and I'll meet you there in a bit?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eh? What the hell was that all about? Why didn't she simply direct me to her place? But, there was nothing to do but play it cool for now.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sure,” I said, “The George isn't far from here, is it?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes, not far. Remember we used to go there all the time?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I did indeed. Back in the day, The George had been a traditional old South London boozer, and their lunchtime roast, topped with a few relaxing beers, had been a splendid way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I used to read Jenny amusing stories from the Sunday papers, and enjoyed the novelty of being out in public with an actual girlfriend, just like a normal person.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ok, I'll see you there later.” I hung up my phone and took a proper look around, trying to get my bearings. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was no good. The station exit led to a typical close-packed London street, and I had no way of orientating myself, despite knowing that The George could not be more than ten minutes walk away. I was, in the end, forced to submit to that ultimate male humiliation: I asked a passer-by for directions. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Had I come to the right place? The exterior was vaguely familiar, but, once inside, there was nothing about The George to evoke any of my fifteen year-old memories. Stepping inside that pub used to be like slipping on a worn and comfortable pair of shoes, but now it was more like entering an operating theatre. The harsh lighting and reflective chrome seemed almost designed to set you on edge. But I knew a cure for that.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Pint of Budvar, please,” I told the barman. Change can be good. The on-draught Czech Budweiser was certainly an improvement over the vile Hofmeister of yesteryear. I took my place at one of the stunted little tables and waited for Jenny to appear. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My first impression was that she did not disappoint. Jenny wore a snakeskin-patterned black leather jacket, black jeans and a rhinestone-encrusted t-shirt. The blonde bob was glossy and immaculate; a small black handbag, multiple silver bangles and a crucifix necklace completed the ensemble. Not many women fifteen years younger could get away with the rock chick look, but Jenny most definitely still had it.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We kissed (on the cheek, of course), and I got her a drink from the bar. Dry white wine, as ever – and she was getting a large one whether she wanted it or not. And another large one later that evening, I was certainly hoping. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ahh, it's lovely to see you,” Jenny cooed, “So nice of you to make the effort to come down”. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My pleasure,” I countered, “Especially as I get to see you looking this amazing. Love that jacket.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's a favourite of mine, too,” she said, and reached out to squeeze my hand, “Whatever happened to that red leather jacket of yours? Have you still got it?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I liked to think I still “had it”, but the red leather was of course long gone. I didn't even wear my black one much any more, since Charlotte's sad admonition about “old men in leather jackets” had involved her shaking her head with despair. Truth be told, I did find it difficult to dress with a dignity becoming my age nowadays, in anything less formal than a suit. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But, the hand-squeezing was most definitely a good sign. Now, do we finish this drink quickly, and get back to her place with enough time for a quickie before dinner?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No, I think I gave to charity ages ago,” I continued, “This place has certainly changed. I was wondering for a while if I'd come to the right pub.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's a lot different round here now,” said Jenny, “All gone a bit upmarket. Much nicer than it was, really”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes,” I said, “I'm hoping this Thai restaurant I've booked for later is good – the reviews all seemed very positive. It's pretty close to yours, isn't it? I must admit I can't really remember the geography around here at all.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh, it's just across the road. And it's very nice – I haven't been for ages, but I'm really looking forward to it.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And then came the plan. Her plan, that was, not mine. Jenny gestured to the overnight bag which lay at my feet. “What we'll do,” she said, “is have this drink and then we'll go to Sarah's place so you can leave your bag. Pugsly's there, so you can get to say hello! He's so excited - just dying to meet you. Sarah's got a pug, too, you know – she often looks after Pugsly for me when I go out.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, that was the game. Clearly designed to ensure that I <i>didn't</i> get be in private with Jenny at her place. But, no reason to be despondent – perhaps it was a sign that <i>Jenny</i> didn't trust herself not to tear my clothes off if we found ourselves alone. After all, she had always been rather keen in the past. Later tonight, after a romantic meal, plenty more wine, and some flirtatious chat, I would surely be walking her back to her place. And it would only be natural to be invited in for coffee …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We finished our drinks and headed for Sarah's house - “just around the corner” I had been assured. Jenny set off at dramatic pace, despite her silver high-heels. Hoisting my bag upon my shoulder, I was forced to lengthen my stride to keep up</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The walk did nothing to improve my sense of orientation. I remembered that Jenny's flat was located directly on the main road which led to central London, but where that was in relation to the maze of side-streets we were navigating I could not tell. Judging by how far we were walking, this friend Sarah seemed to live somewhere near Brighton. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Here we are,” said Jenny at last, as we entered a small cul-de-sac lined with impressive three-story town-houses. Who was this Sarah, I wondered, who could afford one of these? At an absolute minimum, these were all £750K homes – far beyond anything to which I could ever aspire these days. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Jenny rang the bell, setting off an insane cacophony of high-pitched barking, but no sign of anyone coming to answer the door. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's very good of your friend to put me up,” I said, “She, er, does know we're coming, doesn't she?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh, yes,” said Jenny, “Sarah's just a little slow, sometimes”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eventually, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of someone coming towards the door. Someone who was trying most ineffectually to calm the frantic yapping of the dogs within.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hush, now, Pugsly … Hush, Albert …“ </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yap! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yap! Yip! Yap!”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was the sound of someone trying to persuade the sea tide to stop coming in. The door opened, and the canine frenzy reached new heights. Sarah barely managed “Hello” before she felt she had to turn around and admonish them some more. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Pugsly!” called Jenny, with all the delight of a returning mother, “How's my little man?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And then the yapping stopped, as Pugsly recognised his mistress and scampered towards her, wimpering with sheer unalloyed joy. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There's something inherently comic about pugs, with their little squashed faces and stumpy legs, and an expression that can be reminiscent of Winston Churchill. Pugsly was jet black, but with an expression that put me more in mind of another historical figure – in this case, Aleister Crowley. He reared up on his hind legs in front of his mistress, revealing an obscenely pink and unbelievably large penis, running almost the full length of his chunky little body. Jenny appeared not to notice this abomination, and cooed away at the ugly little dog as though he were a long-lost child. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The other pug, smaller and brindle-coloured, and whose name I had heard was Albert, had lost his boldness now that the door was open, and was hanging back in the hall with Sarah. Like Jenny, Sarah was engaged in an intense baby-talk calming session with the beast, and for neither woman did the the wider world seem to exist at all.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I stood back for a while, clutching my bag, and feeling distinctly awkward and out of place. Should I just turn round and walk back to the station now? Would anyone have even noticed?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eventually, Albert seemed to have been placated and Sarah was able to come to the door once more. “Hello,” she said again, looking in my direction with a polite smile. I was able to tell that she walked with a slight limp.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Sarah was one of those women who could be any age between thirty-five and seventy. It was difficult to believe that she had ever been really young, and also difficult to believe that any man had ever found her desirable. Her auburn hair was cut sensible-short, and she wore an indeterminately blue/green jogging suit that mercifully hid her shapeless form. A pair of glasses on a string around her neck completed the picture. Was she even the same species as someone like Charlotte or Louise?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hi there,” I said, “I'm Ben, Jenny's … friend.” Just what the hell was I exactly? What had Jenny told her about me? “Friend” was about the best I could come up with. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh, yes, Sarah, this is Ben, who I told you about.” Jenny had snapped out of her love-fest with Pugsly. Unfortunately, so had he, and the little dog began a sustained low growl as he became aware of my presence. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hush, Pugsly,” Jenny scolded, completely without effect. “Shall we all go in?”</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-66008012791912782822012-04-03T05:49:00.003-07:002012-04-03T05:57:36.363-07:00Back to the Future?<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The gentle rhythm of the train was helping to ease the insistent throb of my hang-over. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea in the world to go for a heavy session the evening before, but it had turned into one of those nights. And it certainly vindicated my plan to take the train, rather than drive. The idea of battling the motorway while feeling this fragile did not appeal. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That would be lovely, Ben,” Jenny had said, when I suggested coming to see her that weekend. A fortnight had passed since her mother's funeral, and I judged the time to be ripe. Not too soon – give her time to get over it, and don't look <i>too</i> keen. On the other hand, strike while the iron was at least still warm, and get the job done …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">What job, exactly? What was I going to see Jenny <i>for</i>? If I was honest, it was an idea I'd run through my mind a few times over the past few months. Not before. As long as I'd been married, my mind never harked back to Jenny, unhappy even though many of the later years had been. But, my marriage had been like that – something which, despite the difficulties, I just assumed was to be a constant feature of the rest of my life. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, I hadn't ever considered her after I got divorced, and when I first relaunched myself onto the circuit and tried to meet women. Perhaps that was because I was looking to the future, and not the past. And, then I met Charlotte and everything had seemed wonderful and Jenny belonged to ancient prehistory.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After Charlotte, heart-broken as I was, I still faced the future with optimism. After all, I had just pulled one super-hot 25 year-old blonde, so why couldn't I quickly pull another? Get back out there, hit the scene, trawl the dating sites, and …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The truth eventually began to dawn. Charlotte had been an outlier, an exceptional event in my middle-age made possible only because of her own circumstances at the time. And, it became very obvious that once that particular phase in her life was over, my services were no longer required. And that, on the whole, super-hot 25 year-old blondes are not very interested in 40-something divorced men. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The sad truth was that single women anywhere near my age were nothing like Charlotte. They were, on the whole, simply awful, and my post-Charlotte dating experiences were a grim litany of failure. With Charlotte, of course, amazing though it had been, the reality was once she had grown bored she had no hesitation in dumping me, and remained resolutely impervious to repeated begging, pleading, promises, tears and the full, pathetic depths of my self-abasement. So, really, she wasn't so nice either.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The “big one” before Charlotte, of course, had been my ex-wife, who was possibly the most bitter and twisted human being I could ever have made the mistake of becoming involved with. And before that, well, there had been <i>her</i>, and before that there had been Jenny. Who had always been really sweet, affectionate, and loving, and who certainly hadn't deserved to be chucked in the way that she had been ... </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, it was not altogether surprising that I had started to view my old relationship with Jenny with some nostalgia. To wonder what it was she was doing now, whether she was single, and about what-ifs and might've-beens. But, to actually get in touch had been too difficult – I had long ago lost her address and phone number; had no idea, in fact, whether she had moved, got married, settled down with someone, or whatever. And, while I'm sure some detective work with my family could have uncovered these things, I really didn't want to re-open the whole Jenny issue with them again.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Jenny's mother's funeral, then – was it some signal from fate? Naturally, Eleanor Morrison had loathed the very sight of me for the last 15 years of her life – I was the one who dumped her little Jenny, and I couldn't blame her for feeling that way. But, with her mother gone, was the way now somehow clear? For what?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I didn't really believe in fate. I was tempted to, during the heights of my love affair with Charlotte, which I could sometimes think was some karmic reward for all the years of suffering through a terrible marriage and worse divorce. But, Charlotte was history, and surely I didn't deserve all this bad luck for the way I had treated Jenny 15 years ago?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, I didn't really want Jenny back. In some ways, I never really wanted Jenny in the first place, not the way I'd later wanted Charlotte, and before that (I suppose) my ex-wife, and before that … well … one or two others. I'd been hugely attracted to Jenny when we first met, and had enjoyed our relationship up to a point, but had been persuaded to let her move in with me, and eventually came to regret it. Perhaps it was just that I wasn't ready to settle down at that stage in my life, but one big factor remained as true today as it had ever been – the age gap. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Hypocritical of me? Of course – Jenny being something over ten years older was a huge problem, while Charlotte being twenty years younger was just dandy. Of course, seeing Jenny again at that funeral had been a revelation – she looked nothing like her age, and I had felt the old feelings come surging back. Not feelings of deep romantic love, of course, but a feeling that I would really, really love to bang her senseless. Just for old times sake …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So shag her,” had been Charlotte's straightforward advice, when I told her about the funeral encounter and how hot Jenny still looked. I'm not sure that it's always the best idea in the world to have an ex-girlfriend as possibly your best friend, but I had always found, in matters such as these, that Charlotte was always right. And, I could be open and honest with her in a way that I couldn't with anyone else – who else knew my deepest desires and fantasies?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Other friends thought that I had little to lose by at least visiting Jenny one more time. My dear little friend Louise was less forthright than Charlotte, but was definitely implying something similar when she told me to “go for it”. Nick's advice was more basic still: “Any chance of a leg-over? Good man”. And I thought: why not? After all, Jenny and I were both consenting adults, so why shouldn't both of us be attracted to a little no-strings pleasure? The physical distance would ensure that nothing too intense happened – no reason we couldn't see each other now and again, of course, for the odd weekend have-it-away-day.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, it was with a sense of inevitability that I had suggested to Jenny that I visit that weekend. It turned out that she lived in the same South London flat as when we first met (temporarily rented out when she moved in with me). I resolved to travel down on the Saturday afternoon, and booked a nearby Thai restaurant for dinner for the two of us that evening. I could barely remember the geography around Jenny's old place, but Google Maps was my friend – and I wanted somewhere that was within easy walking distance of her flat. The plan, then, was clear: get down there around 6pm, meet up, have a couple of drinks (or maybe just tear each other's clothes off at once?), dinner and some chat, get as much Pinot Grigio down her neck as possible, then back to her place for wild, rampant, drunken sex. I had booked a return ticket for late Sunday afternoon, so as to allow plenty of time for more mellow, relaxed sex in Jenny's double bed all Sunday morning. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Of course, I couldn't be quite as blatant about it as that. I had to at least make a token effort at respectability, and find myself a hotel room, that I had no intention of using. But, no harm in hinting – rather then consult Google Maps, I asked Jenny where the nearest place to stay was, hoping of course that she would suggest her sofa (i.e., “her bed”). Disappointingly, she came up with a Travel Lodge about half a mile away.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, then she changed her mind, suggesting instead that I stay with her friend Sarah, who was (apparently) just around the corner from Jenny's and had plenty of room. While this sounded completely bizarre to me (what woman would cheerfully invite a friend's ex-boyfriend, who she had never met, and could be a complete nut-job, to stay at her house?), Charlotte believed I was onto a winner. “It's just cover,” Charlotte said, “You'll never get to the friend's, but Jenny doesn't feel she can ask you to stay at her place because it's too much like asking you for sex. And, if by any chance you do end up at the friend's, fuck her instead.” No beating about the bush with Charlotte.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, the die was cast. Jenny had arranged to meet me at her local station; it was a fine early spring day, everything was in walking distance, and I was travelling light with only a small overnight bag. My main journey was to Euston; I then faced a Tube ride across the centre of town, before a second mainline train to outer South London where Jenny lived. Pugsly, I had been informed, was really excited about meeting me.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I always enjoyed train journeys, and even experienced a slight nostalgic rush when using the Tube. Of course, it wasn't exactly pleasant, but the smell of rubber and burnt engine oil, and the foreign students with their ludicrously large backpacks, were a memory of another time. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The connections were quicker than I anticipated, and I caught an earlier local train to Jenny's than planned. No problem, I thought, and sent Jenny a text indicating that I would be around twenty minutes early. When the train pulled into her local station, my hang-over had gone completely, and it almost felt like stepping into the past. </div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-72538161501449488722012-03-25T05:20:00.004-07:002012-03-25T05:30:04.196-07:00Duty and curiosity<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The sudden chill was a reminder of a winter not yet gone. I shivered in my black merino Italian suit, wishing now that I had worn my long coat as well. But, it had seemed sunny when had arrived, and I always hated to be too warm …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Too warm” would have been inappropriate, in any case. A certain chill is, I think<i> de rigueur</i> at a funeral. There had even been a few crows pecking around on the grass outside – or were they ravens? Death may be the one certainty facing us all, yet few of us care to contemplate what it conventionally involves. If we are lucky, it will be friends and relatives gathered for a brief service of remembrance: homilies said, tears shed, then off to the reception for sausage rolls and little triangular sandwiches. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Who would come to mine, I wondered? I was the youngest of my family, and so assumed I would outlive my siblings. There were my children, of course, and they would hopefully (assuming the unhappy event was sufficiently distant) have wives and children of their own by then. The Screaming Banshee? Probably only if she were allowed to dance on my grave. Then there were my friends, some of whom at least would be bothered enough to make an appearance, and (being optimistic) some really important people I hadn't met yet – the imaginary grieving widow? Think positive! And, being 20 years younger than me, there was also the possibility that Charlotte would still be looking pretty hot even by then. Black always suited her, too. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">All things considered, then, I could see that Eleanor actually had a pretty good turn-out. Naturally, I didn't know a lot of them – I wasn't really close to the woman, and certainly not for the past 15 years – but I guessed that was the sister from Wales who used to get mentioned, and various friends from various stages of her life. Including my mother, of course, who was the main reason I was there – Eleanor Morrison had been one of her closest friends, and I knew she would want to be at Eleanor's funeral to say goodbye. I also knew that my mother would not have wanted to come alone, and so there I was. A son's duty.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">That was not the entire truth. It was reason enough, to be sure – but I did have another incentive for making an appearance at Eleanor Morrison's funeral. An incentive which owed more to curiosity, and to my own past. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I'd known the Morrisons only vaguely while growing up. They no longer lived nearby; my family had moved away shortly before I was born. But, prior to that, the families had been close, and my elder siblings and the three Morrison girls were of a similar age and had a lot of shared memories.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Not my memories. But, fate can play the strangest of hands. Scroll forward to the 1990's, when I was living in London, with my career on a high and the single life treating me well. Perhaps not that well – I remember a succession of fleeting relationships that, while fun at the time, left me feeling dissatisfied and longing for something more. But, it was the high summer: I was young, I was going places, I had money in my pocket, a flat in one of the nicer parts of town, and a white Porsche 911 that I loved more than all the women I'd ever had rolled together, if that were possible. And, I also had my mother pop down for a visit, coincidently while Eleanor Morrison was visiting her middle daughter Anna in the south-west of the city.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, it was natural to meet up at the daughter's house one evening for dinner. And, it was natural, thereafter, for me to keep in touch with Anna, as a family friend who lived just down the road, and completely unremarkable for Anna to invite me along to a party at one of her friend's houses a couple of weeks later.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was a dull night, so I went, despite it being held in one of the outer London suburbs and my misgivings about probably being the youngest person there, allied to that fact that I wouldn't know anyone apart from Anna Morrison and her taciturn boyfriend. Although, Anna had informed me that</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Jenny will be there, and she's really looking forward to seeing you again”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Jenny. The youngest of the Morrison girls, who also lived in London somewhere, but who I was straining my memory to remember. Anna was at least vaguely familiar from family weddings and the like, but Jenny I could only place through things that had been said about her. Jenny the rebel. Jenny the bohemian. Jenny the great worry on her mother's mind. Jenny who had run off aged 17 with a much older man, and who was then married and divorced before the the age of 25. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I didn't remember ever meeting Jenny at all, but I suppose I must have done at some point in my childhood, when I was probably a lot more interested in what Doctor Who was getting up to. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I took the Porsche. It offered the prospect of a rapid get-away if the party turned out to be too unspeakably awful, without having the long, awkward wait for a cab. Plus, in those magical days before speed cameras multiplied like bacteria, and every road was “improved” to be as pleasant to drive on as a cart-track, it was an opportunity to let her out for a bit, and enjoy the banshee-wail of the flat six boxer-motor. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I was wrong about being the youngest person at the party. But it was pretty unspeakable all the same, as the guests consisted of two age groups: the 45+ squad that included the hostess, Anna Morrison and the rest of the adults, and an extremely awkward gang of young teenagers, aged 12-15, built around the hostesses son. I felt like some strange exhibition piece, in my Hugo Boss raw silk jacket and Ralph Lauren polo shirt – a piece of urban sophistication cast adrift in suburbia. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I was, in fact, contemplating a swift exit, when Anna tapped me on the shoulder and announced that Jenny had arrived. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hello Ben.” Jenny seemed to recognise me. The feeling wasn't mutual, but I didn't care. Rationally, I knew Jenny wasn't that much younger than her sister, and was therefore a lot older than I was, but she certainly didn't look it. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, with delicate, bird-like features and huge brown eyes. Shoulder-length, chestnut hair, and a sophisticated rock-chick ensemble of black jeans, black leather jacket and cropped t-shirt (oh, that midriff!) completed the picture. Suddenly, the prospect of spending the rest of the evening at that party didn't seem to awful at all. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Jenny and I didn't leave each other's side for the remainder of the party. The sexual attraction was intense, electric and overpowering. I drove her home at the end of the night, and she practically squirmed with pleasure in the Porsche's leather bucket seat. When we kissed, I was consumed with wanting her. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And so it began. There was, to be sure, a <i>frisson</i> of guilt about the whole thing, what with her being older and (in theory) an old family friend. But any doubts were soon cast aside once I had taken her to bed for the first time – the sex was terrific. And, Jenny was sweet, affectionate, and fun to be with, and certainly didn't act like a more mature woman. A bit scatty at times, in fact, but that seemed like no problem in the early haze of deep lust.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eventually, we moved in together – a first for me at the time. Now, it wasn't exactly love's young dream – more a practical solution to Jenny's financial problems – but it seemed great at first. For the first time in my adult life, I wasn't coming home to an empty flat, with last night's detritus lying exactly where I had left it. I wasn't waking up alone on a quiet Sunday morning and feeling the day yawning emptily ahead of me.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
But, after a while, problems began to emerge. Our families found out, and mine was distinctly disapproving. Also, the trouble with being a rebel and a bohemian in your youth is that you end up still working in a shop when you are in your 40's, and Jenny continued to take a very traditional view of male/female relationships when it came to paying for things. I started to resent the fact that I was paying for absolutely everything, not just the exotic holidays and expensive nights out, but the weekly shopping and the mortgage and the utility bills as well. I also began to question whether this was really <b>it</b> – didn't I want to get married someday, to someone with a similar age and education to myself, and who wanted to have children at some point?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There was another factor, too, which only really emerged towards the end of our relationship …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Everything ends badly, otherwise it wouldn't end” - the movie <i>Cocktail</i> does include a few words of wisdom. After a couple of years, Jenny and I did end badly, and in a way that left me with a serious legacy of guilt. I was the one, after all, who called time and chucked her out.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And that was it, for some 15 years, during which I loved and lost, got married and divorced, became a father, moved out of London, saw my life hit rock-bottom and and then start to move forward again, although what it was now moving forward towards I had no idea. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And there I was at her mother's funeral, and there was Jenny with her sisters on the other side of the chapel, and I didn't know what the hell I was going to say to her.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Curiosity about Jenny, of course, had been my strong incentive for coming. I hadn't set eyes on her since that awful day, 15 years ago, when she had taken the last of her things (and quite a few of mine, favourite CD's in particular) and left my flat for the last time. One thing she left behind was a silly soft toy boa constrictor, which I had bought for her in a moment of high spirits on a day out somewhere. “You can keep the snake,” were her final, telling, words. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, what was she like now? Had she got over me (oh, the vanity we all share that ex's never do!)? Had she found happiness? Was she married, content, settled? And, perhaps most of all, what did she look like now? She must be pretty ancient, I thought – I never did find out exactly how old she was, but she was certainly in her '40's when we were together, which must make her pushing 60 by now. And, no one looks good at that age. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Except for Jenny. Looking across the chapel, I was amazed how virtually nothing seemed to have changed. The long chestnut hair was now a cropped blonde bob, but it really suited her. She had certainly not put on any weight, and was elegantly clad in a black velvet suit and cream blouse. Her face had not changed at all – the delicate, bird-like features seem to have barely added a wrinkle. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was later, at the reception, that we actually spoke. There was an initial, polite exchange: my expression of sympathies, her thanks for my attending. Jenny was upset, naturally, but her mother had been sick for a long time, so her death hadn't come as a shock. And, after the catharsis of the service itself, the general mood at the reception had lifted. After all, funerals share with christenings and marriages the common feature of people who have not seen each other for years becoming reacquainted.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After a while, I sought her out at a quiet table and we really talked. “I wasn't sure I should come,” I admitted, “But I wanted to ensure that my mother did. And, I did want to see you again. I just want to know that you're … all right ...” </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Jenny <b>was</b> all right. She had moved on, as one might expect in 15 years. Oh, she wasn't married or settled or anything like that, but there had been other relationships. And, she said, when one of her sister's had shown her some of my wedding photos, “I realised that was the right thing for Ben.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I allowed myself a short, bitter, laugh. “Well, it wasn't, I can assure you of that. Biggest mistake I ever made.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But you've got your boys, now, surely you don't regret them?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Of course I did not, and that led to showing her some of the photo's on my phone, which she then reciprocated with shots of her dog – a little, black, squashed up thing with an evil expression on its face. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's Pugsly,” said Jenny, “I've only had him a few months, but he's absolutely lovely. He's a Pug, you know, and he's ever such good company”. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As the day drew to an end, we exchanged vows of friendship, and also phone numbers. And I found myself saying the fateful words: “It would be great to see you again sometime, Jenny”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes, Ben, yes it would”.</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-41517177397618998272012-03-11T11:15:00.001-07:002012-03-11T11:58:29.461-07:00It can get worse?<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">There should be a word for it: when you become disillusioned with something, give it up, and then find the alternatives so god-awfully dreadful that you go back to the first thing again. Maybe there is. Maybe it's called despair.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I had not, of course, entirely deleted all of my online dating profiles, but I had ceased bothering to check my inbox for the odd missive from 56 year-old tattooed grandmothers, and hadn't run a profile search to check the latest batch of fresh meat in quite a while. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, I don't know why I bothered to open the message I received from “Oksana918”, once the notification had been forwarded to my phone. Maybe it was something to do with the thumbnail photo, which showed a slim, willowy blonde with most of her face hidden by a bunch of flowers. Ok, who am I kidding? It was <b>all</b> about the photo – she looked seriously fit. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The message, and the profile behind it, was predictably brief. And, the grammar was even worse than the norm, which is saying something in the modern age of text-speak functional illiterates. Something about the phrasing screamed “Eastern Europe” at me, despite her home town being allegedly just up the road. Well, that was certainly <i>possible</i> – there were plenty of East European girls here nowadays, and maybe she was a lonely Latvian nanny stuck in some company director's spare room, with nothing to do once his kids were put to bed?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">She wasn't a full member of the site, but asked if I would email her directly so we could chat further. So, what did I have to lose? I sent the mail, but kept it brief and cagey.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I didn't have long to wait for a response:</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Courier New; font-size: small;">Hello, Ben. Thank you for writing to me.<br />
My name is Ekaterina. I am 29 years old. But I look much younger than his years.<br />
I have not used the Internet to explore before. I did not know about it. I told this to a colleague at work. He met a girl who is now his wife. I am so embarrassed to write to you. I do not trust the internet, but decided to write to you.<br />
I'm lonely. I want to start a family. I'm looking for a spiritual friend. I'm looking for love.<br />
I think we should tell the truth. If you are here, then you are alone. We are both looking for their second half. Do you agree? I trust people. I hope you will not deceive me.<br />
I live in Russia. For me, the distance - it's not a problem. And for you? I want to know you. We all have a chance at life. We are building our future. I like you, and I want to communicate with you.<br />
I'm sending my photo to you.<br />
Tell me about yourself. Ekaterina</span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">And there was the photo. No flowers in the way this time: she was facing the camera, hands behind her head and back slightly arched, in that classic glamour pose that pushed her pert breasts toward the lens. She was, absolutely, unquestionably, Kate Moss-a-like model-girl stunning. </span> </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Russia, eh? That home town up the road was a lie. Well, that was not a good sign. Modern Russia is perhaps second only to Nigeria as the spiritual home of the internet scam, and the odds of this knock-out babe being anything other than a lure to reel in the sad, desperate and lonely seemed slight indeed. </span> </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Was I really so sad, desperate and lonely as to fall for it? Well, I was intrigued, obviously. And so the process of self-justification began: “Obviously, this is a scam,” I told myself, “But it'll be interesting to play along for a while to find out what it is. Will she suddenly have a sick mother who needs money for an operation? Or will I have to wire her the cash to buy a plane ticket to come and see me?”</span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Really, of course, what was going on in the back of my mind was the desperate, desperate hope that, against all the odds, she somehow might <i>just</i> be genuine. A beautiful, sensitive girl, stuck in some backwoods Russian hell-hole and surrounded by woman-beating alcoholics, who dreams of a better life with a kind, attentive, slightly-less-alcoholic westerner. Obviously, she'd mainly be interested in the money and the visa, but was that really so different from the British women I'd had relationships with? Gold-digging users almost to a girl. </span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, I replied, somewhat less cagily this time. A few details about myself, but nothing too specific. A couple of photo's that weren't already on my dating site profile. And I asked her about where in Russia she lived and what it was like.</span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: small;">Once again, I did not have to wait long for a reply:</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hi, Ben. Thank you for having responded to me. Very nice to get a letter from you. I am very interested to meet you.<br />
Ben, I live in Russia in the city of Tyumen. My city is not very large. It is home to about 580,000 people. Located on the banks of the River Tour. Distance from Tyumen to Moscow in 1725 km. I am far from the capital of Russia.<br />
I'll tell you about yourself. I am 29 years old. My height is 1.67 m I'm blond with big green eyes. I was not married and I have no children.<br />
I am very pleased that the distance between the two countries does not bother you. The Internet allows us to communicate with each other.<br />
If I am writing to you with errors, do not scold me. I teach English to their own and with a tutor for about 2 years. I like this language. Sometimes I look in the interpreter, if you do not know how to translate.<br />
I graduated from university on a specialty "Management of the organization." I loved to learn. After my studies I worked as a manager in a commercial firm. I enjoy my job.<br />
And where are you working on? Do you like your job or you'd like another job?<br />
I do not have much free time. And this time I like to be at home playing with my cat. His nickname Fluffy. I also have a rabbit. I love animals. Do you love animals? Do you have any pets at home?<br />
I'm sending you my photos in the workplace. Even sending photos of his rabbit and the cat pictures.<br />
Waiting for your letter.<br />
Kisses, Ekaterina.</span></div><br />
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The cat and rabbit aside, the photo's Ekaterina sent this time were, if anything, even more stunning than the first. The girl was sensational (if she, in fact, existed), and I could feel my helpless longing for it all to be true starting to overcome my better judgement. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The only thing for it was to seek a second opinion. I sent copies of her hottest photo to my friends Bernie, Nick and Charlotte.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Bernie's opinion was typically unhelpful. While he agreed that Ekaterina did indeed look hot, his personal recommendation was to go for something Brazilian or Spanish. Ever the latin-obsessive, that was Bernie.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Charlotte's opinion was much simpler: it was a scam. All of these foreign women were a scam. Through some less-than-devious hacking (she had guessed his password as being their daughter's name), she had gained access to her ex's email account, and could see all of the foreign women has was in touch with. Every one had been a bitter disappointment, and several had left him severely out of pocket. “Don't be as sad as Seb, Ben!” was her final word.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I found out what Nick thought the next time I ran into him at the Horse. Apparently, he had shown the photo to Julie, who had recognised it at once. One of her male friends had been messaging the exact same girl (or, more likely, someone claiming to to the exact same girl), for several weeks. And he had been stung big time.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was identity theft, pure and simple. The purpose of all the emails and all the questions was to find out enough information to use the victim's identity in bogus credit applications and the like. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, once more, the cynical side of my nature was proven correct. At least I had the self-respect not to mail “Ekaterina” again (most probably a 15 stone scam artist called Boris, with a bad personal hygene problem and a whole stack of photo's stolen from some girl's Facebook page). If something seems to good to be true, that's simply because it is.</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-65046524461394956142012-03-04T05:09:00.001-08:002012-03-04T05:44:12.536-08:00Speed Humiliation<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Desperate times, desperate measures indeed. The year was still not going well. I was disillusioned with the dating websites, my attempt to get fixed up through a friend had come to nought, meeting anyone through “normal” social interactions looked as unlikely as ever, and, despite her recent heartache, Charlotte showed absolutely no sign of coming to her senses and realising I was the best thing she had ever had.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Perhaps worst of all, I had lost my number one wingman, Nick, to the charms of Julie and a more adult version of life than the retarded second adolescence he had been enjoying with the likes of me. It was becoming difficult to imagine how things would ever improve, or what my next move should be. One thing was for sure: every night I spent in my room I grew weaker, and each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There are basically two solutions to a situation that appears increasingly bleak and limited in options:</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><ol><li><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">give up, embrace the darkness, and try to avoid sobriety as much as possible;</div></li>
<li><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">roll the dice, and move outside your comfort zone.<br />
<br />
</div></li>
</ol><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As I wasn't quite ready to become a functioning alcoholic, it was time to try something new. Something I had considered in the past, but had never before been quite able to work up the nerve for. Something a little more face-to-face than the singles websites: <i>speed-dating</i>!</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I'd been to an official “singles night” once before, up in town, with both Nick and Robbie as wingmen. It had been dire: for once, I had felt like one of the youngest there, surrounded by embarrassing dad dancing and more mutton dressed as lamb than the meat section at the <i>Happy Shopper</i>. We left pretty sharply and ended up having a good night trawling round the more regular bars. But, the point is, even had the clientèle been more the cut of my jib, it would still have been like anywhere else, where you have to make an approach and try to engage a stranger in conversation. Even these days, I still don't find that the easiest thing in the world.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But with speed-dating, there is a greater degree of organisation. As I understood it, the idea is that you have to talk to an array of girls, each for a few minutes at a time – and they have to talk to you. So, basically, what you have is a mechanism for removing approach anxiety, and ensuring that you interact with women who (in theory at least) are actually interested in meeting a man. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It has to be better than the websites, too, I reasoned – you actually get to <i>meet</i> them, and I firmly believe you can find out far more about someone from a few minutes face-to-face than you can in a dozen emails.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, it only took a few minutes of online searching before I discovered a speed-dating session scheduled for the near future, at one of the trendy bars up in town. The fee was not exorbitant – indeed, it would work out a lot cheaper than taking a dozen girls in succession out for a drink, or one month's subscription to one of the fee-paying dating sites, which had rarely yielded more than a single hit in that time. Booked and sorted!</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I told Charlotte about it. She was still my best friend, after all, and despite the pain she had put me through it seemed natural to tell her about anything important in my life. Plus, I felt, it would help to demonstrate my confidence, and maybe (just maybe) she would start to see me in a different light again if I scored with a succession of hot babes. There was another, slightly more pathetic, reason to tell her as well – she would make me go. No way would I be able to wimp out of turning up if I knew Charlotte was waiting for a full field report. I feared her almost as much as I adored her. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Charlotte proved to be both extremely excited and jealous. “I want to go!” she squealed. “It's a great idea - you MUST tell me all about it!”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As the day approached, nerves naturally started to rise. This was to be a solo mission: with Nick all loved-up and Robbie going through one of his odder phases, neither were available for moral support, and most of my other friends had partners as well. But, one thing I have learnt in this life is that no one else will live it for you – it's down to you to make things happen, and that will often mean stepping outside your comfort zone. Way outside, if necessary, from curling your toes in the fluffy shag-pile to walking barefoot across hot coals and broken glass.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then there was the issue of getting there. To drive or not to drive? While taking the car would be easy and convenient, it also ruled out the possibility of a few drinks. And some social lubricant was definitely required on this occasion.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Even with the benefit of a “wee sharpener” before I arrived, approaching the bar was still an occasion for raised anxiety. The email from the organisers had told me to make myself known at reception. So, I was required to expose my sadness right from the start: no, I'm not here to meet all my cool friends, I'm here, on my own, at an organised event for the pathetically lonely.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But so be it. The unbelievably gorgeous girl on reception was brisk and business-like: “The speed dating sir? If you'd just like to see that gentleman over there”. If she was secretly sniggering at all the saddo's, she hid it well.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The slightly shady-looking bloke at the small table had a collection of paperwork and cheap pens. He smiled conspiratorially as I approached. It helped. “Hi, I'm Ben Willard”, I said in what I hoped was a forthright and confident manner.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sure, Ben”. He scanned a printed list of names in a loose-leaf binder. “Have you been with us before?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No, first time I've tried anything like this. How does it work, then?” Talking through the mechanics of something, anything, was re-assuringly bloke-ish. And I think I rather preferred to be a speed-dating virgin than seen as an old hand.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Right”. Time for the practised spiel. “You wear this sticker [it read my first name and a number], and take this form. We'll be starting at quarter-past, so get yourself a drink and be ready to move up to the VIP area at the back for then. The way it works is that you start with the girl who has the same number as you, and you have five minutes before the whistle blows. Then you move onto the next girl for another five minutes, and so on until you've talked to them all. On this form, you write your contact details at the top, each girl's name and number down here, and then tick <i>Yes</i> or <i>No</i> in these boxes depending on whether you are interested in meeting up afterwards. You give me the top copy at the end, keep the pink one for yourself, and we send you an email in a couple of days, listing your matches where both of you have ticked <i>Yes</i>. Ok? Do you need a pen?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I took the pen. I already had one, but, what the hell, I wanted my money's worth. And a back-up pen is always handy to have. The sticker I affixed discreetly to my shirt, hidden behind my jacket so that my sadness was not immediately visible to the obviously mixed crowed milling around the bar. Time for a beer.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There was an immediate bit of business involving checking out the form, and entering my name, email and phone number in the spaces at the top. But after that I was left with my beer, in a bar full of strangers, and with a desperate need to start exuding confidence and relaxation. If you need to be sociable, you have to start acting sociably. So, I leaned back against my pillar, took a deep draught of cold lager, and looked around at the assembled multitude. Who else here was in the same boat as I?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The women you couldn't tell. They were all in their tight little girlie-clusters, chatting animatedly away like they do everywhere. But, with some of the guys, at least, it was painfully obvious. It seems I wasn't the only one to come alone, and the awkward body language and furtive eye movements said it all. Let's do someone a mutual favour, I thought, as I headed back to the bar for my second pint.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Got all your details filled in, then?” I said to a nervous-looking guy at the bar beside me, and who I had spotted going through his form a few minutes earlier. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah, pretty much”, he replied with a grin, obviously pleased to talk to someone – anyone – in a place where he knew nobody. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Have you been to one of these before? It's my first time, so I don't really know what to expect.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I have been to one before … a long time ago ...”. It sounded like an obvious lie, from someone not keen to admit he was down here every week. But, that was ok. I wasn't about to call out a fellow dude, and I'm sure I'd have said the same in his position. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“One thing you need to do,” he continued, “is to write down their name and number as soon as you meet them. Otherwise, if you leave it till later you'll forget which one was which.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Sound advice, I thought. We continued chatting for a few minutes, and then drew in another, obviously here-on-his-own, bloke to the conversation. It was his first time, and he was glad of the “write down the names” tip as well. He also had an excellent cover story – he'd found himself at a loose end that evening, seen the speed-dating ad online, and thought what the hell else am I doing tonight? No big deal – just a normal bloke out for a laugh. I didn't buy a word of it – you had to register several days in advance, as the organisers had to balance the numbers and send everyone an acknowledgement mail. But, again, I wasn't about to call anybody out. Whatever works for you, man.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Hooking up with the other guys was a good move. I no longer felt like an isolated weirdo, but already one of a band of valiant brothers, ready to enter battle against that most dangerous and difficult of adversaries – women.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And then the bomb dropped. “Hi Ben! I thought it was you!” A slim, boyish figure, with short dark hair and make-up which looked like it had been applied by a five year-old, approached me. Mel threw her arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My game was thrown so completely I could barely speak. Mel, that single friend of Nick's bird who I had been on a blind date with less than a week before. Mel, who was perfectly pleasant and sensible and who, I am sure, my mother would have thought an ideal match for me, but who I could never fancy in a million years. Mel, who I had thanked the next day for a lovely evening, but also said I was really busy at the moment with work, getting back to the gym, having my house decorated, extracting my nostril hairs, etc. …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, not so busy tonight, eh, you bastard? More like desperate, isn't that the truth?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I was saved by the sound of a whistle. Mr Slightly-Shady and his (somewhat) glamorous female assistant were organising everyone.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Speed-daters, would those of you in the 20-35 age group go with Sandy through to the front lounge, and those in the 35-50 group come with me up to the VIP area”. Did he really say VIP area or was it OAP area? When did I suddenly get so old?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh, I'd better go,” said Mel with a smile. “Talk to you later!” she continued, as she headed back to her girlie-cluster. Depressingly, I realised that I'd have to.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">No one seemed to be in any desperate rush to follow instructions. “Someone you know?” asked Mr Spontaneous-decision-to-come-here-my-arse. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah, a bit embarrassing really.” May as well be honest. “She's a friend of a friend who I went on a blind date with the other day. Nice girl, but not really my type, so I told her I was really busy with work and stuff, and now she sees me here. This sort of thing never happened when I lived in London – you <i>never</i> see anyone again there unless you want to.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Could have been worse.” Mr Only-been-to-one-of-these-before-yeah-right. “I met up with this girl once through Match.com – she didn't have a photo but sounded nice. Turned out to be my ex-wife. So, we go ahead and have a drink, and then she starts laying into me about money and stuff, the whole shrieking and screaming routine. One of the bouncers comes over to sort me out, but when he hears the story, he's totally sympathetic. Nightmare.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Indeed. I was heartened to realise that, unsettling as meeting Mel here had been, it could have been much, much worse. I think that an appearance by the Screaming Banshee would have seen me bolt the room.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Right, suppose we'd better make our way up there.”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The VIP area was laid out with little tables and a mix of stubby stools and plushly comfortable sofas. Mr Slightly-Shady had been round and placed small plastic numbered signs on each of the tables; numbers which corresponded to that of the sticker of the girl who sat at each. As I swiftly discovered, the girls don't move. Speed-dating reflects the ancient conventions of our society: the girls get to sit regally in their own little space, while the guys move from table to table on command, trying their best to ingratiate themselves in their allotted five minutes. The girls get the comfy sofas; we get the stubby stools. Another exercise in supplication.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But, it has to be said, I was generally impressed with the quality of the merchandise on offer. I had spent some time down in the bar trying to work out which women were here for the speed-dating, but had given it up as a hopeless exercise. They all appeared attractive, articulate and confident – no low self-esteem girls to be seen. And, it was simply a subsection of the bar up here. Apart from Mel, an initial glance showed them all to be well-worth a date, at least. Maybe I could just tick my form now and hand it in?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The whistle blew again. It was time to begin. I banished any hint of nerves, forced what I hoped was a welcoming smile, and approached my first table. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hi, I'm Ben.” </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Vanessa,” she replied, offering a delicate hand. She was a petite blonde with long flowing hair in tiny ringlets, a slightly mocking smile and simply beautiful big blue eyes. I instantly felt that familiar combination of hopeless longing and embarrassed discomfort that so many men experience in the company of an extremely attractive woman. But I was determined not to show it.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I have been told,” I said, “That the key thing is to note down everyone's name and number right from the start, to ensure you don't forget anyone. But, somehow, I can't imagine anyone forgetting you ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She was a teacher, it transpired, here with two friends (who were also teachers – not a lot of men in the teaching profession these days!), and she actually lived quite near me. All good stuff, but I was conscious of my limited time and the need to make an impression, which surely meant talking about something more memorable that all the usual boring guff about jobs, homes, hobbies, etc. So, I briefly covered my earlier embarrassment at meeting Mel (“lovely girl, but just not my type”), and made it into what I hoped was an amusing war story, which also allowed me to demonstrate a degree of value and pickiness. In truth, the whole artificiality of the situation helped – take two strangers thrown together who <b>have</b> to talk to one another, and the adrenaline carries you through.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As it did with all the other women at the other tables. After a while, the response to the whistle blasts became quite Pavlovian, and it seemed almost natural to break off and move onto the next one. The bit about writing down the names and numbers <b>was</b> sound advice though – the women were all very attractive, but even very attractive women blur into one after chatting to half a down in rapid succession. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There was a ten minute break half-way round, and then back to it. When it came time to talk to Mel, she was of course perfectly pleasant, but it was by far the most awkward conversation of the night (although, chatting to her two wing-girls, who made it very clear they knew who I was, wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs either). I got through it by talking about Nick and Julie most of the time, and once more said I looked forward to seeing her in the Supershed. But, that whistle couldn't come soon enough.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And then it was over. The very last girl I spoke to was a statuesque blonde called Olivia, in a red dress that showed off the most fantastic curves, and who worked in recruitment consultancy and had a miniature Schnauzer. I told her I looked forward to seeing it one day, and there seemed to be a bit of a spark going on, as we continued chatting long after the final whistle. Then, she excused herself by saying she needed to visit the ladies, and I realised that the gents would be a good idea for me as well. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was on the way back from the toilet that I suddenly felt deflated. The adrenaline rush was wearing off, and I was coming down from an intense natural high. I'd had a couple of drinks, too, but was far from drunk. But I felt totally exhausted.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Two choices, then: I could stay, try to chat to Olivia or possibly the other honeys some more, or even hook up with my two putative wingmen from earlier. Or, I could hit the road now – always leave them wanting more, and if I was crashing now, how much better an impression would I continue to make? In the end, the fact that I could get public transport home now, and save myself a fortune for a taxi (if I could find one) was the deciding factor. I handed over my form to Mr Slightly-Shady, and hit the road. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was early the next morning that Charlotte got in touch, eager to know how the previous evening's expedition had gone. I was swimming along on a wave of confidence, pleased with my performance and how Mel's presence had failed to unsettle me. I'd even turned the situation to my advantage, by making an amusing anecdote out of my embarrassment. Naturally, I had ticked yes to all of the girls, except for Mel and her two friends (who were actually rather nice, but I thought it would be cruel to Mel to go for her friends and not her), so that was ten possibles dates for me. Simply by the law of averages, surely I'd get three or four hits at a minimum. That'd show Charlotte all right, when we meet up and I've got a hot babe like that Olivia on my arm. You'll regret chucking me then baby!</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was later that day when the email from the event organisers arrived. They were very sorry, but I had had no matches this time. They would, however, send me a discount voucher for a future event.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, absolutely no reason to get drunk and lie sobbing on the kitchen floor, then.</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-54162344658085321202012-03-01T15:48:00.000-08:002012-03-01T15:48:23.561-08:00Desperate Times, Desperate Measures<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">February's verdict on the year so far: bag o' shite. But it was gratifying to see good things finally happen to good people.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Since New Year, Nick and Julie's relationship had blossomed. Nick looked happier than I had ever seen him – not that I saw him all that much. He had already reached the “who needs mates” phase. But Julie was definitely good for him.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Perhaps she could do some good for me? After all, she <i>was</i> until recently a single woman, and single women often have single friends …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So it was that I broached the subject with Nick. And, yes, Julie did indeed have a single friend or two. One in particular: Mel, who was (in the language of the playground) gagging for it. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">One of the myths of growing older is that you acquire more confidence. You don't: if anything it's the reverse. Every time you look in the mirror, and see those ageing features and expanding waistline, it knocks you back. Every time you reflect on the utter fuck-up that is your life, with all the failed relationships and hopeless one-sided infatuations, you realise how unlikely your dreams are ever to be realised. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But what you do acquire is the ability to not give a damn'. You have no faith whatsoever that that hot babe is going to want anything to do with you, but what you do have is an utter indifference to what the world at large thinks about you. Especially if you are a parent, you will have done all sorts of ridiculous, self-abasing things to amuse your children, then the prospect of a knock-back or a somewhat embarrassing situation with another adult is really nothing at all. That's what us old bastards mean when we say youth is wasted on the young. I know: most of mine was spent paralysed into inactivity, terrified by the thought of looking stupid. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, when Nick told me about Mel I was already biased towards action. The obvious thing would have been to engineer some sort of social situation, in the course of which Mel and I could have met “naturally”. But, for various reasons, that proved to be a difficult call. So, the solution was obvious: let's have her number, and I'll call her up and ask her out for a drink. No messing.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">None indeed. Obviously, Mel had heard about me, One of the key features in any courtship is the process of checking out each others friends. The nice, safe, stable couples who you can arrange civilised double-dates and dinner parties with. And the wild-cards: the singles, who will want to pull your partner away for dangerously unattached nights out, the ones who you fear will always seem to be having <i>so</i> much more fun …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">If you can get them tied down, so much the better. If it's with one of your unattached friends, then it's double bubble – a potential threat removed, and another stable pairing created that you can safely spend time with. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, I was not in the least surprised that Mel knew who I was. Nor was it surprising that she was game to meet up with a total stranger, given that we were of the same generation, and had both been through the divorce and dating mill.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mel sounded refreshingly upbeat and straightforward, with none of coy evasiveness you get from some women. She also had the huge advantage of living just up the road, which meant I could see her at very short notice and take her somewhere extremely local, such as … the White Horse? I think not. You really do not want to take a first date to your local. Especially not if you have “friends” like mine who will make it their mission to throw you off your game and embarrass you as much as possible.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The date was swiftly arranged. I'd pick her up from her house at 8pm, and we'd go for a couple of drinks in one of the nicer local pubs which for some reason I had never spent much time in. No big deal, and no raised expectations on either side. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Of course, getting to pick her up and drop her off did offer a couple of advantages. As well as allowing me to play the gentleman, I also had the ideal venue for making my first move – the snug, private interior of my Alfa Romeo. If things went well, it would only be natural to enjoy a parting kiss when I drove her home – something that can be difficult to engineer if you both make your way there in your own cars. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, when I say there were no raised expectations, that's not entirely true. I was, as usual, allowing my imagination to run away with me – picturing Mel and I together, picturing Mel herself …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">When I did collect her, therefore, Mel unfortunately had some living up to do. I say unfortunate, because Nick had only filled me in one the most basic of details – she was forty-ish, slim, with dark hair and a penchant for leather boots. The latter detail had me expecting someone who's tastes perhaps ran to a little S&M; unfortunately, the reality was somewhat different. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The no-nonsense attitude should have been a warning. Mel was one of those women who didn't have time for a lot of things. Things like make-up, hair-styling, fashion, or any general girlishness or femininity. She was one of those girls who were very into netball or lacrosse while at school, and perhaps now played in a women's football league. She was, probably, very handy with a screwdriver, and (it transpired) drank halves of real ale with enthusiasm. I could picture the utter sensibleness of her underwear drawer; I doubted there was a single item from Agent Provocateur or Ann Summers (Charlotte's favourite, I remembered with a heavy heart). </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Oh, she was by no means unpleasant company. The evening was anything but awkward or dull. But, it was just like going for a drink with some bloke, and at the end I had no desire to do anything other than drop her off and head home as quickly as possible.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I made my excuses the next day. How I needed to focus on getting back to the gym, and how busy I was going to be with my job for the next few weeks. And how great it would be to run into Mel at Nick's next party in the Supershed.</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-65479862186898332402012-02-14T14:05:00.001-08:002012-02-18T02:52:54.895-08:00Happy Valentines Day<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Has yours been as much fun as mine? There was a part of me that thought this would be an ideal evening to trawl the dating sites – surely, any woman logged on tonight would be, by definition, just a tad desperate. But, in the end, I decided I was not quite that sad. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A little light supper, then, and an early night. </div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-86485447464563291462012-02-12T03:30:00.001-08:002012-02-18T02:52:16.614-08:00A Special Kind of Hell<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I really hope I'm pregnant”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I instinctively squeezed the accelerator even more, hurtling the Alfa through the oncoming blackness, while the shock washed over me. I stole a glance to see if she was joking.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Charlotte looked deadly serious. Her innocent, almost child-like face was set in a mask of determination, and her lower lip pouted insolently. Framed by the tangled locks of long, golden hair (unavoidably curly due to the preceding week in the sun), she would have looked almost comical, had I not known that she was, in fact, badly upset and probably close to tears. In truth, of course, she looked as she always did – utterly adorable. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I tempered my acceleration, and brought the Alfa (a present to myself the week after Charlotte had finally dumped me) down to the cautious side of ninety.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I mean,” she continued, “I had to lie to him and say I was on the contraceptive injection. Not that he seemed to care – coming all over the place, and only then saying 'I hope you're on the pill'. So I said yes, yes, all safe, contraceptive injection, lasts for ages, no problem … but I hope I am”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But you always said you didn't want any more children,” I said, “That having Bella was enough ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes, but it's different with Kevin,” Charlotte continued, “I want to have a baby with him”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Knowing the full details of your ex-girlfriend's new relationship is a special kind of hell. Even, or perhaps especially, when that new relationship goes wrong. Because, then you find out all the things she's prepared to do to try to keep hold of him, that she would never have done for you. And, however much you try to be adult and sensible and claim to have moved on, the reality of how much more she thinks of him than she ever did of you is a death watch beetle that gnaws at your soul. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I met Charlotte early last year. At first I was dubious, skeptical of what a 25 year-old girl could see in a 40-something divorcee such as myself. The photo on her profile at the dating website was not encouraging: a blurred, phone-camera shot of a girl who may have been just a tad shapeless, and who's face could not really be determined with any certainty. But, she had contacted me in the first instance, and had continued persistently with messages and then texts, and had even wanted to come over to my place with a bottle of wine so we could get to know each other. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, I agreed to meet up, expecting little, and had found my expectations to be completely wrong. Charlotte was nothing like that blurred photo; she was utterly, captivatingly, gorgeous. The body that I had thought shapeless was, in fact, stunningly proportioned, with near-perfect curves that reminded me of the late Anna Nicole Smith. A classically beautiful face, with eyes of liquid fire and a smile that touched my heart. And she was the easiest, funniest, sweetest girl to talk to – it was a first date that just flew past, and I never wanted it to end. As we parted, we kissed, and I felt a bomb go off inside my brain.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Date two was dinner at my place, following which she stayed the night. Date three a romantic restaurant meal. By date four I was hopelessly, helplessly in love with her, and for a while it seemed that she felt the same. For a while …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">That I fell for Charlotte was no great surprise. After all, the preceding November I had finally buried the stinking, rotten corpse of my eleven year marriage, following a bitter two year battle through the divorce courts, and years before that in which I had endured a sexless, loveless state of civil war with the Screaming Banshee. In truth, I find it difficult now to think of a time when my marriage was actually happy, although I accept that the early part must have been. Maybe for the first six months or so …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But, anyway, there I was back then, suddenly presented with a gorgeous, funny, clever, kind, adorable dream girl, who for some unaccountable reason seemed to be crazy about me. And, after untold years of near celibacy (broken only by a couple of lousy one-night stands and a half-hearted attempt at a “relationship” that was not worthy of the name), I was suddenly having the BEST SEX OF MY LIFE, with a girl that not only did everything I had ever dreamed of doing with the greatest expertise, but quite a few other things that I had never thought of trying but found I rather liked when I did.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Of course, it couldn't last. Maybe in someone else's life, but not mine. So, here I was now, months later, with our relationship (as far as Charlotte was concerned) long dead and buried, but obviously still a raw gaping wound for me. And, having to act as the best friend when she told me all about her recent failure with some utter, utter wanker who was not fit to lick her boots. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe I was a bit too much for him,” she continued, flashing me a glance with those adorable deep brown eyes, “On Tuesday, I'd just come out the shower, with no make-up on and my hair all frizzy, and he grabbed me and we had really boring sex, and he said that was the Charlotte he really wanted. Not the 6 inches of slap, the high heels, the Ann Summers outfits, the hand-cuffs or anything. So maybe it's all my fault. Maybe I'm just too much of a nympho. He did only want to have sex once a day most days ….”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The painful reality of my once-more celibate existence clawed at my soul. Sex only once a day? God, how awful ...</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I just wish I knew what it was I'd done wrong”, Charlotte continued, “We'd got so close, everything was so right before we went away. And I loved being there with him – the hotel was beautiful, the suite we had was fantastic … but he kept saying he didn't feel well, and stayed in bed most of the day. And, then, the other day he said he just couldn't hack it any more. Booked himself on an early flight home. Left me … alone …”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My heart welled with irrational pity and outrage. Charlotte was, for all her sophistication, quite child-like in some ways. I knew she had never travelled alone, or been in a foreign country without someone else there to take care of the details. In fact, from what I knew of Charlotte's adult life, she'd never spent much time alone at all. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Hence the sudden, surprise call on the last day of her holiday – in a voice almost breaking from tears, she'd asked if could I possibly collect her from the airport. No question that I would, of course – I'd have gone all the way to the hotel to meet her if she wanted, crawling naked across broken glass if so required – and of course hope sprung eternal once I heard the full story. How Chavvy Kevin (ok, my nickname this time), the latest in a string of unbelievably humiliating replacements for me, who Charlotte had been seeing for a mere few weeks, had decided to abandon her half-way through their holiday. Perhaps he was missing his wife and kids just a bit too much. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Whatever. At any event, the tear-induced comfort sex that I was hoping for did not materialise. I drove Charlotte home – her home. And I was not invited in. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As we parted this time, a moment's rational thought crossed Charlotte's mind. “And he promised he was going to pay me back for his share of the holiday when he could. That's probably not going to happen now, is it?”.</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-33977795240401828462012-02-07T15:32:00.002-08:002012-02-18T02:53:39.039-08:00The Art of Parties<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">Well, January is over, but perhaps it's not quite too late to wish everyone a happy new year. What's new in my life? I believe the French have a phrase – <i>plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose</i>. But, hey, everyone has a great time at New Year itself, right?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">New Year's Eve was indeed party time. And my friend Nick was having the biggest and baddest party of them all, in the legendary “Supershed” in his back garden.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Now, a party in a shed, on the 31<sup>st</sup> of December, may not seem like a very enticing prospect. But, perhaps if I were to explain that Nick is a man of some means, and what he calls a garden shed is larger and more luxuriously appointed that most people's homes, then the picture may become clearer. As well as being heated and furnished, the Supershed sports a bar, pool table, wide-screen TV (with Latvian satellite subscription), sound system and, er, the notorious hot tub. I must admit to some culpability in the notoriety of the hot tub, and of Supershed parties in general, as the first was held back when Charlotte and I were still together. With the further addition of Charlotte's hot friend Debbie to the proceedings, it was indeed a memorable evening.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But that was then and this was now. No Charlotte (I did ask her, but she was having a quiet night in with Chavvy Kevin), and certainly no Debbie (even more yesterday's news than myself). So, once more unto the breach, dear friends, a single desperado out for action, adventure and may the devil take the hindmost! Or, something like that.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I was not without hope. Nick was single like myself, and had contrived to ensure there were a generous number of invitations sent to single women. No guarantee that they would turn up, of course (unlike the usual bevy of drunken reprobates who pass for our friends, and whose attendance could be pretty much guaranteed). I was hoping, nonetheless, for a reasonably sophisticated evening in mixed company, rather than a typical Sunday afternoon Supershed session (lager, premier league action via Latvia, more lager, then Latvian action of a different kind on <i>Kanals Pornografiska XXX</i>).</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Before the party proper, it was decided that a few looseners were in order, and hence the advance guard met up at the White Horse. For me, the beauty of both the Supershed and the White Horse, of course, were that both were within staggering distance of my front door – an important consideration, especially on New Years Eve. Thus, I was honour-bound to meet up with the advance party, which turned out to include such luminaries as Mad Steve, Dirty Dave, Wicked Willie Jones, Robbie Robinson, the Amazing Ciderman, and Nick himself (who, as he had invented most of these monikers, didn't have one).</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hail Caligula!” came the ritual cry as I entered the bar – a reference to the hot tub incident involving Charlotte, Debbie and myself at the first Supershed party (there are worse nicknames, I suppose) – and it was clear that alcohol was going to be a serious factor tonight. Good , I thought, (who can face New Year sober?) and ordered my first beer of the evening, while making the usual small talk with the guys.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I noted then that Robbie wasn't part of the usual scrum – he was in a corner by the door, intently chatting to two girls who I failed to recognise. Fresh blood, or more particularly fresh female blood, was always welcome in the Horse, and I could see an ideal opportunity to move in there. After all, Robbie could hardly expect to engage both women for much longer – in truth, despite very much looking and acting the part, Robbie's conversational gambits tended to run onto stoney ground after the first ten minutes or so. And that was with people he knew. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, I reckoned I'd be doing him a favour. “Hey, Robbie, how's it going?” was my opener, and it was indeed well-received.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ben!” Robbie's smile was of a man who welcomed reinforcement like a regiment under siege, “I was just telling these two young ladies about the party we're all off to at the Supershed. They really do need to come along, don't they?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's not just a shed, it's a super-shed, then?” the taller of the two girls asked, her voice tinged with an amused skepticism, “Just what's so super about it?”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Now, in formulating my response, I should in theory have given due consideration to which of the two was to be my prime target, but that was a tough call. Robbie was a mate, and it was only fair (given that he had done the heavy lifting so far), to give him first shout. Plus, in the looks stakes, there wasn't a great deal to choose between them – both in their thirties (the older one possibly nearer forty), brunette, slim, and elegantly turned out in retro cocktail dresses and plenty of costume jewelry. Going for the shorter of the two would, perhaps, have made the most sense, given that the tall one was actually taller then me, and more suited to a 6'+ chap like Robbie. But, she was also the older of the two, clearly older than Robbie, who on that criteroen would have been better matched with the smaller one. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I decided to play it by ear, concentrate on having a good time, and not worry too much about which, if any, I made any progress with. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Let me put it this way,” I said, “It's a shed, in the same way that the Olympic games is a school sports day, the Bugatti Veyron a nippy little runabout, or the Grand Canyon a bit of a gully. It's where all the best parties around here are held. And, after all, we're all going [I gestured expansively], so it's bound to be a terrific night”. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The assurance that the event was, indeed, a general social gathering involving most of the bar, and not just a creepy invitation to go back to Robbie's garden shed and “party”, seemed to have done the trick. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What do you think, sis?” said the tall one (sisters! No wonder they looked so alike), “If everyone's going ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So it was that, within the hour, we all decamped the Horse for Nick's back garden and the Supershed opened its doors. Nick had also laid on a marquee, several outdoor heaters, strings of fairy lights, and copious amounts of booze and food. Combined with the elegant background haze rising from the hot tub, it was indeed an ideal setting.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It turned out the two sisters were quite local. Fairly early in the procedings, Robbie managed to spirit the younger and shorter one off beside him on the garden swing, while I was left chatting to the tall one in the marquee. Fair enough – except that it wasn't so much a case of talking to her, as listening to her hold court, to both myself and Craig and Gina, an older couple I knew from drinking in the Horse. Now, I don't mind letting women talk about themselves – it's what you seek to encourage on a date, after all – but this wasn't so much a case of her opening up as monologuing. She had recently qualified as a solicitor, so it seemed, after years of working as a paralegal and doing the exams in her spare time. She and her sister shared a flat in a new development nearby, although it was made clear it was the tall sister's flat and the younger one simply rented a room. The general impression that this was the smarter, more professional, better off sister was laid on fairly thick. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I decided it was time to demonstrate some value and move on. I wandered into the Supershed proper to find a very happy Nick leaning against the pool table. The reason for his happiness had her arm around his waist. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Captain Ben!” Nick exclaimed (another of his nicknames – I'm really not sure where he got “Captain” from), “This is Julie, an old friend of mine”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Strangely for one of Nick's “old friends” I had never heard of Julie before. She was a tiny, waif-like creature, with a rather pretty face and an elfin hairstyle, who closely resembled one of my old ex's from long, long ago (before I was even married). In fact, so close was the resemblance that I had to stop and look twice, to ensure I hadn't misheard the name and it really was my old Jenny from the ancient days of the mid 1990's.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was only later, while Julie was chatting to someone else, that Nick was able to fill me with the full picture. He had indeed known her for some time, but only slightly, through their children who were a similar age and went to the same school. Through the wonders of Facebook, they were suggested to each other as online friends, had chatted that way on and off for a couple of weeks, and then Julie really had accepted Nick's party invitation. And, it looked like things were going swimmingly. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Disappointingly, it looked as though few other single women had taken up Nick's offer. The overall turnout was good, but it was mostly civilised groups of couples, as you would expect from our generation. Whatever happened, I wondered, to those parties of my youth, the furtive, whose-parents-are-away, sneak-in-a-bottle-of-vodka parties that were basically massive copping-off fests? At the time, I never dreamt that the parties of later years would pale by comparison, despite the advantages of freedom and wealth. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Oh, well. We all know that youth is wasted on the young. Disappointingly, the tall sister was still holding forth to Craig and Gina, and was showing no signs of wondering where I had gone. I caught a snatch of her exclaiming how she really wanted to be a teacher, and was now thinking of going back to college (obviously, the first thing you think of doing after spending years qualifying in law), and decided to demonstrate a bit more value. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After a spot of banter with Mad Steve and Rich, I realised that the only other bit of “spare” present was an old friend of Nick's late wife, a rather large lady known to all as The Matron. The resemblance to the late Hattie Jacques was quite remarkable. I also realised that I was sufficiently drunk not to care anymore, so simply let the evening take its course.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Shortly after midnight, Nick waived goodbye to one and all, and headed off back to the house with the lovely Julie clamped tightly around him. The genius of the Supershed concept was obvious: you get to host a great party, then when you've had enough (or when you seriously score with a hottie), you can slope off back to the house and leave everyone to it. People did start to drift away, apart from the hard core alcoholics, and I was thinking increasingly of how nice my bed would feel. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">At that point, the younger of the two sisters suddenly appeared, in a state of some distress. “Have you seen my sister?” she wanted to know, “I don't know where she's gone … she's always doing this … we should be going home now ...”</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't know, I'm afraid,” I said. Rich seemed to think her and Robbie had gone together to the Black Lion. The younger sister rolled her eyes and flounced off.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Strange, I thought, as I didn't remember seeing Robbie talking to the older one much at all, but I was really beyond caring. Home and bed were calling strongly.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was as I was heading off that the mystery was revealed. Nick also has a standard-sized shed, filled with standard-type contents (lawn-mower, tools, etc.), which stands near the garden exit. There's a narrow corridor between the side of the shed and the fence, normally hidden from the rest of the garden, but which can be observed by someone on the way out, should they so choose to glance that way. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">For some reason I did, although I doubt that Robbie noticed me doing so. I doubt, in fact, that he would have noticed a low-yield nuclear detonation at anything greater than a 50 yard distance. His eyes were closed, and he was leaning back againt the shed with his knees slightly bent. The elder sister was crouched below him, engaged in an enthusuastic <i>al fresco</i> blowjob. It was an exceptionally mild 1<sup>st</sup> of January. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Happy New Year, matey, I thought as I headed home.</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2617299450924647879.post-81747002565404721152011-12-06T08:25:00.001-08:002012-02-18T02:49:26.464-08:00Standard Operational Procedure<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Nothing remains the same. You might think that, when you finally bail out of your unhappy existence, you've been through the valley of pain and anguish, and it's time to restart your life again, you can pick right up where you left off. It is with great regret that I inform you you cannot. The world has changed, and (more importantly) you have changed. And not for the better.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We men are spoiled. Thirty is no big deal for a guy. In fact, if you can avoid the entanglements and responsibilities that most twenty-something blokes fall prey to, you'll find your very best times are in your thirties. There's a good chance you'll finally be making some decent money, you'll have that flash motor, the cool bachelor pad, the wardrobe of designer gear and, most importantly, you'll have at least a modicum of maturity and self-confidence. And, there are plenty of hot 22-year old babes who would just love to spend time with a cool thirty-something guy like that. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But, when you're forty-something? Suddenly the bars and clubs are full of girls who really are young enough to be your daughter. And, instead of that cool older guy, you're starting to think you're the creepy old bloke who hangs around in the corner eyeing all the young girls. The one you used to make fun of fifteen years ago. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, what are the alternatives? There's your circle of friends, but do you really want to go there? And, even if you do, is it not likely you have long ago been cast into that frozen circle of hell that is called “the friend zone” - a zone from which there is never, ever any escape?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Meeting someone through work has its complications, and, of course, if you work in a profession where women are a rare as hens teeth, it may not offer many prospects. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">People will tell you to take up a new interest or hobby. Salsa dancing, badminton or tai chi. Trouble is, it mostly seems to be the over-sixties who have time to waste on activities like that.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Which leaves that great invention of the 21<sup>st</sup> century – online dating. It's all very mainstream these days. The social stigma has (just about) disappeared. There are prime time TV ad's for the the big sites on all the time.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, hey, for guys like myself, you start to think it might actually play to your strengths. I've never been the world's greatest chat-up artist, but I can string a written sentence together. So, I could take the time, do a little research, write myself up a decent profile, pick some photo's which show my good side, and maybe I'd do quite well. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Maybe. I've been on a couple of sites for a while now. And there seems to be a standard operational procedure, which is not quite what I was hoping for. When you first sign up, and run a search for suitable local women, you feel great. The expression “target rich environment” springs to mind. Here are all these women, who must be actually interested in meeting someone, taking the time and trouble to put themselves online. And, in general, most of them are surprisingly attractive.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After a couple of days, you notice how few messages you get. As a guy, you'll get some, but almost exclusively from 56 year-olds in some far-flung geographical location. And who are, quite frankly, physically horrific. It might be different if you actually are George Clooney, but, I suspect, less so than you'd think. Because some old social conventions persist, and it is still the guy who is expected to make the first move.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">That's fair enough. Another opportunity to impress through my literary skills. So, you run your searches and you carefully select the two or three women who you find really attractive and who's profile you seem to have a lot in common with. And, then, you write them each a carefully crafted message, honing in on some aspect of their profile and trying your best to be urbane and witty and amusing. And, then, nothing. No reply. Big zero. Null point. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, time for a change of approach. Less precision and a wider spread. Not so much single action marksman's rifle as 12-bore shotgun. Or, maybe, one of those multi-barrelled gatling gun things they have on warships to shoot down incoming missiles.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Again, a carefully crafted message. But, shorter this time, and not at all profile-specific. And, written in Notepad to begin with, and copied into each outgoing mail, with only the “Hi xxxx” bit at the start edited. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, not sent to a “special” selection of two or three women, but to every single passable female on the database within a 10 mile radius. As a first hit – the radius will then be increased if necessary. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, this time, you get replies. Not a vast amount, of course - the signal-to-noise ratio is about one in ten. But they do arrive, and you can even get some of them to engage in on-line conversation. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So it was with an attempt of mine a couple of weeks ago. There were a couple of replies, but one in particular from a dark, willowy-looking girl with a slightly sad smile. Her name was Claire, and her profile seemed quite earnest and almost painfully honest. She was in her early 30's, never married, no children (and didn't seem to want any), a big animal lover (a horse, three dogs and a cat), and claimed to be looking for that special person who would complete her life. Her message was short (messages from women usually are), and she told me she wasn't a full member of the site so wouldn't be able send any more messages, but would I like to add her as a Facebook friend?</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Well, obviously I would – for what other purpose has my Facebook account than as a way of keeping in touch with women? And, of course, the great thing about being Facebook friends is how you can thoroughly stalk a woman's status updates, photo's, and general information. Now, that may be considered a bit unethical, but if they're going to post all this information, why not use it? The only problem is … well, we'll come to that …</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So, photo albums and pictures of Claire first, to see whether she's really worth bothering with. Shallow, moi? Like a puddle, guys, and any man who claims differently is a liar. The photo on the dating website was comely enough, if a little fuzzy, but there's no escaping all those multiple Facebook albums. And, the verdict was … Claire is a total babe. Jet-black shoulder length hair, eyes of the deepest blue, gorgeously high cheek bones and a fantastic body, including (it must be said) an absolutely cracking pair of charlies. Scrubbed up in a cocktail dress, she looked sensational. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Almost too sensational, in fact. As in, what does a total hottie like that, with no ties, no kids and still in the prime of life, see in an aging reject such as myself? But, methodical stalking of her status updates (well-worth the investment of time for a honey like her) revealed what appeared to be the answer: life seems to have treated the poor girl with particular harshness over the past 18 months or so. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Firstly, her mother died (cancer, from what I could make out), then Claire herself fell ill. What exactly was wrong with her, I couldn't tell, but it meant she had to give up her job, and could no longer ride her horse or do anything very strenuous. Then, her father was also diagnosed with cancer, and although he had survived with treatment, well … you know … To round it off, she seems to have had a brother who died years ago (circumstances unexplained), her long-standing boyfriend dumped her unexpectedly in the summer (she expected men over 40 to be more mature, and thought she might have to look for someone even older next … aha!), and one of her cats recently popped its clogs as well. This latter death was treated as every bit as big a tragedy as all the other things that had gone wrong in Claire's life, so perhaps I should have taken that as a warning.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But I didn't, of course. Instead, my heart welled with pity for the poor girl, the injustice of this world, and against the heartless bastard of a boyfriend who had abandoned her in the midst of her pain. Most of Claire's “jokey” posts were, in truth, agonising laments on the fickleness of men, the impossibility of finding true love, and her longing to be cared for and protected. In short, she seemed to possess that magic combination of good looks and low self-esteem that I have been searching for all my life.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">With barely any direct communication with this girl, I was already half-way towards a serious infatuation. Already, my mind was projecting forward to the scenes where I would bring laughter and joy into her life again, where I would take her in my arms and let her feel my warmth and affection. I imagined autumn drives to charming little country pubs in my Alfa Romeo, romantic dinners at the best local restaurants, ice skating on that outdoor rink they lay on in the run-up to Christmas, and long, languid Sunday mornings making love in my double bed.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So it began. The private messages, and the jokey comments on each other's wall. Then it seemed Claire was in the middle of moving house, and couldn't always get internet access – so she gave me her mobile number. Result! And without even asking for it – the girl must be keen.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I rapidly pressed my advantage. After a few texts, I asked if she like to meet up for a drink in a couple of days? It seemed she would love to, but (and this is where my instincts should have warned me), there was all this moving house hassle to contend with. Did I mind if we left it till next Thursday? Of course I didn't, and it was back to our virtual relationship, texting and messaging daily and my fantasies proceeding apace. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It did not, of course, occur to me that while moving house is indeed a lot of grief, it has never been allowed to seriously interfere with my social life. Maybe you don't do much more on the day of the move itself, but, after that, who cares if everything is left in a pile in the spare room for a while? Certainly not if I had the prospect of a hot date to occupy me instead.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Thursday morning's text from Claire arrived with the inevitability of summer's end. She was really busy and stressed from all the moving, so did I mind if we met up another time? I minded a great deal, but there's no point in being anything other than supremely laid-back about these things, so I replied in a suitably upbeat, couldn't-care-less manner, and told her to let me know when she was free. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, then, I avoided all contact with her for a couple of days. Punishment, I suppose – or, at least, my way of trying to make myself care a whole lot less. When we did get in touch again it was as if nothing had happened – still the same, light-hearted and jokey banter – and it was actually Claire who suggested a lunchtime drink the following Sunday. So, ok, game back on … maybe she WAS genuinely busy and stressed the other day.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">For a few more days it continued. We had arranged to meet at a quiet country pub equidistant from where we both lived, and Claire was really keen to ensure that I would meet her in the car park outside. I did my best to reassure her – I am always early for dates, so that was never going to be a problem. Everything was going swimmingly once more until, inevitably, on Sunday morning, the text arrived: “Sorry Ben going to have to cancel today, really sorry to mess you around but really can't be helped”.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And, so that was that. Naturally, I replied in as casual a manner as possible (how can it make sense to be angry with someone you have never actually met?), but it was crushing. Hopes, dreams, fantasies … to have those snatched away is always painful. </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A few days later, my friend Charlotte did make me get in touch with Claire again. Charlotte's a great one for being upfront with people (well, most of the time she is), and she felt it would be good for me to find out what had gone wrong. So, I asked Claire once more if she was free to meet up the following weekend, knowing this time what the answer would be. When Claire said she was busy, I was then forced to ask her what the problem was (I would never have done this on my own, but I possess no free will when it comes to what Charlotte tells me to do). </div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Claire's reply was that she was at a bad stage in her life right now, that she had taken herself off all the dating sites and that she was sorry if she had led me on. If I wanted to delete her as a Facebook friend then she would understand.</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In the end, I'm not that petty. Hey, you can never have too many friends in this life, am I right?</div>Ben Willardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00790585436228784474noreply@blogger.com0