Cyber crush

Q: Is it possible to fancy someone you have never actually met, merely through the words they have typed on a screen and a couple of blurry photographs?

A: It would seem so. But in the relative security of exchanging messages at home, without having to get dressed, speak, let alone spend hours prettifying/planning conversational topics and the job-interview-over-dinner trial of a first date, anything is possible.

So, readers, some time ago, I announced that I was entering the largely dark and nocturnal world of internet dating. And this is where I am with it right now – typing messages to total strangers for whom all I have to go on are (mostly) poor quality photos and their names, heights, interests and ages. For some, disclosing just this is too onerous a task – the odd one or two just display their name, age and no photo, yet they expect someone to go out on a date with them. How naïve and desperate do they think women are? While for some, they attempt a photo, but lack the common sense skills to choose a suitable one. Examples on the cheap and cheerful site I have joined include a man in a Santa hat, one standing at least half a mile from the camera so all one sees of him is a dot in a green field, one gulping down a pint of beer so only his eyes and top of head are visible and one in a fancy dress costume wearing a mask!

Yes, it should all be about personality, but you need a visual to at least distinguish one ‘profile’ from another. And even if you are judging on character alone, many can’t be bothered completing the ‘tell us a bit about yourself’ box, so expect someone to choose them just from their height, age and marital status. Others will say ‘wud u like 2 have sum fun? Then chuse me.’ Or ‘looking for my Miss Right.’ And that’s it. My selection criteria at least requires them to say a bit more, be able to spell reasonably well and demonstrate some personality in their statements. It is surprising how few of them do just this.

Then, when there is some interaction it is like a strange game. I have received some odd messages – ‘How ya doing?’; ‘Wud u like 2 chat?’; ‘You live near me, would you like to meet?’ etc. The more normal ones I respond to begin a chat, we exchange a few comments then frequently they just disappear and stop corresponding. This is a little frustrating when I have spent time and effort trying write in a witty and charming way (as you can imagine, readers, this is no mean feat for me). The reality, probably, is that the glamorous blonde they keep clicking on has finally given in and decided to get in touch and send a private shot of her left nipple. So, despite persevering with this strange pastime for almost two months, I have still not been on a date.

But, things have not been a total disaster (although I do keep wondering why I didn’t join a better-known site like Guardian Soulmates) and I am currently having almost daily online conversations with one person. I am reluctant to say much about him, as I don’t want to jinx anything and, at present, I only have good things to say.

What I can say is that we began very coyly, both of us wary of revealing too much, but as time has moved on we know so much about each other, that it is almost like we have already met. We have covered all our interests, work, families, films, books, underwear… and then we began talking about sex. I have not reinvented myself as a demure, innocent young thing, but a lady needs to hold back a little, doesn’t she, readers? He wanted to cover all sorts on this topic – such as revealing each other’s fantasies, but it was I, the self-proclaimed drunken slut, who had to rein things in. I firmly, but nicely suggested this was something for ‘later on’. He sheepishly retreated and changed the subject.

I do admit, though, that the direction of the exchange did get me a little hot under the collar, even though the whole thing was being carried out on a computer screen over a couple of nights. Then, despite us behaving ourselves, our next conversation seemed to be littered with innuendo, such as me talking about a ‘nice warm shower’ and him pondering what underwear I had on.

The situation is an odd one, and one unique to the 21st century, I feel, as we have as yet never ever met. We certainly plan to, but is so much knowledge of one another an advantage or a hindrance? Will we have nothing to talk about or will this online acquaintance mean we can launch into a conversation without any small talk or awkward silences? Will we even fancy each other – couple of blurry photos is very little to go on. Maybe he will see me walking towards him and make a run for it.

The nerves have set in and I now have to wait a few weeks before the ‘big reveal’.
Just do me a favour, dear readers, if you run into him, don’t mention the blog – shhh!

The Italian job

Fabio came and went. There was little remarkable in the whole episode. It was over before it had started.

But his passing through did mark one thing – the start of my Italian phase. As Picasso went through his Cubist period, his blue period and African period, so I went through different ‘periods’. There was the ‘snogging people you don’t really fancy, but, what the hey, it’s still a snog’ period; the ‘long-haired or dreadlocked – whatever, just different hair’ period; the ‘desperately in love but sadly rejected’ period; the ‘oh I must find someone with commitment’ phase and the ‘series of really bad fuck-ups’ period. And this is just to name a few. I could give Picasso a run for his money, unless it came to producing amazing and priceless paintings. On that score I would have to hand him all my brushes and canvasses.

So, Fabio was the first of three. I met him in a night club in Camden when I was staying with a friend. It was the late 1990s; we were young, free and up for fun but had reached the point in life where we had seen it all, in terms of the nonsense men use to ‘pull’ at such venues. We were drinking, dancing and having a reasonably good night, but it had been slightly marred by a procession of creeps who had tried to either grope or proposition us.

I had also noticed a group of dark-haired, olive-skinned guys standing in the corner of the dance floor. They stood out as they were all well turned out and quite handsome (a cliché, I know, but true).

The shorter one of the group, with shoulder length dark hair and a leather jacket was staring at me, then he came over. I looked behind me to check he wasn’t approaching someone else. But no, it was me.

“My name is Fabio. I am from Italy. Please may I dance with you,” He said in a thick Italian accent. After all the earlier creeps, I was taken aback by his politeness and unassuming approach. How could I refuse?

We did the awkward dance where neither of you wants to look ridiculous when you are trying to be cool, sophisticated and fanciable. You both move stiffly and try to hold a neutral facial expression – letting yourself go could produce an ugly gurning face, while smiling may look like you are laughing at the other person and being too serious could look like you are in muscle spasm or hating every minute.

We attempted conversation, but the combination of loud music and his limited English made that a big challenge. So, he leaned in for a kiss and I obliged. He had soft lips and smelt really good – a pleasant but not overpowering after shave.

It was the typical nightclub pick up scenario and the fact that I was only in London for a couple of days meant I didn’t expect to see him again. There was also no chance of ‘going further’ than a snog as I was staying with my friend’s parents.

Fabio got my number but I didn’t expect to hear from him.

Then, a day after I got back to my flat, my phone rang. “’ello. I am Fabio,” said the voice on the other end. “When I see you?”

He was so cute, so sweet, polite and I loved the way he spoke. So, I did a rash thing.
I bought a train ticket to go all the way back to London for a day to meet a virtual stranger, who had a casual job in a restaurant kitchen and lived in a shared house with five other Italian guys.

“What the Hell,” I thought. “You only live once. Maybe I can move to Italy one day.”
He was just as handsome, but seemed shorter this time – about the same height as me and had a strange tuft of facial hair just below his bottom lip (a soul patch?). I just wanted to pat him on the head and squeeze his bottom, but restrained myself.
We went back to his house and he introduced me to various people – Luigi, Mario, Alonso and co. Then we headed to his room and he pulled me on to his bed. We rolled around and kissed before he nudged me in the direction of his throbbing erection. I dutifully unzipped and extracted it. He proved the point that a person’s height is certainly not proportionate to the size of their member.

His rather substantial member enjoyed some sucking and licking and rubbing as he moaned and said words I didn’t understand. But as I climbed on top of him so we could both share the fun, mini Fabio deflated.  He was apologetic, but at this point someone knocked on the door and we quickly adjusted ourselves, game over for now.

After going out for a coffee there was little time before my train home, so no chance of a rematch.

I again assumed this was the end of our encounter, but was proven wrong a second time. He rang me to arrange to come for a visit. Intrigued, I accepted.
He stayed for a couple of nights. I took him to a few tourist attractions, out for meals and drinks. We tried to talk a little, but conversation was limited.

The first night we tried to pick up from where we left off in his bedroom. Mini Fabio was a little perkier this time, so I was able to climb aboard as he sat on my sofa. We shagged furiously and Fabio reached his peak, shot his load and I got off, but there was little in it for me. I dismissed this as him being tired from his train journey, but each time it was the same. I was expected to ‘get him up’, deliver a ‘blowie’ or “you go down” as he put it, but he did not go near my area with his fingers or mouth.

He looked me up and down on one occasion, as I got us both a drink and said: “You a beet fat. Not too fat, but a beet. But no lose weight. If you lose weight you will lose these,” and he gestured at my boobs. “And I like-a these.”

That once and for all flicked off the switch – the one in my head that had stayed on in hope that things may develop between us. Us ladies are sensitive about these things. It is alright for us to call ourselves fat, but if anyone else says it, we are deeply hurt.
So, I was glad to see him leave. He did cook a nice meal one night (carbonara, I recall), but that was where his usefulness ended.

He tried to ring me a few times, but I screened my calls and never picked up. We lived too far apart for it to be worthwhile, my attraction to him had faded and clearly I was too ‘fat’ so I wasn’t even sure why he was still ringing me.

So, Fabio was the first. Then there was a second, shall we say, much longer term relationship. And the third was Benito, a UK-born Italian, who like Fabio was my height. Benito was excitable, funny, moody, fussy and fun – very similar to Fabio, but without the language barriers. He also had the best, most pert and grab-able bottom I have ever seen on a man to this day. I absolutely fancied him, and could have stared into his big brown eyes, framed by long black eyelashes, for hours.

But he had only agreed to go out with me after I sent him a series of emails after finding his contact details through mutual friends. Some may call that a form of stalking. I call it resourceful.

At least he gave me a shot. We had some long, heart-thumping kisses so I could enjoy his perfectly formed lips. But aside from him inserting two fingers inside me once, there was no physical interaction whatsoever. Clearly I was not as gorgeous and sexy to him as he was to me. But there are always going to be defeats. I am no Angelina Jolie, so am never going to ensnare all I seek to trap.

And there ended my Italian phase. Since then, there has been no common link between any of my ‘men friends’, but I am still holding out for a Scandinavian Thor-like period – a procession of tall, fair haired blue-eyed hunks – and maybe even a dishy, twinkly parade of Irish men next. The trouble is that I may be pushing a Zimmer frame before these chaps make an appearance.

*I hope this post doesn’t cause any offence to Italian male readers. It is only taken from my very limited experience.


Mountain man – part 2

After my night of wine-hazed passion with S, I awoke in a panic. We had to be ready for breakfast at eight and back-packed and booted for a practice walk soon afterwards.

My mouth felt like a dried up dead cat and I was a little dizzy when I got out of bed, but with a mad rush I just made it on time.

S showed up halfway through breakfast looking shower-fresh and ready for action, his firm biceps peeping out from his t-shirt. He glanced at me and flashed a cheeky grin. It must have been obvious that I was feeling a little fragile. He probably did this kind of thing all the time – bonking single female guests, then striding out over the hills the next day, without any side-effects.

As we gathered for a quick pep-talk before setting off, he looked around our group and advised us to apply sunscreen as it was unusually hot for June. “You could have put some shorts on,” he said, disapproving of my khaki cotton trousers. I just shrugged and blushed.

That was the only thing he said to me for the whole of the walk – which took us all day. In my young head, I assumed he thought the previous night was a drunken mistake. So instead, I chatted with my fellow travellers, keeping a serene exterior throughout the day and into the evening for dinner and drinks. A good night’s sleep, alone, was a wise move, as the next day we had an even earlier start for the first leg of our five-day trek into the mountains.

At least the next morning I was in better shape, rucksack all packed for a day of trekking and a night in a bunk house. I had even put on some shorts.

We spent the day walking across green pastures until we reached a rural village of barking dogs, clucking chickens and a stone building where we were to spend the night. After a shower, copious amounts of gin and tonic and cheap red wine, I retired to bed in a room I shared with two new female friends. S again didn’t follow.

The situation remained the same the next night as we had ascended further up towards snow-capped mountains and our beds for the night were triple decker bunks – a real passion killer when you are sharing a room with five other people. Of course I was the one stupid enough to take the very top one, which didn’t even have a ladder to reach it. So, a late night trip to the hole-in-the-ground toilet meant having to whisper to S, who happened to be on the bottom bunk, to lift me down. He thankfully obliged without hesitation and at least for a few seconds I felt his solid body against me.

Within a few hours into our journey the next day, I realised I was struggling and my ankles and knees were on the verge of collapse, while everyone else seemed to be in better shape than me and doing fine. Clearly they had all practised the art of drinking gallons of wine and walking for six hours the next day.

S, who hadn’t completely ignored me over the last two days – in fact he had joked with me and teased me for my accent (we both came from opposite ends of the UK) – came to the rescue. Despite the fact that he was carrying a heavy rucksack, seemingly weighed down with bricks, he strapped mine to his front and marched on, untroubled by the extra weight. I could only stare in amazement at his broad shoulders and meaty calves, as I sheepishly followed him.

Our stop-over that night was a mountain hut, but S asked if anyone fancied sleeping outside with him. He was looking at me specifically. Clearly, my weakened state was tugging on his heart strings.

So, while everyone else was settling down in cosy bunk beds, I was standing shivering in my fleece – the temperature seemed to have dramatically dropped on this section of the route – waiting for S to zip our two sleeping bags together.

We got in and had no choice other than to huddle together to keep warm. I could feel his heart beating against me, and as we squeezed one another, I could feel something else pulsating against me. We kissed again and hurriedly removed our bottom half clothes for a frantic but irresistible bonk. His dick was broad, like the rest of him and fitted snugly inside me. He even complimented me on my tight vagina. I enjoyed the warmth of his body and the extra closeness of him, now we were linked together in the most intimate way. It was over quickly, but this time it didn’t matter, as we were both exhausted.

I got up the next morning feeling shattered – communal sleeping out in the cold with a virtual stranger does not make for a restful night. But still, we all had to continue on our way, especially now as we were in ‘nowhere’ territory, on land barely accessible by vehicles other than donkeys.

After another full day on knee-shattering loose gravel, we landed in a remote village, our stay for the night. It ended with another night under the stars, but this time two of our female travel companions joined us to chat and drink until we all dropped off. So no action for S and I, who lay metres apart from each other.

The next day, I was excused from most of the walking, as my collapsing knee had got quite serious and S was probably worried about me suing the travel company. His boss, Paul, had arranged to meet us in a more vehicle-friendly leg of our trek to pick me up and take people’s luggage to the next pension of the route. This afforded me a head start with a room and a glorious warm shower – a luxury after days of washing in a cold shower one night and mere splashes of spring water the rest of the time.

After a snooze on the bed I heard voices – everyone else finally arriving. S was trying to explain in broken Spanish how many guests there were and how many rooms were needed. There were two other beds in my room, so I assumed two of the other girls were supposed to share with me. Feeling guilty for showering and resting while everyone else was tired and sweaty, I got up and put my head round the door, saying there was room for two more. S looked a little annoyed at me. Later that evening he said: “You were supposed to stay quiet – then we could have had that room to ourselves!” Hey ho – so much for having a conscience.

We got through dinner, more gins and lots of chat – by now we had really bonded as a group and I had become good friends with the other girls on the trip. What made it awkward, though, was the night that followed. S still wanted to share my bed. He snuck into our room when he thought the two girls sharing with me were asleep and we quietly snuggled under the covers. Or more accurately, we squashed into the single bed and I ducked under the sheet to give his member a special ‘hello’. He squirmed quietly, battling with his urge to make a noise.

Then, when it all got too much he gently eased me up the bed and rolled on top of me. I ran my hands down his broad back and up again over his shoulders and firm, beautiful arms as he lowered himself slowly and silently inside me. There was nothing frantic about this interaction, as we were trying our best not to make the bed creak. But somehow, it was more delicious and exciting as we were in a room with two other people. We rose and fell, rose and fell, as he gently kissed my neck, shoulder, breast and I drank in the smell of his clean body and fresh perspiration. I pushed down his rump to take him deeper inside.

We tired and he pulled out. The next morning, S was still beside me and our other two companions woke to see him. He wished them a ‘good morning’ before sloping off to his own room. I then endured some teasing and being asked how many marks out of ten I would give him. It was now obvious that no one in the room had been asleep during our ‘silent’ shag.

That morning’s breakfast hailed the start of the final stage of our journey. My knee had not improved much, probably not really aided by my nocturnal actions. I staggered through the pastures and along an old Roman road. At one point S took so much pity on me that he lifted me up and gave me a piggy-back over a short distance. This only made me worship him even more, as even back in my 20s I was not a slip of a girl.

A long, painful descent took us back into the little town where we had started all those days ago. The day was rounded off with a hearty meal and yet more cheap wine. I slept apart from S, sharing a room with one of the girls, but this time it was welcome, as I needed deep, revitalising sleep.

The next day was a free ‘do what you like’ day. After breakfast, a jeep roared into the guesthouse car park. Behind the wheel was S. “Get in,” he ordered me. Weak-willed and infatuated I climbed in, without hesitation. He drove us a couple of miles to a low rise concrete block where he rented a flat. After a coffee we went straight to his bedroom – his private space, no one around.

For the first time since our original night of steamy passion we could fully peel off all our clothes, enjoy our bodies in a range of positions, make as much noise as we wanted and let the bed rock and creak to its heart’s content. He was all mine for a couple of hours.

As we lay in a post-coital embrace, smoking post coital cigarettes (it was 2000 when I smoked and people still enjoyed indoor smoking guilt-free), I asked him why he decided to sleep with me.

“Well it was a toss-up between you and two others. One was likely to get too attached, and probably stalk me afterwards, and the other was all mouth and trousers. You seemed like you would be fun. And you were.” So here it was – my future path – the person who was fun to fuck and gave off vibes of not wanting a serious connection.
I just said: “Oh, right. Thanks,” and kissed him.

That night, our last night together as a group, a momentous occasion after our epic journey, and our last night with S, I really did take being ‘fun’ to the limit. I got so totally, utterly paralytic, by mixing the cheap wine I had become accustomed to with beer, and some drags of hash, that I was barely able to speak or stand, let alone spend one last night of body exploration with S.

He wasn’t there for our minibus ride to the airport the next morning so I never even had chance to say goodbye to him.

Mountain man – part 1

It wasn’t a typical summer holiday, but it was my first trip away alone and I didn’t want to  be lounging around a pool, with no one to put sun cream on my back, or sitting at a sad little table for one, not knowing where to look, as couples around me held hands and shared desserts.

No, none of that for me – I was 26, an independent woman and only now on the first rung of my personal career ladder. So, I was going to spend ten days trekking up mountains in Spain with a small group of like-minded people. I’d bought the big ruck sack, the water bottle and dug out my trusty old boots.

I was totally prepared but wasn’t prepared for any action, other than the pounding of my feet over grass, sand and stone. And maybe a glass or two of Spanish Rioja at the end of a tiring day.

But I felt the blood rush around my body as soon as he fixed his blue twinkly eyes on me. S, our English guide had met our group of ten at the airport with his boss, Paul. We made our introductions and he smiled, but his eyes kept wandering back to me.

He wasn’t my usual type at the time – late 30s, shaved head, the healthy tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors and a broad and muscly rugby player’s frame. But something radiated from him that made him very sexy.

We settled into our rooms in a small hotel-cum-guesthouse and met later for dinner, followed by drinks in the bar. The large gin and tonics flowed and we all eased into getting to know one another. Then it got to the point in the evening – a habit with me – where I noticed that there were only three of us left. Just S, a woman in her 30s, called Becky, and I remained. I think we all realised this at the same time and Becky (helpfully) announced she was turning in for the night.

S offered to walk me back to my room, but at this point I still hadn’t twigged that he meant he wanted to come into my room. In my drunken haze I just thought it was an odd offer when my room was only a few yards away, but I still nodded.

As soon as my door shut behind us both he leaned in and kissed me and I was powerless not to kiss him back. He was strong and solid (everywhere) and knew just how to choreograph our next moves. He led me to the shower where he hastily stripped off and I copied unquestioningly. Everything seemed to happen in a dream-like haze, enhanced by our tipsy state and the steamy condensation-filled shower cubicle.

We kissed, licked, nuzzled and explored each others bodies through the warm water. I ran my fingertips down his broad shoulders, back and solidly toned buttocks and round the front to his robust and firm cock. He rubbed, squeezed and massaged my breasts before moving his hand down to my pulsating clit.

Without stopping to get dry we moved to the bedroom and I let myself fall on to the bed, now desperate for him to be inside me. I wanted to feel the full weight and strength of his body. He readily obliged and we writhed, soaking wet, still in our steamy haze, even though we were now out of the shower. He pumped me slowly and firmly on top, under me and from behind, never tiring.

His nut brown skin and strapping body made me feel like a pale, petite and lady-like, probably for the first and last time in my life. And his lips were delicious, soft and tasted of strawberries.

It was one of those incidents that remains clearly etched in my memory, despite many years passing since, as all my senses were stimulated – the salty but sweet taste of him, the wet skin, the sound of our kissing and breathing, the beauty of his frame and the smell of wine, sex and sweat. Truly heavenly.

He left in the early hours to avoid any embarrassment the next morning – after all, he was to lead us up hills and mountains for several days. I fell into a deep sleep, in a wet bed, with a smile on my face.