No sex please I’m British…

The short answer to the question in my last post ‘Do two sorrys make a Mister Right?‘ is no they most certainly do not!

The fellow in question was certainly a catch – handsome, rugged, funny with a good job. After his initial approach we chatted intensely for three weeks online, he’s based in Wellington but was working in Sydney. After swapping more pictures by email, he teased me that he was surprised I was still available and asked if there weren’t any decent men in Christchurch? Cheeky little scamp.

Last week he called me and we chatted for an hour and a half on the phone, his voice was deeper and slower than I expected and he was relaxed and cool on the line, but really nice and had me blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl. Next up he Facebooked me and we continued the conversation there.

He seductively told me he liked the look of what he saw and asked if I was checking him out too? Of course I was! I have to admit I was secretly pinning my hopes on this one he was cute, smart, loves dogs and was in hot pursuit of little old me, what a potent combination. And then he blew it…

Mid conversation he asked me was I drinking? I said yes, I was having a nice slow glass of red, he replied saying that he liked a nice slow BJ. Whaaaat? Stunned I stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, surely he was kidding right? After a few minutes of silence with no sign of activity from the other side, I typed ‘please tell me that was a mis-timed comment?’ no, he pinged back ‘I love a good blow job don’t you?’

Needless to say I brought the conversation to a close pretty quickly. But I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Next day I asked him if he was feeling sheepish? No he winked back. That night again we went through the same rigmarole this time he told me that he was ‘busy stroking his cock’, record scratch moment! Now Miss Kitty is pretty sure he doesn’t have a pet cockerel in his bachelor apartment overlooking the city… so one can only draw a seedy conclusion.

I challenged him about his behaviour and he responded by asking me if I didn’t get horny too? Now my calculations tell me dear readers that I haven’t had sex in 8 months and by some standards that might make me a born again virgin. Am I horny? Too bloody right I am! But that doesn’t mean I want to have sext with a guy I’ve never met! I called him out and told him that we were obviously on different wavelengths that I didn’t want to be a long distance booty text and wished him luck in finding his woman (read Miranda style cyber sweep out of room). And? Finally rumbled, he fell dead silent. No final farewell or best wishes.Transmission terminated. So there it is, another epic fail.

Not one to give up lightly I pulled on my big girl heels and trotted out for a date with a local boy who had been very dry and humorous online. In person he was slightly eccentric and boho which initially I loved, but as the evening wore on I uncovered a rude person with a boastful ego, who thought he was cleverer than everyone else and I suspect actually blind drunk!

I dropped him back at his house and popped in to meet his dogs before heading home disillusioned and disappointed again. Except next day I discovered his smelly old boxer shorts left on my car’s passenger seat. Hello? At what point did he take them off and leave them in my car? And what’s with that? Sigh.

So tired and worn out from the constant erosion of dating stupid, horny men who’ve taken their brains out and transplanted them into their willies, I have yet again closed down my online profile. I don’t think I have the strength anymore to deal with the weirdoes and the sex starved.



Starter for 15

Hello World,

It’s been a while, I was licking my wounds and letting the dust settle after foolishly jumping, gung-ho fashion back into online dating. Dr. Spin it turns out really did believe his own press about what a catch he was and decided to go on a full facial assault on the third date without testing the waters first. Erm bad move.. I said my goodnights and ran away but he wasn’t letting me go that easily and ambushed me in my car as I tried to drive away. So after removing his tongue from the back of my tonsils for the second time and closing the door in his face, I decided that maybe I was being a bit naive in cyberland.

So I’ve let the online account stew for a bit. Apart from one blind date coffee with a man who is friends with a friend of mine. Her text read “I have a man for you, he does have an ex-wife but he’s lovely and ready to move on”.  I procrastinated and complained, strictly speaking he was outside my new rules but in the end in the spirit of optimism I agreed to dutifully give it a whirl. He was very charming too, although a bit flustered on arrival and stuttered through the first few minutes, so I took the helm and got us going, if there’s one thing Miss.Kitty is master of it’s inane chat! Now I don’t know about you but it’s a bit of a conversation stopper when said fellow reveals he has a) two teenage children and b) a freshly dispatched Japanese ex-fiancee. Hmmm, excess luggage anyone?

Next was a date with a one of our dear city’s ever increasing population of builders who are fixing the place up. He was a real gentleman and attentively turned his laser beam focus on me for the evening asking many, many questions and paying me many compliments. What a really lovely bloke and not to mention buff, but sadly the spark didn’t ignite so we didn’t repeat the date.

So I ducked down my hidey-hole and curled up there for a few weeks. That is until my brand new, shiny, single, gorgeous girlfriend lit a stick of dynamite under my arse! Her turbine drive and vivacious, tenacious appetite for life has shaken me from my backward looking reverie and last week the two of us went speed dating much to our own surprise. 15 men, 15 women and 2 large glasses of vino. It was the funniest, most ridiculous, entertaining night out I’ve had in a long, long time. We struggled to make head or tail of the male pack in 4 minute increments, some passing in the blink of an eye and others feeling like slow water torture.

In the assembled room was a vast array of characters including an executive female man-eater complete with 80s haircut, shoulder pads and knocking ovaries, three persian scientists/engineers who were very intense and painfully polite, a jolly Irish dairy farmer, a mouse sized primary school teacher with a big voice, a nervous first-time builder who had a rehearsed monologue, a Blade Runner looking blonde IT type with a creepy line in pickups (“I’ve seen you online” he breathed down the back of my neck at half time) and the tee-total, serial speed dater who attends doggedly every month. Still we had the best night, it was like a youth club on acid. I loved the craziness of meeting so many people in a short space of time. It’s not romantic and you certainly won’t meet the one but it’s nice to meet people, get out, be human and sociable. Most of all I enjoyed exercising my ‘chatting to strangers’ muscle and I’m pretty bloody good at it turns out  – scoring 12 out of 15 ticks, well surely I’m allowed a bit of boasting? It’s good for my confidence! But I only ticked 3, of whom I only one made one match. So this week I have a date with a snowboarding, surfing, climbing, scaffolder with a sunny personality and not too shabby in the flesh either. Perfect!

And what do they always say about looking the other way? Online I’ve been fished up by a handsome, cheeky chappie from another city who is intriguing and delighting me as well as serendipitously meeting some really lovely guys in the real world for a change.

Now I know something I didn’t believe before, that things do get better, there is always another day around the corner.You just have to be patient, get on with living your life and try everything! Eventually the hurt and loneliness fades and one day you stumble across things that can make you smile again.

Teens at the diner

Dr. Spin

So my first online date in 7 months and I’m nervous. I may have said I was charging along with my banner streaming but in actual fact I’m still nursing a stapled heart and getting out there to date is supposed to be an exercise in distraction and immersion.

Reluctantly I drag myself along to meet the latest specimen of interest, well let’s face it, it is similar to a science experiment isn’t it? We meet at a hip bar in town and as I arrive I’m feeling self concious of my stretchy tight skirt and short feathered jumper which is making me really hot in the fully heated bar – oh dear wardrobe malfunction, will he think I’m having an early onset hot flush?

Anyway, he’s there already seated in the corner looking cool and sexy in a fitted, black shirt with a beer, a bar tab already running and he stands up to kiss me on the cheek. OK stop the bus, let’s just rewind that frame. Yes I did just say all of that and no it’s not a joke. He is early – check, he’s not got two heads – check, he’s actually cute – check, and he has a bar tab running – check. OMG has Miss Kitty finally found a fully functioning member of the opposite sex? Shall we buy the hat and bouquet now in preparation? What will the first child be called?

Well not quite. Let’s chalk it down to a very successful date and will soon be followed up by another one I hope, but I do get a slight nagging feeling that I will share with only you. I think I am dating myself!

The fellow in question works in a PR capacity so let’s call him Dr. Spin and my word does he know his product! Not only is his profile cleverly written but it has impeccable punctuation, a wonderful draw you in sparkly-eyed picture (at a wedding no less, to add to the romantic flavour) his manners are a credit to his mother and he scrubbed up very nicely for our date. He trained as a journalist, as did I many moons ago, and we happily swapped newsroom stories and banter. We even compared shorthand speeds and story angles, but here’s the real nub, he’s writing a book. I nearly choked on my cheeky little Sauvignon, a book? Apparently it’s guy-lit, a bit like chick-lit but based on his own experiences of… dating! Well Miss Kitty practically meowed her way out of her seat! You will never know the composure that was employed to keep my face absolutely poker straight and interested, do tell Dr. Spin what are you stories about?

And whatsmore his stories are on a par with mine: a woman who turned up for a date after finishing the supermarket shop and dumped the bags only to let the frozen items defrost and seep all over the bar floor, another lady who turned up on the first date and produced a list of questions so worn the paper was see through and well creased, the first question being how much did he earn? And his absolute corker story about the lady (questionable title) who during the date got completely blotto and threw up in her brand new handbag which had been the source of much discussion that night!

So what have I learnt? That men are having as tough a time as we are, that I have some competition on the block (ha, ha) and that the male version of me is spookily similar in mannerisms and interests, only time will tell if twin attraction is nice or annoying.

his n hers

The truth serum

There’s no two ways about it online dating is an odd concept. Talking to someone online and trying to condense your life values into sound bites makes for an odd face-to-face meeting when it finally happens.

For starters you have a kind of pre-conceived false intimacy that you know who you are going to meet, which of course is rubbish and this soon becomes apparent when you turn up for the first date and shake their hand, because the real living breathing organism is always light years from their cyber self and they even look different to the picture in your head or on their profile.

But the common thread for me is the weird truth-telling that goes on, I think it’s something to do with the awkward first chat. It seems to prompt a fight, flight or truth response in men and so they choose to get loose of tongue. While you are both in the cold, death grip of nerves and before the alcohol hits the spot and tames the hormones, grown men blurt out the damndest things!

Point in case my very first online date. I was so naive about the whole thing, we got on so well I thought it was a done deal, I skipped all the way to the pub convinced that this was the guy, badda-bing, first time lucky – just like that! We’d been texting (yes texting not messaging) and he had been very flirty, dirty and over familiar with me. It was all sexual tension and teasing and I had a picture of him as a strong, capable, gorgeous, Alpha male. I turned out he was young, spotty, kinda square and obsessed with drinking and going out and ‘getting trashed’. Oh dear. This was not what I was expecting. But worse still he proceeded to tell me in a half hysterical state that he hated his job as an Optometrist and that when his elderly patients complained of poor sight he dreamt of taking them to a ‘kill room’ and putting them out of their misery. Gee, there’s a conversation stopper. Was he being funny or serious?  Seeing my confused look he explained that most of them had inoperable cataracts and that this was his black humour to get him through the day. Really? Too late mate.

Next up was the mountain climber who ran his own business designing and manufacturing specialist climbing pants in Thailand. He was a good ten years older than his profile picture for starters, optimistically he insisted on meeting in a darkened pub, but then he went on to tell me about his last buying trip in Bangkok which involved taking a prostitute out for a night on the town and then paying her money because he felt bad about not sleeping with her. Ahem, sorry, come again? I’m sure he did.

Then there was the guy who upon my walking through the door announced that he was pleasantly surprised to discover that I actually looked like my picture and was a slim lady after all. He went on to explain that because of his profile picture (which featured him on a boat hauling a catch of crayfish) that he was “a fat bird magnet”, what a nice change he told me earnestly, looking me up and down, not to have to explain that he doesn’t actually have a freezer full of free seafood. Oh bully for you. And finally my pièce de résistance the guy who’s opening one liner was “So how do you feel about a guy with two kids, each from a different mother?”. Funnily enough I haven’t really spent that much time pondering that one…. but oh look I think there goes my bus, bye.

To coin a much used phrase WTF?! Whatever happened to the art of conversation? I don’t want a man to lie to me or hide stuff, absolutely not, but I do appreciate a true gentleman who can charm and perhaps create an air of mystery. What’s wrong with wanting a man who has old fashioned manners in a modern casing? I don’t want to see or hear about your dirty washing, I want you to impress me with your best, pressed, bib and tucker please.

r & d

Shiny, happy people

They say you should never judge a book by its cover, a rare thing in these image obsessed times. But that’s half the problem with online dating how can you tell if you’re looking at the cover or just the dust jacket?

Early last year I met a funny, cheeky fellow online who had a fairly nondescript profile with a couple of pictures of a smiling, pleasant looking guy. We chatted for a while and had a laugh so I agreed to go for a drink with him.

I turned up at the bar and did a quick sweep, couldn’t see him anywhere? Strange. Then a man who had his back to me turned around and with a beaming smile waved me over. A ripple of shock ran through me as I realised that the completely bald and shiny headed person waving at me was the very same cheeky chappie who wore a beanie and a baseball cap in his profile pictures. Aha! All the pieces fell into place.

I have to admit I did have a mini panic attack but that was mainly because I wasn’t ready for well….. so much bare skin to be on show! But I didn’t run away, I joined him at the bar and we chatted away merrily. In fact a lot of his jokes were aimed at his baldness as he told me he once worked for a company called Brush, oh the irony he chuckled as he massaged his head! We swapped bad date stories and cracked up laughing at the ridiculousness of dating at this age. I got to my two drink limit and made my excuses to go, but we were getting on like a house on fire so with some gentle persuasion I stayed for more drinks, then a live band and then dancing.

I laughed and laughed that night till my sides hurt. There was no physical chemistry but he was hilarious and great fun to be with, like a good male friend. I never picked up the threads after that night and we meandered off on our separate ways, but we met up 6 months on for a catch up drink and to compare notes on swimming in the dating pool. He was the same jolly fellow but a bit jaded with the dating game, like me.

I guess sometimes it’s refreshing to meet someone who perhaps for whatever reason doesn’t look like your ideal or type but who will surprise and delight you with their inner self. There’s something to be said about being open to people and having the right attitude in life to all the little obstacles it throws us. I hope he’s found his special lady and is beaming his shiny, happy aura on them both.


I love you truly, madly, creepy

Time to dip into the vault and pull out and oldie but goldie that highlights what happens when stalking goes bad.

After my other significant relationship bombed when I was 24 I saw a charming chappie at a bar one night and rather took a shine to him. So after chucking back a few white wine spritzers (hey it was the nineties ladies!) I started to chat him up, he seemed quite taken aback that I was even interested (he had self-esteem issues). I gave him my number before disappearing into the night hopefully in a mysterious and alluring fashion.

He called up the next day and in between asking me out for dinner again stated that he was surprised that I’d noticed him. He was a good looking chap so I thought he was being facetious. So off we went for a rather ho hum dinner at a swanky bistro. He looked nice but when he opened his mouth he said the strangest things. For starters he told me with a knowing wink that his mother had told him he would know for sure when he met the love of his life. Then he told me that he insisted his wife would stay at home, not work and bring up the kids. Again he engaged me in a meaningful stare. Long story short I didn’t call back after the date. I told him I didn’t think it would work for us chalk and cheese etc. He needed a nice girl not me.

And that’s how my own personal fan club of one started. To begin with he would follow me and my friends round town and deliberately walk slowly past the cafe window where we were sitting, then he got into the habit of turning up at my work demanding to see me and then following me home in his car. Naturally I was spooked. But the best was yet to come.

One night lying in bed I heard a sound outside my bedroom window and then a crash and a moan. I sent my Mum’s partner downstairs to look and it turns out in an attempt to get to my bedroom he’d climbed up the kitchen extension but had stupidly used a wheelie bin to stand on and of course it rolled away. He fell and broke his ankle. My Mum wanted me to go out and comfort him until the ambulance arrived but I was adamant I was not going to encourage him. Cold hearted bitch that I am!

Eventually though my niceness did get the better of me and I called and arranged to pop round and see him and take him a conciliatory box of chocolates, I turned up and walked into his kitchen and despite hobbling around with his foot in a cast he’d cooked us a full blown three course dinner with single red rose – would I stay? Hell no!

The final straw came when he was back on his feet again and he got wind that I was moving to London, he turned up at my doorstep with flowers and a card. I talked to him on the doorstep and he begged me to stay tears running down his face, “I don’t even know you!” I said. It was clear I wasn’t getting through so I shoved the flowers back at him, tore up the card and threw it on the floor. It’s the only time in my life I have ever been really, really mean to someone but I was convinced this guy was going to end up hurting me if I didn’t drive the message home forcefully.

Luckily it worked and I didn’t see him again lurking on corners or creeping round the back of my house, but I do always wonder if he found his little wife and is living somewhere happily ever after. I’m just glad I painted myself out of that little cameo.


Kinky is as kinky does

Strictly speaking this is a blog about my current dating experiences, but I feel compelled to share a few other stories from my past here and there which can only be described as very odd. This may lead to you draw the conclusion that I am a weirdo magnet (it takes one to know one so they say) and it’s probably true, but these are simply too good to be kept in the closet, so here is one particularly brief but true story (Barumba! But this little joke won’t pay off till you’ve read to the end).

In my 20s I dated a nice young chap with good prospects who my mum adored. He was OK looking, had a good income and drove a very nice car. Oh say no more, except that I’m always suspicious of guys my mum likes. Anyway, cut to the chase, he invited me away for the weekend and paid for us to stay in a swanky hotel in a cool little city not far away, separate rooms of course, and as ever mum was pleased. Once at the hotel we made plans to go out that evening and went to get changed, he came to collect me from my room early to go to dinner and as usual I wasn’t ready, so he hung out in my room watching telly while I finished off my make up in the bathroom. Fair enough, nothing kinky here, so off we went for a really expensive meal followed by drinks and dancing at the nightclub. Lovely.

I was having a great night and was starting to warm to the idea of going out with a proper boyfriend who was charming and polite and bought flowers and opened doors etc etc I mean what a novelty? Maybe Mum was right after all? Anyway at about 2am Mr.Smooth leans in and kisses me and asks me if I’m having a nice night? “Yes” says I (weak at the knees) “Good” says he “Because by the way, I’m wearing your knickers…” “I’m sorry what was that? It’s so loud in here that I could have sworn you said I’m wearing your knickers ha ha!” “I am” said he and matter of factly pulled down his waistband and flashed me, my own, plain, white, Marks and Spencer cotton knickers with a little satin bow at the front. “I’ve been wearing them all night.” he said with a cat’s got the cream smile. Ding dong weirdo alert. Oh shit, one of them again. I didn’t really know what to say, one of the few times in my life I’ve been stunned into silence. So OK he was a bit kinky obviously, he’d rummaged through my bag, stolen my knickers and put them on while I was getting ready. But the thing that always tickles me is that he didn’t pick any of the sexy little, black offerings I had stashed away in the bag but the boring old workaday white knickers. I mean if you’re gonna do it, do it in style right?

Needless to say he got the elbow pretty quickly. I mean I don’t want a guy who literally wants to get in my knickers! When I got home and told my mum, who let’s face it was secretly a little bit disappointed that Mr.Smooth had stuffed up, she valiantly countered with “well at least he wasn’t wearing your bra as well”. Yes Mother…. I kid you not.

marilyn and toni