The Ghosts, the Penpals, the Pushovers, the Ladies’ men, the Corporates, the Adventurous, the Pathological liars, the Funny ones, the Free spirits and the Stalkers. I was getting used to them all and could almost identify all of them after one email or ten. Up until now, I had myself been interchanging between the Ghost and the Corporate. However, for this particular guy, I was the Stalker.
I didn't know why, but I was mesmerised by his pictures; he represented my masculine ideal: bright eyes, a beautiful tuft of wavy hair, pale skin and an athletic body.
Every day I religiously admired his pictures and re-read his profile. But, in my defence, he was doing the same and he started it. I liked this guy's profile.
Well, meet Oliver Dion (he prefers Olive). We had been chatting for a week or two and I loved his swank accent; he had this way of talking on the phone, like a modern Shakespeare, with a deep sexy voice that made me drool.
Olive was 36 year-old; he was the owner of a recruitment agency in London with the main branch located two blocks away from my office. He lived in Kingston, a chic town in the southwester of Greater London, a chic town and cool enough to exile a weekend. Olive had just invested in a new flat apartment there he was currently redecorating (this was one of his main projects). We shared the same passions: the theatre, the opera, the intimate concerts, politics, travel. He always had good banter and told great jokes and our conversations on the phone were so stimulating. I could not wait to meet him in person; he intrigued me.
Pre-date
After our first three calls, Olive and I communicated a lot through text. Every time I received a text from him, I would rush to my phone with a huge smile, like a dog being fed after a whole day of starvation. I was desperate for his attention. I always wanted more and the only reason our first date was delayed was because was The Corporate hotty. He would go on holiday for a week, and set off again on his next trip away from the hustle and bustle of the city. And when he was staying a few days in London, I was the one away. This circus probably lasted two months.
And finally, on my return to London, knowing Olive was in town, I sent him the following text message: <Hello, I'm back home. How was your weekend? Wondered if you fancied that ‘overdue’ rendezvous? :) xx >
Olive: < That’s quite spooky actually honey, I was literally just thinking about that this morning. What are you up to on Saturday? Xx >
Moi: <:) Saturday should be ok. Xx >
Olive: < Ah, hang on… I just realised I’m not even in London this weekend. (Sorry, was clearly too excited at seeing you). What about next week? Xx >
Moi: <Next week is fine but can’t do Saturday. X >
Olive: <Any time is good baby. A Friday nighter is always nice xx>
Shit! I was supposed to meet the ladies that night, but I soooo wanted to see Olive. I was prepared to skip this catch-up and so I replied back <Ok, great! Friday should work for me xx>, I was sure the ladies wouldn't mind me cancelling.
Olive: <Excellent! Can't wait to meet you at last. This was very much what I was thinking about this morning… that I must see you for drinks xx >
Moi: <That's great! That's a long way off, lol. I'm not used to being that patient, but I'm looking forward to it too ;) > His texts were flirty, using words like ‘pretty’, ‘beautiful’, ‘honey’ or ‘baby’. These words were not only caring qualifiers, but also the sort of things a Player might use. I started wondering if Olive was not a Ladies' Man.
Those two weeks of waiting were an ordeal; I kept thinking about him. It took all my willpower not to text him too often. And to calm my patience, I was stalking his profile from time to time. I needed to copy screen it!
The Date Day arrived, but I hadn’t heard from him. I didn't chase him; I was disappointed, but at least I had a good evening catching up with the ladies.
On my way back to Chelsea, I received a text from Olive: <Hello pretty, how are you? When are we finally going to get round to having that drink? ;) X>
My mind, my feelings, and my self-esteem had been strongly altered by the few bottles of wine I had consumed with the ladies. I replied, <Hey you! I’m super fine, thanks for asking. How have you been? Oh, just let me know when you’re free to meet. Friday seems ok for me at the moment ;) >
Olive texted back: <I am presently on a boat in the middle of the Cotswolds, but I'm back on Saturday and I'll give you a call to hatch plans. Will be nice to hear your voice :) xx >
Moi: <Lucky you! Enjoy ;) Please do call me. Have a lovely time in the Cotswolds! >
Olive: <I will, it's pretty special up here. Who knows, maybe I'll have to bring you up here some time ;) xx >
Moi: <Ha ha, you never know ;). Heard great things about the place, worth a trip! X >
Olive: < Possibly even more fun with a yummy lady. I'm with mates on this occasion, so it's been fairly boozy and fairly silly. Maybe one for a 6th or 7th date :) xx >
I couldn't believe it; Olive was away again. What a lifestyle! If I were brave enough, I would quit my job and do the same. Having my own perfume brand was a dream I had and would afford me such habits.
Monday evening, Olive was back in London. He didn’t call but I received the following text: < Hello lovely, I'm back in planet work and wondering if you fancy a date this Friday? :) xx >
Back to my normal self and angry that he didn't postpone or cancel last Friday, I must confess that I almost declined the invite. <Hate broken engagements. Don't want to see you anymore. Bye! >
I deleted the text as I thought that was childish and I simply answered an hour and a half later, <Hey, welcome back! This Friday sounds just great for me. >
Olive texted back: <God babe, really tired today. I got an attack of ‘second-day-back’ syndrome, and just completely crashed about half-three and it all went downhill from there. So, what do you fancy doing? What bit of town are you in? xx>
Moi: < I'm having a crazy week too! I work in Holborn and live SW. You? Drinks? X>
Olive: <Ah ha, SW; this is most useful. I'm in Kingston. We could go up to Wimbledon village or something. Drinks sound cool :) xx.
Moi: < Splendid! Wimbledon works for me. 8pm? Or is that too late? ;) x>
Olive: < No no, that's fine. Gives us both a chance to get home first and get changed. Awesome, can't wait to finally meet you :) xx >
Olive again, five seconds later: <I think I’m going to rather fancy you young lady ;) xx>
Me, shyly: <;) xx>
Olive: <I have a feeling I’m going to want to kiss you xx>
Moi: <What makes you think that? Xx>
Olive: <I just think you're very hot baby. Just getting texts from you makes me smile xx >
If he only knew how much I fancied him. I decided not to communicate that feeling and only replied, <Then, I'm sure we're going to like each other ;)) xx>
Friday
At 2pm on Friday I was so excited to see Olive, I was sick: headache, stomach-ache, nervous poo; my body was in turmoil. I was unable to concentrate! I could only produce poisonous or toilet fragrances. Well, did you know that I was a nose, most commonly known as a perfumer, for a big French cosmetics company? The only qualifier I used until now was “divorcee”, but I actually have a job. I am a perfumer with a passion with fine and natural fragrances. And, I am in charge of creating the next number 5 de Chanel. I was far from this. Cats’ pee smelt better than my fragrances.
Then, in the middle of the afternoon, in the midst of creating a relatively good fragrance, Olive called. I did not dare to reply like an idiot; I blushed all-alone like a two-year-old peeing on herself, hoping Olive would leave a message on my voicemail.
Bummer! He didn’t. So I decided to call him. I left a stupid voicemail and regretted it immediately! Why did I do this to myself?
And 15 minutes after my message, Olive texted, <Please don't be cross, but I've been press-ganged into a client drinks. They have been very forceful on the matter. Would you be upset if we rearranged to a night next week? You can pick whatever night you like. :) xx>
I was très très upset and replied, <Hi, Olive, I am not cross, but I won't see you next week or ever, I'm afraid x>
Frankly, I did not expect a response from him. I was at my desk pretending to work, but I had only one desire: go home and scream!
Three months later
During the three months following the missed date, I noticed that Olive had become a Stalker-Slash-Corporate online-dater. Presumably he was still busy but he was religiously stalking my profile on eHarmony. On my part, I had given up this habit from the day I said bye. He upset me and the Adrian-victim part of me didn't want to repeat past mistakes.
I sent him an email through the site. "Thanks for visiting my profile ten times in three days. Appreciated, flattered and honoured. Maybe it's also time to dare to apologise for our missed rendezvous and have the bravery to reschedule one."
Olive answered almost immediately. "I'm really happy to receive an email from you. I am sorry I cancelled last time. I was really upset you didn't want to see me again. You were my greatest regret, and indeed, I would like to see you. What about tomorrow? 7pm? I swear you won't regret it."
I was happy to hear back from him and my heart accepted his invitation, but my brain tried to convince me to decline the invite. Despite this, I decided to ignore my gut feelings.
So we planned our date the following day in a wine bar called Baranis in Chancery Lane. He better honoured this date this time around! If he doesn’t, I would go to his office and pour a nice glass of red wine on his head.
Date No.1
Strangely, I was not as nervous as before our supposed first date. I was zen. Olive almost begged to see me and I wasn't feeling as much pressure now. At least, that was how it felt to me.
I was strutting towards the Baranis and on my way; Olive sent me a text message asking what sort of wine I wanted. I knew he was there and I was pleased. I requested a red, from Bordeaux preferably. He replied, "Great choice!" I was thrilled; we were on the same wavelength.
I entered the Baranis with a confident walk. As promised, Olive had booked us one of the private alcove spaces. He was not exactly like his pictures, but he was still hot and totally my style. He was very elegantly dressed and I was immediately attracted. The bar was crowded and thunderous, and the conversation was too frequently prompted by phrases such as ‘say that again’, ‘sorry’ and ‘excuse me’, but overall it was a great evening.
At first, I was mega annoyed, as it seemed that Olive found it hard to make eye contact, until I realised my breasts just hypnotised him. I decided to wear my scarf to hide my cleavage. Well done! Olive was with me then.
Olive was very well cultured, well-read, well-travelled and shared many of the same interests as me. He was funny, in a ‘smart funny’ way, and I loved it. I also learned that his parents were divorced, he was an only child and grew up in Cheshire. Olive was not very accustomed to the French accent, so I had to repeat a few words for him to understand. But this all added to the joy, laughter, and humour of the evening. The date was sensual, flirty and funny; I really enjoyed it and didn't regret giving him a second chance.
At the end, Olive grabbed a cab for me and gave me a small peck on the lips.
Post-date No.1
Olive conquered me. I really liked him and I thoroughly enjoyed our evening. Presumably, he was also attracted to me; he texted later that night as proof of it. He said he adored our night and really wanted to see me again. But for that, our patience would be tested at its highest level.
Indeed, we had started the busiest and most festive month of the year: December. So, in between my Christmas party, my friends' Christmas parties, corporate Christmas parties and me being in France for two weeks over Christmas, it took us six weeks to organise Date Number Two. However, we had a few calls to keep in touch and texted each other almost every day. It remained flirty, romantic, and fun.
Then, we finally hatched our plans to meet on the first Saturday of January. This time, Olive promised me a candlelit dinner. Very romantic. I couldn’t wait to discover more about him and I was looking forward to being back in London.
A few days later, just as I stepped off the Eurostar, I received a cute text message from Olive: <Welcome back pretty! I can’t wait to see you this coming Saturday and find out more about you.>
Wow, I felt like I was going to like this guy. Olive was so attentive, which I loved, and was always texting at the right time. But my joy was ruined by another text message: <Can I get one from you too? > Along with an unsolicited dick picture! What the hell? I deleted it immediately and responded, <Sorry, I don’t move that fast. You will have to wait for such a sexy pic of me. >
How did Olive switch from lovely and romantic to a cocky and cringe-worthy 14-year-old-wanna-be-playboy-star? I felt visually assaulted, yet I had to admit that his penis was absolutely stunning.
But, I was disappointed and started to question our second date. Olive behaved so well most of the time that my heart was already hooked. I decided to go forward, ignoring the red flags sent by my brain trying to rationalise the mess, I was probably getting myself into. Even the last-minute change of plan did not bother me: instead of going to the restaurant, we would stay at mine and have an intimate romantic dinner. That was what I thought...
Date No.2
The night before our second date, Olive and I were both mega horny and were sexting almost all night. The alcohol I had drunk with the ladies didn't help. I was out of my mind and really impressed yet annoyed by the most good-looking cock I have ever seen in a picture. So, we agreed that I would be wearing very sexy lingerie upon our dinner date under a classy chic dress.
But, I changed my mind. I welcomed him half-naked in a beautiful Agent Provocateur red corset with stretchy lace that gave me the ultimate hourglass shape, combined with suspenders and black stockings.
Olive was gobsmacked. He jumped on me and started kissing me, making a weird croaking sound. I was unable to share the passion; not only was the sound an ear-sore, but the kisses were bad. They were tongue-free, which was as bad as too much tongue. As such, Olive was pecking at my lips, neck, cheeks, eyes, nose and nostrils like a woodpecker. The whole lot wasn't pleasurable at all; it was ridiculous and it hurt.
How could I get away? I offered to order food, pretending I was hungry. Olive and I went for something light: sushi. We had a very nice catch-up while waiting for our food but I wasn’t quite listening. Still shocked, only croaking sounds were coming out of his mouth now. I wondered why Olive kissed that way. How could I change it? How could I tell him to shut up politely without killing the passion? It wasn't sexy at all. In fact, it was a total turn-off for me.
By the time the food and wine arrived, I was famished. Our dinner was prompted by banter, similar experiences, and our views on online dating.
A couple of hours later, my mind extremely altered by the wine, that was not an excuse, I started to striptease to Lana Del Rey’s Suicidal Songs. What was I thinking?
Olive and I ended up in my bedroom, pecking passionately, the sad music mixed with the croaking sounds of Olive. He started going down on me, still croaking. It was bad. I wanted to direct him, moving my body so he could reach my hot spot, but I couldn't concentrate. Eventually I stopped and started thinking of my shopping list.
Just before falling into a deep unresponsive coma, I interrupted him and started going down on him. That was just as bad as his penis went down. I didn’t understand – I usually excel at that! I persevered. Olive stopped me and pecked me again. I lost it, but at least his penis went hard again. So he grabbed a condom and started penetrating me. It started well as I felt his hard cock in me, but this lasted 30 seconds. It went dead again, this time for good.
We dressed awkwardly and silently. We then kissed goodbye and I went straight to bed thinking that I was going to pump the brakes on this possible budding union, as I was not tempted to hit the gas anymore. What an unsex-cessful disaster again!
Post-date No.2
That Sunday morning was bad. I had a massive headache and remembered only the bad parts of this catastrophic in-house date. I checked my mobile and I hadn’t received any text from Olive.
Disappointed, but not surprised, I didn't text him either. Well, not until 9pm when I sent a shy, <Hope you got home okay. Xxx>
After a week, I was very upset that he hadn't got in touch with me. I sent Olive a text along similar lines: <Hi Olive, I am really sorry our second date went this way. I guess we were both expecting a lot from it, and the whole sex thing was a bit rushed, pressured, and therefore bad. I guess we both agree on this. I just wanted you to know that you're a very nice guy and it's surely not your fault or mine. I would have appreciated talking about it openly instead of just disappearing. But it's fine, I understand your politeness. I wish you all the best and hope you find what you're looking for xxx>
I never heard back from him until….
Pre-date No.3 (8 months after date No. 2)
Eight months later, I was completely over Olive. I thought of him from time to time, as I couldn't deny that he once was my ideal. But I also recalled him as the most disappointing date of my dating history. Such a long wait and such a let-down. Olive was really handsome but to my biggest displeasure, the sex was just too bad.
So, when I received a message from him, a few months later, I was surprised and curious. Receiving a text from him had weirdly the same impact on me; I was thrilled and excited, yet I wasn’t in a rush to reply. In actual fact, this time, Olive had to chase me for me to get a response.
We exchanged a few casual and polite texts, then Olive pretended he wasn't at his best on our last date and he wanted to catch up again. He invited himself to mine. I declined his self-invitation. I didn't want him to know my new address (yes, I will be moving out in the next chapters). Instead, I invited myself to his and he accepted.
I wasn't the woman Olive met a few months ago anymore; I had changed. London, my experiences, my break, had all changed me. That night on my way to Kingston, I had no expectations – I just needed sex. Second time lucky? The first time can be nerve-racking and the alcohol hadn’t helped. So I wanted to give him another sex-chance. Yet, I did not want a serious relationship with him, I just wanted his amazing penis to satisfy me at last.
Date No.3
I hate taking the train but I didn't have a choice. No cab was available and I quickly realised that if I had waited for one, I would have been mega-late.
I was super excited, the horny kind of excitement. I had just shut down my Tinder account and knew that was the end of the fun. Olive had called at the right time and now I was about to have an erotic night of sex.
When Olive got out of his car to greet me, I was shocked. He had lost so much weight I barely recognised him. He could swim in his clothes, which made him look like a naff, and he had gotten rid of his sexy full volume brushed-up hair, settling for a very short Caesar haircut, which gave him an entirely different look that I did not like at all. But that was okay; I was here for his penis. We pecked, sat in his BMW SE Touring (I really wondered why he had such a big car) and headed to his place.
Kingston was beautiful. Olive lived near the Bushy Royal Parks, full of nature with a fantastic view over the River Thames. I was curious to see his newly decorated place.
We parked and entered a beautiful Victorian building with a very chic interior. However, when I entered his apartment, I was shocked by its small size (come on, we were out of London now!), and I quickly felt claustrophobic. Not only was the apartment small, but the size was emphasised by the over-decorated, and over-equipped living room. In fact, Olive’s living room looked like a cellar where he stored a variety of items in various styles and forms. There was no space to move around and I almost had to jump over the sofa to sit on it.
A strange smell reigned in the whole apartment. Olive showed me around – I wasn’t really willing but he insisted. The kitchen was disgusting with a few bins overflowing. The bathroom was fairly clean yet a few dirty and empty shampoos were decorating the space powdered by at least a month of dust. His bedroom remained the cleanest room in the whole flat (thank goodness). Yet, the posters of vaginas hanging on his wall took me aback. They were not artistic. They were disgusting, very explicit and a variety of them were exposed black, yellow, pink, white. The only thing that came out of my mouth was, "Sexy". I didn’t dare asking if he took those pictures. I wasn’t willing to be his next model.
I needed a few glasses of wine to forget that I was about to have sex in the museum of horrors.
Olive cooked for me. To be honest, I don’t remember what he cooked, but I wasn't sick the next day. I think he used clean cutlery. So, we dined, chatted and laughed, and after that we rushed into his room.
How did I forget about the croaky pecks? The sound was unbearable! And all those pussies staring at me. In the end, it was the same story; I couldn't concentrate. I know I didn’t need to concentrate, but the croaks took over my desire. It was the same circus; Olive went down on me, it was mega bad. I stopped him, went down on him; he was oh-my-goodness big! That was me! He put a condom on and we went on for 15 minutes. Passionate albeit boring sex. I don't know how to explain. The act was passionate, yet the pleasure was non-existent. Olive came, I didn't. But the night was long – we had a few rounds left.
Well, that was what I thought, because Olive offered to cuddle in front of a movie, which I found cute. After laying on the sofa for 30 minutes I went into a deep coma. Around 3am, feeling mega-horny, I tried to wake him up – impossible! I was about to book a cab to get home and I realised that my phone was out of battery! Shit! I had to wait and I fell back to sleep.
I woke up around 8am to the smell of fresh coffee. Olive had prepared breakfast for us. I smiled, asked for more sex, as I was still unsatisfied, but he politely declined, as he had to go fishing with his dad that morning and was already late. As horny as I was, I hadn't realised he was already wearing his fishing gear. Well, we had breakfast very quietly, Olive took me to the station, and I was ready for the walk of shame to mine. Bad, bad, bad.
Conclusion
Ostensibly I had expected nothing from that date. But I had still been disenchanted again. The last date just confirmed the second. Olive and I were not sexually compatible. Olive sent me more texts for months, accompanied by unsolicited pictures, and he also asked me out to start everything from scratch in the prospect to start a real relationship. I ignored and declined. Today, I label him as the croaking woodpecker. What a strange animal! Next!