On Internet dating – part two

November 25, 2010

As you have probably guessed by now, women and me don’t do very well. Not for want of trying, I must add.  What with the Boss and her lesbian tendencies and that Internet malarkey I dabbled in a while back, sometimes I think I should give up. Lead the life of a gentleman by which I mean take up a hobby like… hunting or trains and not bother with all that sex stuff.  Mind you, there aren’t all that many hunting opportunities in Brentford, and when I think about it, trains don’t rock my boat as much as they used to.

If only Cheryl Cole would come and swish her hair at me. Life would be so much better.

Anyway, as you know I did a bit of that Internet dating stuff, but most of the women I met were mad. Only mad women try and find a mate online. Well, mad or desperate. Usually both. There’s an awful lot of them out them. The problem is you need to sift through the mad and desperate ones to find a gem (or so I am told). After twenty or so dates with mad and desperate women I figured the gems had been found, leaving the dross, so to speak.

So when I got an email, several months after I had taken my profile off-line (apparently, I hadn’t…. I thought I had but I had omitted to tick six boxes ) I got a sultry email from Porno6996.

Now I think about it, it wasn’t so much sultry, as well, forward. It did provoke a physical reaction, if you get my drift. I won’t reproduce the email here because I don’t know if you are of a sensitive disposition, and it was very rude. Knickers on washing lines, that sort of thing. Despite myself, I was rather intrigued. And the photo looked good. Long blond tousled hair – always a good start.  So, after one or two further emails that same day, she said we should meet.  I agreed to meet her that evening at a tiny pub along the river in Hammersmith which seemed to be full of medical students with stethoscopes hanging around their necks.

I learnt she was Polish and her non-online name was Svetlana (well, it wasn’t, because that’s a Russian name, but I don’t want to give you her real name, just in case). She was a bit pale (verging on anaemic) for my liking but her hair was just like in the photo –  all lovely and blond and tousled with almost more va va vooms than Cheryl’s. Anyway, she drank a bottom of Chardonnay while I nursed my half pint of the brewery’s best and listened to her tell me she was divorcing her husband and needed £10,000.

‘My husband, he very rich,’ she said. ‘Very … how you English say it, loaded. But he won’t give me a penny. Not one miserable penny! He say he won’t divorce me. He say if I want divorce, I must pay. He Italian, very Catholic.’

I realised pretty early on that despite the encouraging knickers on washing lines signs, her knickers weren’t going to be hanging on my washing line any time soon.

‘So I need money,’ she pouted.

‘Oh.’

‘So I try and find work.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘ I no work. That why I marry him, so no work. And now, I need £10,000.’ She swished her  hair. ‘You married?’

‘Uh… no.’ I wanted to add ‘that’s why I put my profile on line,’ but then realised that most of the people online were probably married. Like her.

‘If I marry you, you pay for my divorce?’

I spluttered. ‘What, £10,000?’

‘You get lots of… how you English say… nookie. Lots and lots of nookie. I am very good. The husband… pah! .. he used to like my trick with the Dyson. Maybe you like my Dyson trick too?’

The evening ended fairly soon thereafter.  I excused myself and went off to the gents. I needn’t have worried about what to do. When I returned she was propping up the bar with a young medical student who appeared to be buying her another bottle of chardonnay while she fiddled with the stethoscope around his neck.

The Peacock wife had many faults, but at least she didn’t perform sex acts on vacuum cleaners.

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