The End Of A Dry Spell

I’m packing up my life and moving to Thailand this week, so I’m running a few guest post submissions. Today’s post is from Johnny Milfquest. Check his blog out here.

After I split with my ex for the second and final time, I started a new blog with a new handle.

My new life as an unemployed single man living in a small town began with one hell of a dry spell. Its not that I wasn’t trying to get laid on my meagre budget. There were just too many blind alleys.

Plenty of Fish. O.K. Cupid. The local bar scene. The local club scene. Posing as a married man on Ashley Madison. Meet Up Dot Com. Day Game. You name it. I tried it.

It wasn’t until I joined the Niche Dating Site and adjusted my on-line dating strategy that my luck finally changed.

Although a move to London isn’t really desirable or even feasible for me at the moment, I looked at the profiles of women in London on the Niche Dating Site and not just those in my local area as I did with POF and OKC.

Now if questions about your job come up in a bar/club situation the standard Game advice is to evade them. Say “I’m an arse model” or tell her flatly “I’m not working right now” and change the subject.

Unfortunately, the evasive conversational tactic won’t work with on-line dating or in typical daygame situations. Boring and low energy job descriptions are fine provided that you do actually have a job.

Although I’m well aware of hypergamy and gold-digging, there is a purely practical problem here as well. As Gary B.B. Coleman once declared, “romance without finance is a nuisance”.

My last POF profile said that I was a writer. Experience has shown me that this is simply the wrong kind of bullshit. Even guys who do earn a living from writing might want to be more specific about what it is they actually write.

My Niche Dating Site profile has a very plausible, boring, mundane, difficult-to-disprove lie under “profession”. I wonder if readers can guess what I put?

Its sad, but this is one of those situations where telling the truth means an automatic fail and lying at least gives you a chance of success, where “success” is operationally defined as “penis in vagina”.

With a basic free membership, I added the profiles of women I liked to my “hotlist”. Three of them sent me “winks” back. I then purchased one months full membership at a bargain price to send these three women messages.

Email addresses were exchanged and three conversations began. I let the convo with the first woman fizzle out. Woman number two didn’t get back to me. The third woman and I exchanged a series of chatty, upbeat messages. I’ll call her “Sportz MILF” as she is a devoted fan of her home town association football team with an athletic figure and a penchant for sportswear. Although strictly speaking the “M” in “MILF” doesn’t apply as she’s not a mother.

I was careful to drop plenty of conversational bait in my emails. I also tried to give interesting, but by no means definitive or complete responses to her questions.

In order to steer the conversation round to asking Sportz MILF out I asked her a corny question. It was so corny that I actually prefaced the question by saying how corny it was. I asked her what would make a good or a bad first date.

Her down-to-Earth, non-entitled and upbeat answer really impressed me. It also gave me the name of a scenic location in London where she liked to take romantic walks. I used Google to short-list all the pubs in that particular part of London. I chose [Cuban Bar] although I had never been there before.

Sportz MILF had already mentioned that she was going away for a weeks holiday on Sunday. I also knew that her Saturday afternoons were typically spent watching her football team play. I guessed that her job was demanding as well and used this information to suggest a Friday night date at Cuban Bar.

She suggested meeting thirty minutes later. I agreed and the date was set. Given that Britain was in the throes of a historically unprecedented September heatwave, I decided to make a day of it and amuse myself in the capital for a few hours prior to the date.

London was baking when I arrived. I normally soak up the sun and heat like a reptile, but with the horrible air quality and humidity in the capital that day it just felt stifling.

I took refuge in a large air-conditioned book shop. I spent ages reading stuff that I had no intention of buying but eventually I did purchase a paperback copy of the Story of O from the erotic fiction shelves. Click on the link and you’ll see why.

I grabbed a bite to eat at a nearby cafe and before long it was time to head over to the Cuban Bar for my date with Sportz MILF. Once I found the place it was clear that I could have chosen a better venue. It was a tiny pub-restaurant with most of its clientèle seated outside on chairs and even the kerb sipping Mojitos to the backdrop of a mural depicting the fury of Yankee Imperialism towards a little Caribbean island.

I ordered a pitcher of Cuba Libre and two glasses from the surly Latina behind the bar. I thought that the proprietors were missing a trick by not playing any music to their customers. I’m not fussy. I would have been satisfied with a Buena Vista Social Club cd playing through a couple of shitty speakers at low volume. Oh well. Never mind.

After five minutes of perching my drink on someone else’s table and standing around like a lemon I spotted a couple leaving and promptly expropriated their chairs like a good socialist revolutionary.

About ten minutes before she was due to arrive, I sent Sportz MILF a text saying that the place was very busy and that I was sat outside with some Cuba Libre and two glasses. She sent me a text right back saying that she was running late but that I should save some rum for her.

I poured myself a drink and spent the next fifteen minutes listening to five white girls in their early twenties interrogate a young Indian homosexual about his new boyfriend.

Then I saw Sportz MILF walk up the road towards me. I called her name and she came over to join me. She had a very striking Eurasian appearance. That’s half oriental and half white. She had tanned skin, big brown eyes and a broad smile. Me gusta.

Although she was dressed in black jeans and black hoodie like a young tomboy, her clothes were pretty tight and you could see that she had a great figure underneath them.

I’m not completely clueless now, so I didn’t comment on her striking looks. Although I might as well have had the words “I fancy you” written on my forehead. Casual observers could probably tell that I was into her.

Sportz MILF, on the other hand, had no such inhibition.

You know your photos don’t do you justice. You’re very handsome.

Her voice was melodious and husky. I don’t usually go for women with an estuary accent like mine, but she sounded great. I cocked my head back and gave her a sly grin.

You’re not so bad yourself.

No woman has ever said anything remotely like that to me before. I was reminded of Roosh’s words in Bang.

While there are consistent patterns for what makes humans appear attractive, your look is perceived differently in the eyes of different girls. This means that while Jane thinks you’re a hideous beast, Stacy may think you have extra character. Rachel thinks you’re big and awkward, but Lauren thinks you’ll be able to protect her.

The first thing you see when you look in the mirror might be a big nose or a balding head, but girls don’t zero in on these features — they absorb your entire look and presence.

I poured us both a drink and we discussed the relative merits of life in London, Liverpool and East Anglia. Then we moved on to our mutual interest in current affairs and her curious move from a job with a left-wing national newspaper to an American investment bank.

Within thirty minutes, the subject of past relationships came up. I talked about my ex and then asked about her separation. She hadn’t lived with her husband for the last two years but she was still legally married to him. There were no assets to divide, no kids involved and neither of them had any desire to remarry. So the legal paperwork of her divorce remained undone. Apparently her estranged husband was a heavy drinker who slowly lost interest in her.

Sportz MILF complimented me on showing initiative by getting to the venue early, getting the drinks in and grabbing chairs for us both. Pretty trivial stuff you might think, but she chose to contrast this with her husband’s passivity. I mentioned the awful “what do you want to do?” back-and-forth exchanges that couples get into and she laughed with recognition.

Weirdly, I noticed a group of eight street performers carrying drums assemble about ten feet away from us. Then the cacophony of drumming started. WTF?

What a great way to shoo the customers off. Entertainment fail.

Sportz MILF and I agreed that conversation was impossible with the deafening racket going on next to us and that we should change venues. I suggested somewhere in Kings Cross as it would be convenient for my return train journey. She told me that she knew a good pub in the area. We finished off the Cuba Libre and hailed a black cab.

On the way there we talked about music. Like so many women that I’ve spoken to, the only genre of music that Sportz MILF didn’t appreciate was Jazz. Over the years now, I’ve come to the conclusion that Miles Davis’ trumpeting is a kind of sublime dog whistle from heaven that only men can hear.

When we arrived, Sportz MILF paid the driver. She got the first round of drinks in as well. A pint of Carling for me and a foreign bottled beer for her. We sat outside on a wooden bench facing opposite each other. Our topics of conversation weren’t very sexy at all (football, politics, the economy, her family, etc) but we had an amazing rapport.

We both had plenty more beer to drink and like a dick-head I even smoked the menthol cigarettes she was dishing out (although I haven’t felt any nicotine cravings since so I’m not too worried about the little relapse).

Pretty soon we were sat facing each other, holding hands and both of us moved in for a kiss at exactly the same moment.

We must have been making out like teenagers for about ten minutes before I checked the time and asked if she wanted to escort me to Kings Cross station. We walked there arm-in-arm.

At the station, we stood on the concourse looking at the arrivals/departures board and it became clear that engineering works might delay or even prevent me travelling home by train. Sportz MILF offered to put me up for the night and being in no particular rush to go for the SNL (I’ve learned my lesson there) I assured her that I would be a gentleman and sleep on her couch. She protested.

If you’re coming home with me there’s no way I’ll let you sleep on the sofa.

We kissed again and my boner was ready to burst out of my jeans like an alien emerging from John Hurt’s chest. Sportz MILF had told me earlier that black cabs were her biggest extravagance. She wasn’t lying. She hailed another one to take us back to her place in the west of Zone 2.

She lived in a tiny apartment above a commercial property but I dare say that her rent must still have cost her a small fortune. She even sub-let her living room as an artists studio to help make ends meet.

After a quick tour of the place (less than a minute) we started ripping each others clothes off. Sportz MILF had the window open (not overlooked) and a fan blasting away in her bedroom but subjectively, the heatwave was still unbearable. Her skin was hot to the touch. It was as if she was running a fever. She looked as good as I thought she would in the nude and she also complemented me on my “lovely body”.

We made out for a while and ran our hands lethargically over each other. But sadly, our arousal soon turned into groggy anasthesia for both of us.

But I was still determined to get my cock inside her. I put a condom on, penetrated her and humped away for what seemed like hours. It soon became apparent that I wouldn’t be busting a nut any time soon.

I apologised to Sportz MILF and pulled my rubber chicken of a cock out of her. She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. We whispered sweet nothings to each other and drifted off to sleep with her head resting on my chest.

The night was punctuated by occasional whooping and hollering noises from outside and frequent trips to the loo to empty by bladder and drink water from the tap.

In the morning, we promised each other to try shagging again next week at a lower temperature, with both of us sober, well-rested and properly hydrated.

Gimme a break. I’m old.