After love

Saw a past love walk towards me
Down my street today
Same coat
Same gait
Same hips
But at closer range
It wasn't her
And the snappy opener
I had in my head
Faded to nothing more than
I liked you
I'm sorry we couldn't manage
To be friends.

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Is it too early to talk about cunnilingus?

It probably is, because look, we barely know each other. I've only been blogging for a few days. But, if we do somehow end up naked together, there's a chance it could happen, sooner rather than later. Because, er, I like you. And you like me. That's how we got here. And I'm turned on by you, and I want you to be turned on by me. And the state of awkwardness peculiar only to those who have removed their undergarments in the horn-infested presence of another for the first time is mutual, so why don't I* take a lead here? * Unless you've really got a frisk on and have already set the pace, so to speak. I'm easy like that. If we're already en le frottage , then let's be comfortable with each other. I'll roll with it. What goes around comes around, etc. Michael Douglas probably wouldn't approve. But then I worry if I wear a cotton v-neck, in case people think I'm copying his style. Which of course I may be, subliminally.

Words...Don't come easy to me. But numbers do. Or do I mean number two?

Sunday evening. Blog posts written: None . Inspiration stuck fast, like Augustus Gloop in the chocolate pipe,* with barely 400 words written about what happened after that first night in London. Can't even tell if it's a good story or not. * This is not a euphemism Cigarettes smoked: 1 . And I gave up last year. I hate myself just a little bit more, which I've been working hard at not doing. Beers drunk: 2 . Not even enjoyed those. They're colder than the still memorable message from The One; telling me she'd met somebody else; and every bit as welcome. Steps taken today: 19,004 . Good, but ruined by the beer. And the cigarette. Pairs of trainer socks discarded after retreating to the arch of my foot within 50 paces: 2 Pairs of trainer socks discarded in similar circumstances over the last couple of weeks: 5 Pairs of trainer socks remaining in sock drawer: 0 Pairs of normal socks rolled down to the ankle in the hope that I wouldn't lo

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The only thing worse than a profile with no picture, apart from possibly anal herpes or doing up a zip fly a tad too quickly and enthusiastically before being fully tucked away, is a dating site profile with just headshots. Beautiful, well lit, artfully posed headshots, showing off lustrous hair, luscious lips, and eyes like limpid pools of liquid diamonds. Rather like an iceberg, a headshot only profile tends to have a little more going on below the surface. Or in this case, a lot more below the neck. I’ve learned this the hard way, and broken my own rule on a number of occasions, none of which has led to anything but disappointment. I love a rounded, curvy figure. There’s something very alluring about the softness of warm flesh, the wobble of a bingo wing. I’m no Adonis myself, and it’s completely natural that women (and men) in their mid years might have an extra few pounds here and there, a sprinkling of cellulite, a slight downgrade in the degree of perky pertness that underpi

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Over the last few years I've noticed that it typically takes me longer to find something I fancy having a wank to than it does to actually complete the task itself. Not that I rely on visual stimuli, of course, but the profusion and availability of internet porn does offer a tempting jubilee of genitalia, a festival of flange, a carnival of cock, if you will, to the eager onanist; ready for those moments when the time is right, the hands are warm, and the mood is highly charged. Such times have been more readily available to me over the last 6 years of singledom, and would be even more so during the current lockdown were I not quarantining with my eldest child. As anyone who shares accommodation and fancies a little self-pleasure knows, the most sensitive organ of the body when masturbating is your ears. And headphones really aren't recommended. So while circumstance or broadband outage might require a withdrawal from the dusty vaults of the wank bank, in order to make a

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One of the very last times I slept with someone, back when sex between consenting single people was still allowed, I woke the following morning with a couple of urges that needed to be fulfilled. Grasping between and behind my legs I eventually encountered something long, thin, and disconcertingly unfamiliar. Groping around delicately, I pinched the end of a what turned out to be a hair between my fingertips and pulled inch after tickling inch of it from my puckered balloon knot. Similar to a string of anal beads, except without the knobbly bits, perhaps fortunately. It wasn't entirely an unpleasant sensation, but I'm not convinced I'd subscribe to the YouTube channel. There was more to come. Well, there wasn't, because those urges had been wonderfully mutual upon waking, but there were, unbeknownst to me, further treats in my lunchbox. It's quite difficult to describe the sensation of pulling what feels like a two foot long hair out from inside one

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I really, really want to be kind. And honest. I've not always been great at it, and in my twenties ended more than one relationship horribly, in a classic remake of "If I Behave Badly Enough They'll Chuck Me" - a movie that nobody's yet bothered to make first time around. Except me, in live non-filmed documentary form. Because I was a bit shit at saying, "Sorry, but I don't like you as much as I used to." Actually, worse than a bit shit. I'm genuinely sorry about that. Especially to the lovely girl that ended up marrying one of my other good friends. I went to their wedding. It's OK. Honestly. We're all mates. Still. Even after my flailing arms launched a full glass of red wine over her white dress last summer. Phew. Honesty and kindness hadn't entirely worked with Angie, who'd been my first serious newly-single rebound relationship. I adored her. She'd been the champion grenade-thrower at her Senior School.

I can't stand (other people) up for falling down

I had a first date arranged this evening. Quite low key; a quiet early evening drink on the edge of Soho with Olive, a Tinder match. Olive seemed bright, funny, interesting and attractive. A similar age, with children older than mine and a sense of humour all her own. We've been chatting for a week or two, not intensively, but a few times most days. I know, deep inside, that I’m not entirely over “The One”, who I’ve loved and lost months ago but still ache for at inopportune moments, like most of the time that I'm awake. But she’s never coming back, so if only to prove to myself that I’m not going to become a complete recluse and spend every evening sitting on the sofa in my pants, spooning lard into my mouth from a giant tub while tears course silently down my cheeks, I’ve arranged this and a couple of other dates. You never know. I might meet someone nice. It won’t be Olive though. Two hours before the appointed time, I received a text: Now this isn’t the end of the w

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I was up far too late the other night, because what better time to go full-on self destruct than during a global pandemic when you've got to be on an 08:00 Microsoft Teams call in little more than 4 hours? Standing on my balcony, enjoying the silence of Lockdown London and wishing I had a Camberwell Carrot with which to mitigate the respiratory menace, the sudden appearance of blue lights on the street below made me drop my metaphorical spliff in momentary panic. They hadn't come for me, it transpired. Not yet, anyway. Turned out it was an ambulance gliding, almost silently, into a space on the road several floors below in the deserted ghetto. It pulled to a halt, and after a pause a paramedic descended from the passenger side, stood motionless for a minute in the road, and then released a thunderclap fart of such enormous proportions that it set off car alarms a mile away in Maida Vale. For a second I was stunned. Should I clap for the NHS? Would all my neighbo

Bumbling Dad. Midlife dating tales from London.

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