All text no trousers

bad first dateThere is absolutely nothing worse than having that amazing that pre date text banter and you are rocking up to the date thinking, if the banter is as good in real life as it is on text we are in for an amazing time together…..

And there is ZERO convo.  Bollox.

Looking into your emptying wine glass is more enjoying….or the wall. Or your fingernails…..

Anything to make eye contact. And you’re racking your brains to think of something witty to revive the date….like jumper leads to a beaten down car.

Its such a massive disappointment. All that pre date banter, back and forth, razor sharp wit and then face to face its deadpan. WTF.

It reminds me of that 80’s film Roxanne……Steve Martin is the voice over for the himbo fireman when he’s trying to woo Daryl Hannah….surely if you can text witty remarks in a nanosecond, you can deliver them face to face? Why do some just fall flat on their face?

Its a do you drink through it and hope they get more funny or do you just do a runner kind of scenario. To be honest, I’d rather drink alone and talk funny banter to myself than have to sit through an excruciating date with someone with zero chat……

First date fails? Tell us all about them…..all stories submitted will remain anonymous!

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Happy Cringeworthy Valentines Day….

V Day

Valentines Day is looming upon us and each year I am reminded of  a certain cringeworthy V Day with a new flame.

We had been seeing each other about 6 weeks, hadn’t had ‘the chat’ by that stage and V Day was approaching. I wasn’t sure whether to buy a gift as I didn’t want to come across as being too keen but then I thought what if he buys me something and I’ve got nowt to give him? Didn’t want to look like a complete tight arse so I bought a bottle of really expensive massage oil and had it all gift wrapped nicely….

V Day fell on a Sunday that year and I remember the door bell rang  mid morning and there was the flower delivery guy with a HUGE bunch of long stemmed red roses for me…..I was ecstatic and also relieved I’d bought the gift for him.

I went running into my room and thanked him for the beautiful flowers and promptly presented him with his gift. He opened it up and then said, thanks for the gift, didn’t realise we were at the bf/gf stage yet? But you sent me these flowers? He replied, no these aren’t from me, I think they are for your flatmate….

She had the same name as me……#cringe #dying #dead

Her  new flame of less than a month had sent them to her.

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Tight arsed dates

tight arse I hate going on a date with a tight arse…..In my opinion, first dates are where you’re both meant to pull out all the stops and impress, in order for a second date to occur. I remember being set up with a particular chap from a work colleague. He initially told me about him on a night out when I was well oiled…showed me the photo, hot…..ok I’m interested. The night of the date arrives and I’m feeling pretty good in my new outfit. He was late, had to work, no prob, I like a guy that is ambitious…. It went off to a rocky start, he went to the wrong bar and eventually we met up…..he was shorter and no way as good as my drunken eyes had remembered…..crap. Upfront he said he could only stay for two drinks because he had to get back to work. I thought ok…..weird that you wanted to meet up and then go back to work but just roll with it…. The rationale for going back to work wasn’t some big deadline, it was so he could get his free dinner at work for doing overtime and then the free cab home…..fark me dead. Seriously. Who says that sort of shit in public? And on a first date? He clearly was as  taken with me as I was as him and wasn’t interested in putting in a good impression…… That was most definitely the end of that. I can’t stand tight arses. End of.

Experiences with tight arses and not of the aerobic kind? We want to hear all about it. As always, all gory details submitted to us will be kept anonymous!

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Bad Sex and the Dummy Who Had No Idea

Single Girl Blogging


It was hands-down the best first date I’d ever had with someone I met online.

Corey and I met in a cool hipster bar in West Hollywood and the chemistry was palpable. We shared banter. We got each other’s jokes. The conversation flowed naturally. And believe it or not, he was as cute as his photos suggested. Cuter, in fact. How often does that happen? Any of it?

When the date ended, we kissed and I smiled all the way home. Honestly, this never happens to me with online dates. I’m usually fighting the urge to upchuck all the way home. He texted the next day and I smiled some more. It was so peculiar — I actually liked this guy! I could see this becoming a thing.

The following week, we met up at a bar in his neighborhood for a couple drinks then went back to his apartment…

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The Renovator……

self esteemI’ve been told on more than one occasion that I am a ‘fixer’ when it comes to relationships. I find these men who are either depressed, have low self esteem, previous relationship scars etc… name it, I’ve seen it. I make it my priority to ‘fix’ these guys as if its some sort of renovation project in the vain hope that once they are rebuilt emotionally they will become the perfect partner…..

And yes this does eventuate but in most cases they become the perfect partner for someone else! Its like you have bought this run down house, renovated it and turned it into a beautiful home and then someone else buys it.

Once these guys have had their self esteems built up, whilst yours is all the while being pushed down, they are oozing confidence, charm and wit and attract a new partner in a nanosecond….and you’re left being a shadow of your former self with no gas left in the tank as you’ve spent all of your fuel building up theirs….Because when you are spending all your time focusing on fixing someone else, you are neglecting the bigger and more important project of fixing yourself.

Does this sound familiar to you? Are you currently mid renovation project or a previous renovator? We want to hear all about it!

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Random encounters of the counting kind…….

50 shades


This is the story of The Count…….as told by The Countess…..

Hell’s Kitchen, NYC, 47th and 9th: An English bad boy sits in an Irish pub with his dad, buying round after round; I walk in and catch his eye. I strolled over, claiming the spot next to Dad and Junior at the bar. Just as I finished ordering, Junior leaned over to comment on my choice of vodka and lime, deeming it “serious”.

“Oh, I take everything seriously,” I smiled. I just couldn’t get enough of him. Seriously. Physically, he encapsulated everything I adore: tall, lean, dark short hair, piercing eyes, naughty twinkle.

“I’m Mark. This is my dad, who’s visiting from London,” he said, shaking my hand. Us American women…in the right situation, we appreciate handshakes with subtext and Mark’s over-squeezed with subtext.

Hell, his name could’ve been Phyllis and that would’ve been seriously fine. He knew that, too, which is why he kept touching my shoulder, the small of my back, getting me drinks because my GOD I downed that first one. Dad finally excused himself to the bathroom, patting Mark on the back before leaving.

“Take it easy on the pretty thing, Mark,” he smiled. As soon as he disappeared, Mark kissed me. We arranged to meet at the bar a few days later. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, just something hot. It’d been too long.

What an incredible kisser. He’s going to be incredible in bed, I thought.


God, Mark sucked in bed. I’m usually good at telling if a man is going to be good in bed, but the few times I’ve been wrong qualify as spectacular failures.

Mark qualifies as one of those spectacular failures.

We met at the bar as arranged, flirting over a few drinks before heading back to his place. He lived in a stylish, modern doorman building. As the elevator doors shut, I saw the doorman looking at me like, “Run, honey, run: like Forrest Gump, girl!” A bad feeling bubbled in my stomach. Doormen know a lot about the people who live in their buildings, especially in NYC.

Once inside his apartment, Mark began grabbing at me like a three year old grabbing at an ice cream cone. He came off like a playground crybaby more than a hot guy. Sloppy. He pulled and tugged at my clothes. I found myself on my back in a matter of minutes with even my breasts covered in salvia. I hung in there, not ready to give up hope. He pushed in with a groan that sounded like an old man passing a kidney stone, or like a sailor suffering through a shit with a massive hemmoroid. All hope was gone.

However, the worst was yet to come, because Mark liked counting.

Let me explain. As Mark thrust away with all the excitement of oatmeal, he whispered something in my ear. I wasn’t paying attention, as the thought of oatmeal proved to be much more enjoyable than sex with Mark.

“What?” I asked.

“How many men have you slept with? Because if you say like 20, I’ll be ok.”

Really, I didn’t know how to respond. I thought he might be some kind of misogynist that gets off on putting down women who enjoy sex. He might slap me if the number’s too high, I reasoned, gearing up to knee him in the groin and bite him on the jugular. I figured I could grab my clothes and run down the hall, get dressed in the elevator, then apologize to the doorman for not heeding his warning before asking him to alibi me for murder. Surely he’d understand. I saw how he looked at me, full of dismay. He knows all about Mark. I bet Mark doesn’t even tip him at Christmas, I told myself. Mark interrupted my happy murder plot fantasy with more whispering.

“So if it’s 20, like I said, it’s ok. But say you’ve been with like, 121 guys, and I’ll love it. It really gets me off.”

Well, why didn’t you say so, I thought. Made me furious to know that I could’ve just been shouting numbers and he might’ve already suffered a calculator overflow.

“121. I’ve slept with 121 men. Last week. And I plan to sleep with about 145 or so. Maybe even 121 more. I dunno; it could be 131. But there’s gonna be a lot more, I can tell you that…121!”

121 is not only an odd number, but an odd fixation. It’s like saying your favorite color is tan, or you just can’t get enough of celery Jell-O (Yes, such a flavor did exist!) The number did the trick, though. In no time, he rolled off then paced the floor, lighting a cigarette.

“Guess I’ll go. Need to be up early,” I muttered.

He handed me my clothes; I dressed, wondering where I should go for a drink. About 121 of them. As I exited the lobby, the doorman nodded. I bet he’s given that same sad nod 121 times, I thought.

When I told my friends about Mark, they gave me the nickname “121”, but I guess it’s better than “69”.

How do you feel when someone does the numbers game? Tell us all about it!

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When Prince Charming turns into Prince Harming

prince charming

I’m sure we’ve all been there before. Meet a guy and everything just seems too good to be true…..he’s attentive, he’s complimentary, and then all of a sudden there are slight comments or suggestions about your appearance, what you are wearing, your body shape, how you do your hair. Suggestions about how you should behave, socialise, etc etc.

But initially you ignore it as you are so head over heels you are keen to please them. And then all of a sudden you’ve gone from being an outgoing confident person to a nervous and neurotic wreck who has totally lost all self esteem and is second guessing everything.

But when does wanting to please your partner cross the line and turn you into a doormat who is being controlled?! The switch from Prince Charming to Prince Harming isn’t always that obvious.

What do you do? I can speak from past experiences where I did not have boundaries and allowed this sort of behaviour and ignored the red flags that were waving about in front of my eyes.

Having personal boundaries is so important. And the confidence to recognise such behaviour and red flags and nip it in the bud. Or alternatively, move on! There is most definitely someone out there who wouldn’t dream of trying to change you!

Thoughts? Been in a relationship with a control freak? Tell us all about it!

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