Mr Narcissist: a poem

You text me sayin’ “U ok?”

What do you think when you left me that way? 

Don’t give a shit about how I am. Just want to check that I’m still in your clan, of bitches left confused, upset and sore. Well bitch I ain’t in your harem no more.

Made me feel I wasn’t good enough,
When it’s you who’s the fraud, acting tough
I poured my heart out to you and all you did was grunted,
Cos you’re not just a short-arse, you’re emotionally stunted
You’ve got no resources to give to me
That’s why you’re scared of intimacy
Frightened I’ll see who you really are
Meanwhile you’ve left me with an ugly scar
You try to be a player but you’re just so insecure. Why did I ever let you darken my door?
And that tattoo on your chest of a crucifix – do you think you’re Jesus now, you fucking narcissist?
You’re a narcissist, modern disease,
You never wanted love, just loved to tease
My pain’s a bullet for your nasty gun,
It’s all a game to you, my hurt’s your fun.
But now the worm has turned, that worm is you,
and you’ll be the one left feeling blue
You play the player but your ego’s fragile as a shell, why did I let such an arsehole keep putting me through hell?
Oh, and that dick pic you WhatsApped me, I downloaded it,
Not cause it turns me on anymore but so my friends can laugh at it.
You think that I don’t know your game,
For you they need a whole other word for vain
You think you’re doing just enough to keep me there? Well, the scales have fallen from my eyes now, your plans laid bare
Don’t wanna meet someone like you, like Adele said,
Someone like you? I’d rather be dead.
Just thinking about you is like a poison through my veins
This is never, ever happening again.
He’ll get married and be just the same
I won’t be the only one with this pain
The ones he hasn’t had yet, his exes, it’s true – in his eyes, they’ll all be better than you
Cos he thinks he’s better than everyone
Never satisfied with what he’s got until you’ve gone
Then he’ll try to hit you again up like it’s all okay
Well I’ve been there and I’ve been back but now, no way…
He says that he ‘hates drama’
But it’s all he’s living for
He loves feeling he’s the one
From whom they all want more
Hey Mr Narcissist, don’t you understand?
You were really nothing special,
Things just got out of hand
And now I’ve sussed you out, you no longer turn me on,
Now you pathetic piece of shit, why don’t you just get gone!
THE END….definitely

Selling Out

“It’s the first time in a long time I’ve had sex and walked away from it not feeling I’ve let a man take something from me that I didn’t want to give him, without being lied to and feeling rubbish about myself afterwards”, ‘Alexis’, 22, says, after describing her first week as a prostitute, sorry, ‘escort’, as ‘amazing’.

Just who is she sleeping with? Surely the ‘shrivelled’ 72-year-old man she describes standing naked before her and asking her if he looked good wasn’t included in her ‘amazing’ category?

My God, Channel 5’s First Time Call Girl is depressing!

“With all this social media it’s just about ‘me, me, me’ “, this pretty,  well-spoken young woman complains. “People don’t know how to care for each other anymore.”

‘Kat’ from Manchester’s work is even sadder. A former porn actress, her clients can choose from either the ‘Pornstar’ or the ‘Girlfriend’ experience. She prefers the latter but most of her clients want the former, including the one who texts her to check she is ‘okay with it rough, with hair pulling and light slapping’.

Sighing, she says she accepts that being hit and spat at is part of the job. Not so ‘amazing’ though, despite the ‘good money’.

Then there’s Hannah, who now runs her own escort agency and says clients used to go for her because of her skinny, child-like body. “My boobs were basically nonexistent”, she tells us.

Depressing but familiar stuff, if you watch these kind of documentaries, as I do, when I’m not out on a Tinder date with a possible rapist (no identity checks on Tinder folks, making it a sweet shop not just for commitment phobic  serial shaggers but for convicted sex offenders too.

But let’s come back to Alexis and her dubious, to say the least, decision to reclaim her body by getting paid for shagging men that use and then discard her before returning home (many) to unaware wives and partners.

You may, like me, baulk at her comparing escorting (prostitution) (favourably) to dating today but is her assertion really so far-fetched?

I think of the countless men on Tinder who’ve messaged me for ‘hot fun’, without even offering to buy me a drink first. I don’t know what’s worse to be honest, men who pay money for ‘ just sex’ or those who don’t want to pay money for it.

I know that’s all women want sometimes too, maybe, but women don’t tend to lie to get what they want or say they just want something casual but then constantly message you and talk about the future as if you’re a couple, thus completely contradicting themselves and confusing you.

If she is right, that it really is better to get paid for sex by men who don’t care about you rather than give it to guys you think like you for free, maybe all of us gals should do it… but only with the hot ones we fancy, obviously….😂

It could become law that unless a man signs a written contract guaranteeing regular, exclusive, respectful sex and a relationship during the period you are having sex, and sticks to that contract, then he has to pay to get, or to have got, his end away. Then everyone knows where they are, right?




Five Alarm Fuck Up Therapy/Avoiding the Avoidants

Today is the day ladies and (if any still exist) gentlemen, I change my wayward ways! That’s right, and all thanks to the rather brilliant book below (another recommendation from ‘The Unexpected Joy of Being Single’ author Catherine Gray. Thanks Catherine!).

I now know that I have been repeatedly meeting, dating and well…you know the rest, ‘Avoidants’.

Avoidants is basically a psychiatric term for people who fear getting close to anyone (not physically obviously, that’s the problem…but emotionally).

Avoidants (hello Carlos!!!) send out mixed messages – tick! They equate growing intimacy with the loss of their own independence, miss you when they’re not with you (apparently) but can’t wait to get away when they are, talk disparagingly about their exes, don’t respond to your emotional needs and idealise the perfect relationship (incidentally, never the one they’re in).

Essentially, they are five alarm fuck-ups! But the good news is: they are like that with EVERYONE, even the poor sods they eventually marry/settle with!

So maybe it’s not, after all, that Cunty Carlos, aka The Avoidant Angolan, fancied someone else more than me but that he just fancies himself more than anyone else!

Anyway, there are three different ‘attachment styles’ – Avoidant (Cunty Carlos), Anxious (me – quelle surprise!) and Secure -smug bastards – although I challenge even them to feel ‘secure’ with the CC!

And guess what? Anxious and Avoidant people ATTRACT EACH OTHER and the dating pool is FULL of Avoidants because – well, as The Weeknd says in his song: Hurt You, relationships are  their ‘enemy’, hence the fact they usually ain’t in one!

Secures on the other hand, swim around smugly in couples in the calm waters of their fenced off secure pools being all emotionally balanced, never second guessing their partners and feeling perfectly good enough – psychos!

But yet the Secure ones are who I need apparently. Hmm. Go figure…

Anyway, at least I know ‘it’s not me it’s him/them now. Thank goodness! I was starting to think there’s something wrong with me! There isn’t, is there?? No! Stop that! I need to stop being an Anxious, think like a Secure and weed out those Avoidant arseholes. This could take a while…


Help, now I fancy his shoes!

The first thing I did this morning was block and delete the Angolan (Carlos) from my WhatsApp. I blocked him on Instagram last week so I will no longer feel compelled to spy on who he’s following and which posts he’s liked. I hadn’t planned to block him on WhatsApp as well…until last night.

I’ve noticed I’ve been peering at his online status with a bit more regularity in the last few days and yesterday felt compelled to ‘signal’ him to my presence by changing my profile photo to the one of me in a sexy, low-cut, black dress, glass of wine positioned next to my cleavage, as if toasting my tits.

Then last night, coincidentally, he did the same, posting one of him at his mum’s house in Lisbon (at least that’s where I think it was – I’ve never been, obviously, but hunted for pictorial clues with the industriousness of a top detective).

It showed him sat down in a black T-shirt and shorts, with a tan (he is a very light skinned black man).

I’ve told him he has nice (admittedly, short, but nice) legs and he seemed to be reminding me of that.

Tantalisingly, the photo was cut off above mouth level, proof that he had chosen to include his legs rather than face in the pic… That perfectly shaped oh-so-suckable mouth with its full-but -not-too-full lips and those stocky little TANNED legs and, to top, or rather, bottom, them off, a pair of bright, floral patterned espadrilles for men, super stylish (he is a sharp dresser and loves his shoes).

Well, could I stop looking at his photo and at those shoes? No, I could not. That pristine footwear represented everything I madly fancy about him : his super clean fresh out of the washing machine smell, his stylishness, his brown skin, highlighted by the rainbow shades, his legs and what lies between them…ohhhh…., his strong, muscular arms… I began to imagine, like a foot fetishist, which I am definitely not, slipping those shoes off and licking the undersides of his feet…. It was time to do something, and not what you think.

It was time to stop seeing new photos of him and feeling that horrible stab of anxiety alongside that overwhelming wave of desire. I mean, what if the next photo he posted was one of him with a woman? I don’t know what any of the women in his life (sister, mother, other) look like so even if it wasn’t someone he was sexually involved with I would imagine it was. No, I decided this morning, I don’t need that, I don’t need that AT ALL.

So, after emailing the photo to myself (one last one!) and ‘exporting’ our several months of long WhatsApp chat to email as well (thanks for this tip Catherine Gray: ‘The Unexpected Joy of Being Single’), I finally did it – not just blocking him, like last time, but deleting him. I was going to delete his number as well but I know I won’t contact him so I’ve left that. If I do feel the slightest temptation, I’ll delete that too, but so far I’ve never been tempted….

Unfortunately, I still know how to access his YouTube account, with the songs he’s produced about hos, bros, ‘finding himself’ (well, his short stature means he could easily get lost in a crowd I suppose) and having ‘problems with a lotta ladies’ while ‘sipping on  a cup of codeine’. Pfffft! I tried blocking that but all that prevents is him making comments on my YouTube channel, which he never has so no point. It only has a few songs on it so far and no live videos so I’ll just have to hope I can manage to stay away from that one. Agh! The tyranny of technology!

I will most likely bump into him again at some point, given we both go to salsa/reggaeton nights (he doesn’t dance -far too cool for that) but I can only do what I can do right?

Oh, and while I was at it I also WhatsApp deleted Brawn Paul. After taking down his profile pic altogether for a week (to appease his girlfriend no doubt), he posted 2 new ones in one day, neither, I am happy to say, eliciting the same lustful feelings in me as Cunty Carlos’ pics.

In fact, Brawn Paul, although he does look good for his age, 46/47 (if he does say so himself… FFS!), gives his birth year away somewhat with his ill-advised sartorial selections – a white denim jacket and one of those yucky, sleazy, low-cut to show off his pecs white t-shirts popular in the 90s, which, by the way, highlighted the fact he doesn’t appear to have a flat stomach.

I was also pleased to note I still could not detect a bulge in his pants, despite knowing he is indeed a dick of the highest order!

I have a feeling I’ll be on WhatsApp a little less now, for the moment anyway…


Radio silence….

Well, it seems Brawn Paul does have a girlfriend after all, it just isn’t me….

It all makes sense now – the glancing nervously over my shoulder in the bar, the total lack of comment on his own relationship status while I, as usual, totally over-explained mine, the sitting with one drink all night (him) and the 11-o’clock curfew…

Then, the following night, he (or somebody, girlfriend?) removed his photo from WhatsApp.

And girlfriends, I haven’t heard a squeak from the cheating scumbag. I haven’t contacted him either. I think his silence and his odd behaviour speak for themselves.

Why do I still, at the advanced and above averagely experienced age of 44, still assume if a man asks me out that he’s single? And why did I not question the coincidence of him being (apparently) single 2 years ago and still single now? Because, dear reader, I take people at face value unfortunately, well, body value when it came to Brawn Paul (note the past tense there – I am o-v-e-r him girlfriend!

Ah well, everything is a learning experience and at least I got to see a fancy bar I haven’t been to yet, largely at his expense – I did insist on buying one drink but let him buy my other 3 – 2 wines and a cocktail, and pay for the taxis – well, I was directly on his route home so…

And no, I don’t believe men should pay for everything, always, but, to be honest, I prefer them to pay for (almost) everything on a first date, especially when they have invited me on said outing. Afterwards I am happy to go 50, 50, well, to gradually reach that point anyway.

I heard some guy – a supposed dating guru, on Facebook decrying this let-the-men-pay thing, saying that was basically a woman saying her time was more important than a man’s and he therefore had to pay for it. Well no, it’s not that. Call me what you like but the way I see it, just about everything in this world is still slanted in men’s favour so letting them pay for the first date redresses the balance a little and is a way of making sure they invest in you (something this dating guru also wangs on about)  if only for a few hours, most men’s limit these days…

I did wonder at first, before the girlfriend alarm went off (was his using the word as a form of address his guilt inadvertently revealing itself??) if me not offering to pay for the taxi on the way back had sealed my fate but that seemed unlikely – I mean, you’d at least give someone a second chance, wouldn’t you?

Anyway, that’s irrelevant because BP definitely has a woman already and, that being the case, I’m glad I only paid for one drink – in fact I regret even doing that!

Brawn Paul, you’re a dick – or not…I was, I have to admit, a bit concerned about the second (now disappeared) WhatsApp pic you posted, a gym selfie of you in red hoodie and grey leggings -yes, leggings – bad enough, but with no visible bulge?? Have you exercised it off?? Could be I’ve had a lucky escape.


“So how come I didn’t get your digits last time?”, let’s call him, f**k, let’s call him his real name, Paul, ‘bants’ with me at the Aldi checkout. Paul, your bants are, frankly, pants, and what you’ve just said makes you sound like a serial killer… My ‘digits’?? Say whhhhattt? 😂

I met British-Jamaican gym He-Man, ‘Brawn Paul’ more than 2 years ago in a cool bar in town. I took his number but never contacted him – I just wasn’t sure, but now fate had brought us together again I decided what the hell, what was one more rude boy in my dick-tionary?

So we went for cocktails. Brawn Paul picked me up in his taxi, 8pm – at least, I think it was Brawn Paul, although his accent, for a 47-year-old born and raised in Britain, Caribbean heritage or not, was distinctly Jamaican. After just a minute or two though, he switched to American ‘hood chick’ speak.

“Girlfriend!”, he cried, compelling me to scan the pavement looking for an irate other half, but no, this was, apparently, a form of address, its irony, given a girlfriend was the very last thing players like him wanted, not lost on me.

“Girlfriend, it’s good to see you.”

Once in the bar -the trendy type, full of twentysomething girls, BP began showboating. This was his turf and he was letting me know it, ‘joking’ with the run-off- their feet waiters by pretending to remove customers’ meals from their trays and swiping the doorman’s drink. Haha…..ha…

“I know I look good for my age”, he informed me. He did, I suppose, but sheesh! Let someone else say it….

We talked, during which he kept eye contact around 50 per cent of the time while sticking to the one cocktail – in 2 and a/half hours. He did offer to buy me drinks though.

Then at 10.45pm, he announced ‘his’ taxi was coming as he had an early start the next morning.

“Oh, okay, er, I am coming with you, aren’t I? ” I felt I had to ask, even though he would be going past my flat on the way back.

“Too right you are!” he replied.

At my flat, I got out, thanking him for a (sort of) good night.

On reflection in bed, I decided although quite physically attracted to him (his body more than his face), I wasn’t really bothered if I saw him again. Then, on untying my hair, I caught a whiff of ‘that’ washing powder from his shirt, the exact same one the Angolan uses, both having liberally doused their shirts with it.

Damn! I LOVE that smell!



We need a dating detox

Is there even one single, attractive man out there who wants a relationship?

And why are all these women, myself, 43, included, accepting this “I don’t want a relationship” bullshit and giving the fuckers exactly what they want: sex? Well, because otherwise we won’t get any ladies, that’s why!

In a bar with a 28-year old friend, Claire,on a Friday night, we sit sipping Prosecco and feeling, even her, about a hundred years old as we watch the scene unfolding before us.

Early twentysomething girls in tight, booty boosting pants are slut-dropping left, right and centre (either that or having a crap on the floor cos that’s what it looks like) while a quartet of thirtysomething male gym clones – all buff, tattooed arms, painstakingly styled hair and skinny jeans, keenly observe their prey.

“None of the men I meet want a relationship”, my friend complains.

What, her too? And there was me thinking it was just a thirty something and older woman’s problem but nope, the Toxic Dating Plague has landed!

“It’s just so competitive now”, she says as a girl in fluorescent orange leggings crouches down to show the thirtysomething boys her cameltoe….

And she’s right. The first thing I do now when I get a Tinder match is check out his Instagram, if he has one, and see how many off-the-scale vain, selfie-obsessed tit and ass accounts he is following (the equivalent of wanking in public surely?!) and how many of those are local gals, in your area, posting their perineums direct to his phone every day like Chloe, 18, Manchester. These are the online CVs of once normal young girls now, with descriptions and photos that read like phone box ads for prostitutes…

Instagram is a poison that drives you crazy and that will have you checking several times a day for any new girls he’s followed, your heart racing as you do it.

If it’s not Instagram, it’s Facebook or Snapchat and if you fancy some live action, just pop down your local bar where you will spot copious Kim Kardashian clones – those ridiculously over-exaggerated brows, lip injections, fake tans, crap contouring -that thing they do to highlight their cheekbones that makes them look like a toddler that got carried away with mummy’s make-up, and pouts -never a smile – how crushingly uncool!

Then there’s the fake hair, the fake boobs and, coming soon, widely available ass implants. Do men even remember what a normal woman looks like anymore??

“Some of these girls now are gorgeous”, Claire, slim and pretty herself, says. “I just can’t compete.”

“But neither can they!”, I reply. “Because for every gorgeous, model-like 21-year-old, there’s a whole load more – a production line of very available and willing totty, making any man wonder why the hell they should stick to just one.

I mean, I’m not talking marriage here, no, just a normal girlfriend-boyfriend situation is so hard to find now. Historically, it was wedding talk that scared men off, now it’s talk of anything beginning with the letters ‘we’ whatsoever.

So what’s the solution? Well, if it’s just sex you want and you’re honest about your intentions, both men and women should be able to enjoy that but does NO man want anything more these days? Does he not want to get to know a woman as a person anymore, to even kiss her in more than a token way? For that, ladies and (absent) gents is also a problem. I’ve been single for three years now and haven’t had a single, truly passionate kiss in that whole time and once you get in the bedroom, forget it, they’re not interested in kissing your mouth at all….And this, I believe, is where men and women are different. Okay, (female) prostitutes don’t kiss their punters for obvious reasons – they don’t choose them, it’s business. According to my friend’s gay brother though, gay men don’t kiss each other either -it’s just not a part of great sex for them UNLESS they truly love that person.

But for me, and I’m sure I speak for most, if not all women here, kissing is at least equal to, if not better than, sex. It’s an essential turn-on, whether you love the man or not. No kiss is taking the piss!

So just how ladies, do we get that kiss and a meaningful relationship, lots of sex included of course? Do we have to go to the extreme of pretending, like in the 1950s, that we’re not interested in sex, do we have to make them beg for it? But they won’t do that, will they? They’ll just move on to the next one who WILL give it to them. No, the dating scene couldn’t be more toxic than it is now. Nobody seems to mean anything to each other anymore.

Women might have won their sexual freedom but the men are STILL winning.  They’re vainer than ever before too and a man who gets any affirmation that he’s hot is, as we know, a dangerous animal. Ladies, we have to do something!