All burned out from Tinder, and Carlos, I accept a Facebook friend request from a friend of a friend, followed by a very complimentary message and the information that he lives virtually round the corner from me…..oh-oh…

Then, before we meet in person, the What’s App crap begins.

“Do you know what I really love? ” a Manc voice like a black Terry Christian whines in the first of the torrent of voice messages he sends.

“I LOVE tan stockings or hold-ups – not the kind you’d wear for dressing up in the bedroom but the ones you’d wear for work”.

OK, handy, as, as a matter of fact, I have a drawer full of them – well, the hold-ups anyway. Who the hell wears stockings to go to work or to do anything (with the exception of, yes, posing in the bedroom) anymore? I STILL can’t figure out how to fasten the bastards securely. Dear stockings and suspender makers, your products are long overdue a revamp as trying to twist that cloth or button into a tiny gap covered by stupidly thin and tear prone fabric is, frankly, something no modern woman has time for!

Even the hold-ups I’ve stopped wearing now to be honest, opting for my trusty tights instead, as, apart from them withering at the first hint of body lotion-ed skin, they don’t flatter real women’s (ie, less than skinny) thighs. Don’t get me wrong – I like my thighs but one has to dress to suit one’s body shape and for that reason, if I want to be sexy in my boudoir, it’s those wretched stockings again….

So, wanting to appear sexy yet workaday and to avoid a hernia by trying to push that damn button into the gap, I decided to entertain his little fetish with tan hold-ups but yes, you guessed it, I forgot about the blasted body lotion problem again and before he could take a peek at my ‘stocking’ tops, the left one was already taking a hike down my leg…. No Kenny Everett impressions that night then….

Anyway, dear reader, the material was, as it turned out, immaterial, as he came before I had the chance to say: “Nice weather, isn’t it? “, re-donned his Liverpool football shirt and raced off to watch the game….good – for him…and me!

Nevermind, I had a date the following Friday with Tinder Tony from Brum, 50 (50!), but he looked good for his age.

We’d spoken two or three times on the phone then arranged to meet. On the day of the date, on leaving the gym, I had a missed call from him and for the first time in a while, a missed call so close to the event didn’t fill me with dread. He’d probably just been ringing me before he set off on the drive from Nottingham to Manchester, I figured. So, an hour or so later, I returned his call aaaandd….enter bullshit behaviour!

“Oh God, you’re gonna kill me, oh D, I so need a night out. Oh God, I’m so sorry…”

My heart sank but I tried not to show it in my voice. There might be a genuine reason after all – maybe his three-year-old daughter was ill or something.

“Oh, why, what’s up?” I ventured, as he proceeded to have a conversation with a Chinese woman.

“Where are you?” I asked, pissed off now. Not only was he letting me down last minute, he couldn’t even give me his full attention when talking to me.

Then: “I’m here, I’m here”, he said. “I’m checking in now.”

“So you ARE here? Sorry, I don’t get it”, I replied, another level of irked by now.

“I was just joking”, said Tickle Me Tony.

Oh ha fucking ha, I love a funny man! I mean, in whose world is that sort of ‘joking’ funny?

I wasn’t just pissed off now, I was obviously pissed off, which of course is what he’d wanted – and/or for me to be very disappointed. His aim had evidently been to make me feel vulnerable then to sit back and enjoy my reaction – what an A grade arsehole….

Despite my sincere reservations though, I met him – good body but thankfully I didn’t much fancy his face – and heard all about his two daughters from two different babymommas. One daughter was 20 and the other aged three.

“The three-year-old’s mum was 13 years younger than me”, he said blaming contraceptive pill failure for the unwanted (by him) pregnancy.

“I was married to a guy nine years younger than me”, I told him, in solidarity.

“What?! No way!” he replied, as if I’d said he was 15years old. Oh – double standards much?

Then, making sure he got the message across that he was wealthy, he then related the story of a girl – they’re always ‘girls’, even when the men are 50 – who he invited to stay in his house – the West Wing of his house if you please, and who, dazzled at his money and success, informed him: “I think you’re out of my league.”

Now since when in history did a girl ever worry that a man was ‘out of her league’ because he had more money than her, let alone vocalize her concerns? The bullshit smell was getting stronger. Maybe I should drop some of my own gems into the convo about the ‘boys’ I, at 43, had been out with – imagine how that would sound!

I observed him as he ate his six inch steak Subway – a measly amount of sandwich for a man, while we walked down the street.

Before the date we had arranged, at length, to go for an Italian dinner at Croma but after his ‘jokes’ on the phone, he’d feigned ignorance of our plans, asking: “So  what do you wanna do then – go for drinks? Eat something?

Well, I didn’t want to eat with him anymore, that was for sure, especially as it was likely I’d be paying for it – mine anyway. Okay, okay, I hear you, I’m a modern woman and don’t see why a man should pay for everything but on a first date? On a first date I like him to pay, or at least offer to – it’s just a gentlemanly courtesy and there’s not much of that around in general these days…

If he pays for the meal it shows he’s generous and I’m more than happy to go halves on any drinks afterwards.

Anyway, let’s cut to the chase here – I didn’t fancy him facially and when he let me jump out of the cab for a cash machine to pay for my portion of the fare home, that decided it. A few well-developed muscles couldn’t make up for his undeveloped dating skills…..

Next!

Cue Mr Cuban-Jamaican, born in Manchester.

“I’ve never had a mussel, what are they like?” asked my 34-year-old self-confessed seafood hating date. How is it possible to get to 34 and have never tried a mussel?

I never knew so many men had a seafood aversion until I put myself back on the fish market as it were and I have to say, it turns me off a bit. I like a prawn with my brawn.

Anyway, the dinner was fine but only after he ‘helped’ me to choose between a main and dessert OR a starter and a main…hmm, stingy = not sexy….It made me feel a bit better about not seeing him again though…

Roll up, roll up! And next ladies and gentlemen (if there are indeed any gentlemen left…) we have Rick the Prick – they are all so easy to rhyme…. RTP was a 32-year-old British Indian who confided in me on our first date, between grabbing me to snog him (consensual kissing – he was physically attractive): “I thought the age gap might be a problem (would such a conversation between a 32-year-old woman and 43-year-old man ever even happen?!) but I think I’m more mature than you.”

Hmm (FFS) debatable, when we’re talking about a boy (my new word for all men between birth and 100) who multiplies the final letter of a word by four or more: “Heyyyy…..how are youuuu? Niceeee.” WTF is that about? Well dear reader, he was a nob who clearly wanted into my knickers before midnight – which would have been okay, if he’d been good, but, predictably, he wasn’t. We didn’t actually do the deed due to him having an apparent curfew at his parents’ house but let’s say the taster I was treated to meant I had no desire for a main OR dessert! And his Christmas present to me? A round robbin (nobbin’?) festive dick pic (not his, it was too big to be his) of a big hairy cock stuck up a turkey’s arse. Delightful!

In the film Daddy’s Home 2 – one of the offerings at Mr Nigerian’s crib, one of the middle-aged male characters says to another middle-aged male character: “I know you’re divorced – well, it’s pretty obvious – you’re dancing salsa cos your wife left you; either that, or your wife left you cos you joined a salsa class…”

For salsa, dear reader, is the place to cast off your middle-aged  shell and emerge faaaaabulous and coupled up with someone equally so, well, in theory anyway…

“So have you met any men at these salsa places then?” asks Samantha, an attractive, single fiftysomething attending class for the first time.

“Hahaha! Oh yeah, loads!” I reply. “But they’re all freeeeaaaks!”

“Ohhh”, she replies, and never returns.

But I do not give up that easily, oh no, I like to do what psychologists always warn against – doing the exact same thing and adopting the exact same behaviours but expecting a different outcome, loooool

(told you I was down with the kids)!

To be fair, to start with, in today’s Instagram obsessed, pornified, cosmetic surgery fixated, oddly sensuality-less world, dancing salsa is a breath of fresh air!

It’s a chance to be human again, to connect on a visceral, sensual level with another mortal being, of any age, physicality or attractiveness.

You know within a few seconds whether someone ‘feels’ right to dance with, whether your bodies move in harmony together, and sometimes it’s the unlikeliest ( ie, least phwoarsome) people who ‘fit’ you the best.

There is something undeniably beautiful and touching about people, whatever age they are ( although anyone over late 50s is a man…), whatever their shape, whatever they look like, venturing out on a Friday night, the working week over, often on their own, to dance with abandon, confident they won’t be rejected (the men, when they ask the women to dance) and reassured of the fact they will be asked to dance by someone (women). I danced with a short, pale, grey-haired fiftysomething with a paunch and do you know what? he danced well, his movements flowed  and he was relaxed, so I was too. I wasn’t worried what people would think, me dancing with him – it felt nice, kind, wonderfully human and embracing of the moment.

Ah, but therein lies the twist, dear reader, for men do not feel the same benevolence towards dancing with less attractive women – I mean, if you can dance, whatever gender you are, you will be danced with, but age, and looks, are very much factors where who men will ask to dance is concerned.

What that means is then, that women, out of a sense of humility (“Dance with every man who asks you, that’s how you’ll learn”, was the line I was gullible enough to swallow), pity and yes,  for the sake of having someone to dance with, are forced to embrace (literally) the smelly, the profusely sweaty, the pervy, the two left feet -ed, the bossy and the salsa rapists….

The salsa rapist will twist your arm behind your back and make every movement feel like karate as he DETERMINES to get the move right, irrespective of your discomfort/cries/screams.

Then there is Mr Jumping Toe Stamper – pretty self-explanatory but wherever he learned that dancing salsa is similar to jumping hurdles I will never know.

Mr Show Off meanwhile, only needs you as a human post, swinging around you, orgasming over his own footwork, only to whirl around and tell you: “I’M leading, not YOU!”

And while we’re talking leaders and followers – spookily reminiscent of a cult, I have an issue with the fact that the men, being the almighty controllers, can simply break off whenever they see fit to do a little ostentatious twirl or whatever, whereas the women, the ‘followers’, have to wait to be ‘directed and ‘corrected’ as the man sees fit.

Mr Drinker is another no-no – ever wondered why professional salsa dancers don’t have a drink in their hand while they do it? No, Mr Drinker hasn’t. He’s only ‘having a laugh’, right? So why put his drink down?

Mr Spinner can only move his arms and hands it seems, his hips and whole lower body remaining rooted to the spot, giving the impression he is either: a)strapping a lifejacket on his partner, b)hoisting said ‘follower’ into an ambulance or c)trying to fish a particularly hard to get leaf out of a pool, while others try in vain to dance around him…

Mr No Soul meanwhile, dances the basic Cuban salsa step, ironically called the ‘Guapea’ – ‘the Gorgeous’, where you step back then forward, your palms coming together, as if wearily pushing closed a broken door that refuses to shut.

Mr Encourager is another one: “Atta Girl”, a man in his late twenties exclaims, every time I manage not to trip over his, or my own, foot – God help me!

Mr Salsa Snob refuses to dance with anyone who is not what he considers ‘advanced’ but then, strangely, reappears, hand outstretched ( and unaccepted of course!) a year later, by which time you are a contender for Strictly, well, much improved at least.

There’s Mr ” I taught myself from Youtube” – er, yeah, there’s a reason for actual live classes mate,

and then there’s Mr ‘You Can teach Me’ – er, no, I can’t, and more to the point, I don’t want to, despite his charming expression of his desire to improve: “I wish I knew how to shove you around”…… oh yes, this is what we are dealing with here!

There is one African man who even massages my hand while he is ‘leading’ me…..bleurgh

I’m not one to do things by halves of course, so in addition to salsa, I’ve started learning another Latin dance: Bachata, from the Dominican Republic, of which there are two versions: traditional and ‘sensual’.

Ah, a Latino man, I think, as an Ecuadorian/Peruvian greets me as my next Sensual Bachata in-class dance partner. Sadly though, he is around a foot shorter than me and has a laugh the same pitch as a hyena’s…I discover this when the hilarity factor of a group of men forced to learn to ‘dance sexy’ by their failure with online dating apps, which, let’s face it, are a failure themselves, gets the better of me and halfway through a move where hyena is half turned around, me with my hand clamped proprietorially on his shoulder, I joke: “I’m arresting you on suspicion of possession of heroin”.

Don’t get me wrong, there ARE (the odd) gorgeous Latin lovers who appear on the dance floor now and again, Mr Mexico – tall – well, ish, muscular, dark and miserable looking (the latter is my nemesis as I always think I can transform them) being a case in point – sadly though, or, most definitely happily, in the long run, he appeared to have left his personality overseas….I didn’t even get to do the sensual move where the follower stands in front of the leader and ‘directs’ her to swivel her hips, ‘connecting’ with him ( ie, bottom ‘accidentally’ touching crotch) as the teacher, a diminutive Peruvian man, grabs me to illustrate the move with him, leaving me feeling like a drunken and loose mechanical doll.

I come to the conclusion all this salsa/bachata business is a bit like driving: take a normal person and put them behind the wheel of a car/on a Latin dancefloor and they are transformed into a crazed monster. PS, dear, esteemed leaders, you are not actually driving a car so again, some, any lower body movement wouldn’t go amiss.

“I could feel his mole protruding through his top”, shudders the woman next to me, after a dance with a fiftysomething Mediterranean man who has excelled himself in the sodden t-shirt stakes tonight.

” I won’t be able to sleep tonight now!”

Well, I will, I think, as I make my excuses and leave. Great dances, shame about the men……

Do you remember when people complained that no-one writes letters anymore? Well now, people have stopped picking up the phone. They don’t and won’t call you, they can’t even be bothered to text anymore. Now, they What’s App – why? Well, you only get your What’s App messages when you’re online, plus you can ‘mute’ people, make it look as if you’re not online when you are, know if and when someone has read your message (unlike a traditional text) and best of all you can send incessant messages more quickly, stroking your own pathetically needy ego from behind the safety of a screen.

There are men you sleep with who disappear for three weeks….then What’s App you – they simply float up again periodically like a turd that won’t flush…

Then there are the brave ones from dating apps that What’s App video call you, at 8.30am – I mean, seriously??! At that time, let’s face it, you’ll either be a) at work, b) on your way to work (I just love talking dirty VERY LOUDLY in the rush hour, on a tram, to a bloke named ‘James Tinder’ I’ve never met….) or, on a weekend, in bed, no make-up and not really prepared to greet the hottie who’s seen your ‘best you’ in your pics….FFS! Give a girl a break!

On What’s App it’s quick, easy and free to send a dick pic – the modern equivalent of two things as old as time itself -flirting and flashing.

Let’s remember that showing your penis to an unsuspecting woman, offline, is an arrestable offence….Some do ask first of course but does that mean you’re a prude if you then say no?? After all, you’re over 40 now and this is what all the kids do, right?

And what the kids do is important for someone like you, with your ‘laddiction’, and by ‘lads’ I mean men under 40, because don’t grown men just seem to be getting more and more immature every day, to the point where dating a 33-year-old is like being with a 13-year-old?

On What’s App, two blue ticks show your significant br-other has read your message and two grey ticks indicates it’s been sent, received and maybe read, maybe not – you won’t know if he’s switched off his read-receipts….

Of course, if you’re online at the time, you can also also read a short message as it comes in, without the need to click on it…

What’s App is quick so you can more easily talk to several chicks/guys at once; you can even send a dick pick ‘to all’- the wonders of modern technology!

What’s App fucks with your mind and has you checking for messages and online presences 24-7. It’s the stalker you never had, or have been – is s/he online or not and if so, what, or who, is said person doing if not talking to you?

An upgraded member of the What’s App wanker/wanking club will ONLY message you on What’s App after all.  You texted him? Then he’ll What’s App you back , whether you are, or can, be online or not, but of course you’ll find a way, won’t you, because by now you’re in deep.

What’s App wankers like to chat shit, to use the down-with-the-kids vernacular, for aeons before seeing you/seeing you again – if only their foreplay was as long!

So why the hell do we, intelligent women, play the What’s App game? Well partly, we’re embarrassed into it – I mean the last thing you want to do is suggest he text you, old-school, offline style,  thus revealing your true Luddite nature – and age (not-in-your-thirties-anymore).

The language these (literal) wankers use as well: “Heyyyyy, right back atcha”, “Ayt, cool.” FFS!!

Heyyyyyy ladeez – listen up, this is MIND CONTROL, pure and simple, perfect for today’s 30-something generation of men (even the twentysomethings are better), with their girly obsession with how they look and their confident expectation that you will chase THEM!

Why do we ignore the alarm bells – the incessant number of gym selfies, pouting face shots with Snapchat bunny ears and dick pics that are all classic signs of a narcissist? We ignore them because so many of them – the good-looking ones at least, are like this nowadays, so maybe it’s us, maybe we need to accept this is what courtship is like now….??

“You blocked me?” Angolan guy Carlos, 33, traditional-texts me, an hour, I know, after he realised I had. Well, I would’ve replied (yes, he CAN text after all) but who uses that old-school method of conversating anymore? Pffft!

These men, for want of a better word, use What’s App like a pervert uses a bush – to hide behind and wank.

If you want to date a woman gents, grow a pair! Put those dumbbells down and pick up the phone and ladies, if he wants your number, tell him, strictly no What’s App, at least not until you’re well into the IRL relationship. Save yourself those bullshit mind games and that sickening energy drain.

Men are losing their balls and turning into knacker-less narcissists. Do not entertain them!

My first grey pube….well, not mine exactly, his….and not just one either. There were (gulp) SEVERAL of the little passion killers, lying there shamelessly in wait, knowing it was too late for me to turn back.

“We did warn you”, they smirked. “Didn’t you spot a grey hair or too in his facial furniture?” Well, yes, I did actually, and tried to ignore those too but the pubic area, now that’s another matter, and anyway I thought pubes were the last to shrivel and die?

Because that’s what these little critters are and no mistake: DEATH, death on a dick, not the most alluring dish…

Couldn’t he just have shaved them all off? And the facial hair as well while he was at it? His head was already bald so it would go with that surely?

But alas, no, here I was, nose to hair with pensioner pubes. Should I just do him, and myself, a favour and just quickly bite them off, in the heat of passion, like they never existed? Or should I just close my eyes?

Was this what I had to look forward to in my sex life from now on? Getting up close and personal with Father Christmas’ beard without the bribe of a present? Wresting out a floppy old phallus from the ashes and still being expected to lick my lips in anticipation? Well, it wasn’t floppy actually, it was hard, only serving to make the Yorkshire Terrier’s fur before me even more of a shock.

Even his dick looked embarrassed, huddled in its foreskin as if to say: “I know, I can’t bear to look either!” Meanwhile I was suffering from most unwelcome flashbacks of an avuncular and somewhat physically challenged comedian, whose act climaxed in him unleashing his knee length bollocks on the crowd…..

So what did I do dear reader? Well, I wish I could tell you I maintained a stiff upper lip but I went for the grin and bear it option instead….

He shall henceforth be known as Pubic Enemy no. 1….

In the Dominican Republic there is a term for good-looking young men who prey on foreign women: the Sanky Panky. In Cuba they call them Jineteros  (literal translation: jockeys – those who ‘ride’, or hustle, foreigners), in Jamaica,  Rastitutes,  in the Gambia, Bumsters, and the list goes on.

But whatever the term, the basic M.O is the same. The men – poor, whether the dictionary definition of it or merely poor compared to Westerners who can afford new Nike trainers and several foreign holidays a year, target mainly European and North American women who, even if they don’t admit it, are looking for sex.

In return, these often very handsome,  charming and funny fantasy men are looking for money, visas or both. It’s a well worn scenario and yet, oddly, the women who fall for these shysters, fakes, still claim they were/are victims.

Now come on ladies, we know this goes on in so many countries now and the phenomenon is only increasing along with the burgeoning numbers of financially independent single or divorced women who, having parted ways with husbands and boyfriends they  no longer need nor want, go away together or pluck up the courage to go it alone, knowing they needn’t stay that way for long.

Women know this more genteel cousin of the sex tourism men have been indulging in for centuries is rife and yet we are still, apparently,  shocked when it happens to us.

On one of the rapidly growing numbers of social media sites where women like me share their experiences, stories abound of these tropical health risks for which there is no immunisation: hotel entertainers, DJs, barmen or simply locals, often already married or in sexual relationships with women in their own countries, while simultaneously having transactional sex with unaware foreigners.

Their real girlfriends and wives are often said to be in on it too, in cahoots with what their men are doing to make a buck.

Members of these sites set up to expose these cads are vetted by self-appointed  administrators with a seemingly never-ending appetite for other women’s tales of Sanky-sickness, accompanied of course by photos (for identification purposes only and never titillation) of their  particular Sanky/Rastitute/Jinetero/ Bumster.

These groups, with their Crimewatch style photo sharing of ‘hot felons’, their enforced sisterhood and proof that it can happen to any woman, model beautiful or, well, not, ages ranging from 16 to 70, skin colour from white to brown to black, and not, as some might think, simply to white grannies, can become quite addictive.

“He paid for everything at first”,  is a common cry, followed by sagas of varying levels of betrayal, from men looking for visas to those, unbeknownst  to their foreigners, already married with kids and no intention of leaving their home countries, only of milking their milk bottles, as the white ones, still the majority, are referred to, for every peso, pound or dollar they can get.

Of course they pay for everything at first, you realise, afterwards, because, quite simply,  women are a different animal to men.  Women like to be romanced, made to feel like a lady. Women like to be paid for on dates. Thus they are lulled into a false sense of security before the velvet gloves are whipped off to reveal the iron fists beneath.

Fair enough, once bitten, twice shy, you might think. But there are many women on these sites who have been three or four times a victim.

One woman jokes about her Sanky Number Four having ‘tiny’ ahem, apparatus while another rates the three she has been with in order of who was the best in bed. And what’s wrong with that,  you might think. Men have been sex tourists for aeons in the Philippines,  Thailand and all over the ping-pong show, so why shouldn’t uncoupled- up women be able to pay for sex with hunky, young men? Well, no reason, except the vast majority of women don’t want to pay for sex and refuse to acknowledge that that is what they are in fact doing. Remember, men are old hands at this ladies, we are not, and while men too may like to kid themselves that these women they are ‘helping’ financially have feelings for them, you  are unlikely to find anywhere near the same number joining social media sites bemoaning their victim status simply because they are doing so.

Is it worse when young men exploit women than the other way round and is it true that it is only those on the receiving end, the women, who get sankeyed/rastituted, who are exploited?

When Thai or Filipino women go with these men it is they, after all, the women, who are seen as the victims, forced by economic conditions to trade sex for money, and the men the aggressors.

But surely men should be gentlemen, shouldn’t they? They shouldn’t make women pay for them, claim they need money to buy a car, for the woman’s convenience of course, when she comes to stay, send her photos of limbs with tubes attached begging for money for spurious blood infusions, They shouldn’t lie that their penniless mothers are sick in hospital, rip their foreign lovers off by telling them the prices for the pay-by-the-hour ‘love’ hotels/cabanas  are triple what they really are, because make no mistake love,  after the first time at least, you’re the one who’s paying. Note : These ‘cabanas’/ love hotels are doubly confusing, doubly uncomfortable for women, with their condoms on the pillows, their polished jacuzzis and, in some cases, stripper style poles, in that you feel as if you are both punter and prostitute at the same time!

Not all men though are gentlemen and not all women are ladies and if we want, in these days of almost gender equality,  at least in Britain, to, as Sex and The City’s Samantha pledged, have sex like a man, for the first time in history, we can!

But the money we kid ourselves into handing over, the drinks or gifts we buy, may not be the only price we pay.

I had something in my box – something too short – 5ft 9.

I’m 5ft 8 and love my heels.

But he was stocky, wrote intelligently and was, well, average-looking.

I was just about to reply when, three quarters of the way down his profile, I saw it.

Amid his loooong list of specifications for a date-worthy woman, he had listed: “average or smaller than average feet.”

WTF??!! Did he have a preferred areola diameter as well?!

And they wonder why they don’t get replies!Good job I’ve got the Nigerian old flame to keep the wheels oiled, shall we say.

Mr Nigerian announced over dinner that he did not eat ‘bark’, a rather unnecessary assertion, I thought – then it transpired he meant the skin on his baked potato. Rahahaha!

After dinner, he disrobed to reveal bright red jockey shorts with the word WEED emblazoned in big, black letters across the waistband – was this a warning, I wondered – was he one of those adult babies? Did I need to change his nappy?

Driven back online, I happened across pictures of a motorcycle enthusiast.

The lead profile photo was of a twenty something, naked, tattooed man lying down, a motorbike abed with him.

The second, third and fourth photos were of various motorbikes and the fifth was of someone’s grandad with his daughter – go figure….

They came together, so to speak.

On the Friday I arranged a date on the dating site with Daithi.

Yes- a datey with Daithi (actually pronounced Dohi).

And next morning at 00.53am Milli Vanilli What’s Apped me.

The photo was of an attractive black man, a little girl playing with his dreads.

It looked like a man I’d met on the same dating site years ago but never actually ‘met’.

“Hello gorgeous, how are you?” the message read.

“It’s Mario love.”

Ah, Rio, a Nigerian I’d slept with a few times 5 years ago.

So, against all my better judgement, I dated ‘Datey’, as I prefer to call him, got very drunk and then booty called my Nigerian.

‘Datey’ had been lovely, the perfect Dublin gentleman, but I couldn’t have fancied him in a million years and he said the Living Room bar was ‘a bit well-to-do’ – yep, that’s why I liked it…

So the drunken dial happened, Rio came to pick me up and we went back to his (my request) and, well, settled back into the old (short-lived) routine.

I liked the new dreads, his tight body and his foreignness and now find myself somewhat adDICKted.

Oh dear, mum must NEVER know. 1.He’s Nigerian, ie, from a very different cultureculture

2.He lives on the set of ‘Shameless’ in Middleton and is, of course, as poor as a churchmouse.

3. He has 3 kids by another white woman.

I will end this in a month. But his parents were both murdered in Nigeria when he was 19 and he hasn’t seen his sisters for ten years…. I will end this in one month.

Meanwhile, back to the dating site to look for a sensible long-term partner with English as a first language.

It’s Sunday night. I’m watching X Factor while scrolling through my inbox on a dating site.

Here’s what pops up:   From: Fingers0001: “Wow! Beautiful eyes,

I ignored the slightly cringy feeling his text: ‘just pottering around’, gave me, and proceeded – into the sales presentation.

He’d visited Botswana, Mozambique and a host of other ‘Effrican’ places with Rob and Kale – you know, Rob and Kale – er, no….

Who were this bloody Rob’n’ Kale, or was it a strangely elaborate pet name for his penis??

He was tall, dark and attractive, which I rewarded by posing pertinent questions about his potterings around the globe.

I couldn’t help but find it strange though that a person as talkative as myself had barely managed to sputter out a couple of sentences during the whole three hour ish date.

But, I reasoned (as women are wont to do), it was obviously just his way of selling himself as a potential partner- either that or he was a sociopath, but having found him on a free dating site, I was sure it wasn’t that….

Anyway, I forgave him the PR stunt. What I was less inclined to forgive was the  great hesitation to put his hand in his pocket.

We went up to the bar. Now, here’s the thing – it’s always nice for the man to buy the first drink, even if you end up buying the same number of drinks.

But he paused, then said he may not have enough cash on him, revealing a wallet containing a Barclaycard as he did so.

“Use your card”, I said, incredulous he had fallen at the first, and simplest, of hurdles.

“Oh yeah, I could use my card couldn’t I?”

He hesitated again.

“I’ll get them”, I said, the bartender’s waiting  becoming embarrassing now.

But he finally took the plunge.

Strangely, there was no hesitation at all when I offered to get the next drink – beer for him, orange juice for myself- so as to space the alcohol out a bit.

My OJ finished, him still drinking his pint, it began again.

“I feel bad, you without a drink”, he said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind a small white wine”, I ventured.

He blanched.

“Oh,  are you sure you’ll be okay?” he faltered.

“Yes, of course!” I said firmly.

FFS!

Either this bedroom furniture company of his was in deep shit or he was incorrigibly mean – either way, not good.

I’d been there (more than once) and bought the T-shirt (myself).

He gave me a lift almost to home – I know, foolish, but at least I didn’t let him see exactly where I lived.

We said goodbye, me muttering something about us having each other’s numbers, and around 10 minutes after I’d walked through my flat door, he texted : “Thanks for a lovely night.”

I replied (lied) that I’d had a lovely night too – well, he was fit and next time might be better…and readers, we never saw each other or communicated again.

I really wanted to know why he hadn’t asked me for a second date – was it my expensive tastes in orange juice and small, white wines?

I remained staunchly passive aggressive though and didn’t ask.

Onwards and downwards!

Well, it was a bit more like kiss diarrhoea – you know, the four kisses when they’ve never met you thing.

‘Limited edition romantic’, his profile read. Surely he was just being facetious, but I rapidly realised he wouldn’t even be able to spell that, let alone know what it meant.

He also listed ‘fine dinning’ as one of his interests and had the increasingly common affliction of lol-orhoea.

But he was fit – quite, and half Maltese- he did look it and everyone who knows me knows I love my Mediterranean men.

So he started off telling me I was ‘hermosa’. Uh, that was Spanish. Ah, but that was because he was in his mum and dad’s villa in Spain, where he was just about to cook some tapas. He was a good cook, he said (I tried again to avert my eyes from his love of ‘fine dinning’). Mm, well that was a big tick, and it seemed we shared a love of Spain and of food.

After exchanging a few messages, we agreed to meet for a drink.

He was ‘excited’ about it, he said, a reaction which rang alarm bells, which I chose to ignore of course.

To cut a long story short, we What’s Apped each other to the point of blindness and then, then came the dick video – I should’ve seen it coming – ah, he’d taken care of that too….

Well readers, it was there, so I viewed it, and frankly, it was disappointing.

And to make matters worse, he got annoyed when two days passed with no equivalent fannycam.

Back on the dating site on the Sunday after Wanking Wednesday, a, mercifully dick free, message popped up :

“Sorry, you’re not horny enough for me.”

Ha!

I messaged him back: “You know, for a tall man (he said he was 6ft 4 which probably meant about 5 ft 10), your dick’s  not very big, is it?

“I mean it’s not tiny, but smaller than I imagined.”

I omitted to mention I preferred a circumcised one, I didn’t think that was fair.

I finished off: “So, you appear unable to have any kind of conversation so I’ll leave you to exercise your modest penis.”

He might not have been circumcised, but I think I’d cut his dick down to size…..