Update #83

I don’t even know where to start writing this update. Two weeks ago I was thrown under a relationship bus, forced to have feelings I wasn’t ready for and made to acknowledge these feelings not only publicly but to the very person who had inspired them. I was like a pinball being propelled from one grown up emotion to another and being expected to maintain my composure and protect myself mentally and emotionally in the process. The truth is, I am not even ready for the preliminaries of getting intimately involved with a man, let alone delving into the world of mature ever lasting relationships.

I have fucked up. I said the wrong thing or did the wrong thing or made my feelings known too soon or didn’t show enough of them and now its too late. I just don’t know. How does this shit work? Am I meant to call and nag the guy until he realises I like him and that he’s never going to get away and so he just gives in, or am I meant to be all elusive and blase and keep him guessing so he has something to chase? Why do I feel completely comfortable with his tongue in my mouth but not completely comfortable with dialling his damn phone number? All I want to do is hang out and fuck, why is that such a complicated relationship goal?

Of course, others may say that Mr.Surprise simply turned out to be another giant loser caught temporarily in the web of Lola’s disastrous dating life. This would be a fair assessment. To cut a long and tedious story short, Mr.Surprise and I seemed to be getting along fabulously. Great communication, great laughs, great sex, loads of that openness and mutual appreciation shit that people bounding towards happily ever after are supposed to have. It was all plodding along quite nicely. I was looking forward to seeing him, enjoying his company and there were butterflies in my stomach at the very thought of him. Little, tiny, unlikely to survive outside of the gut kind of butterflies, but butterflies nonetheless. I had thrown myself open to the idea of letting a man over 25, in full time employment and without any obvious mental health issues, into my life and I thought the risk was paying off. Then, Mr. Surprise disappeared.

I’m not being dramatic here. This isn’t a case of me texting him twenty minutes ago and still not receiving a reply. I mean, he disappeared off the god damn earth. There has been nothing. Zilch, zero, nada. The last I heard from him was on late Tuesday afternoon when he enthusiastically confirmed our plans for that evening. He never showed. He never explained why he didn’t show up and in fact he turned his phone off, so he never even saw my 3am text message of concern; He has a job that can get a little dangerous at times and I was completely justified in my concerns for his well being. I sat up all night, worrying, but I need not have bothered. Mr. Surprise is now on holiday for two weeks with his daughter. A holiday he had originally invited me to join them on. I have no idea what happened to make him completely shut down on me like this. And please, don’t offer up reasonable explanations for his absence. He is not dead, his dog did not die and I am damn sure there is nothing wrong with his phone. If he can update his Facebook status, which he has, then he can sure as hell text me to let me know he is still breathing and to apologise for standing me up. Dick.

Where Mr. Surprise has failed, however, other men have been prepared to pick up the slack. I mean, seriously, it is as if the male population can smell my monogamy. Weston is pulling out all the stops, or rather, pulling out his giant penis, to get my attention and as adorable as that is, I’m just not up for entertaining that idea right now. ‘He’s jealous,’ Blue keeps telling me, ‘Look at him! Listen to him huffing and puffing! He’s sooo jealous!’

Then there is the Mountie. Damn, there is always the Mountie. We’ve hung out a lot recently, in the most platonic ways possible, but he’s reaching a critical point in his frustrations to get back in my pants. Any minute now I am expecting him to throw a giant tantrum because I won’t sleep with him. It is almost as if he feels he has put in enough ‘platonic’ time to prove I’m not just a booty call and now I need to reward his efforts with plentiful pussy. Not going to happen.

The former students, Texter A and Texter B are still hot in pursuit, which is a mahoosive ego boost to this thirtysomething. Having not one, but two, hot twenty year olds vying for my attention has been just the confidence lift I needed, but dear Jemima is keeping me on a short leash when it comes to exploring this controversial avenue. Seriously, the bitch has got me on lockdown, ‘You are dating a grown up!’ she keeps telling me, ‘Do not fuck this up! Do not be ruled by your vagina!’ As obvious and helpful as this advice may be, the ‘grown up’ I am meant to be dating is currently playing in the World Hide ‘N’ Seek Championships, so I’m going to waive maturity and patient understanding in favour of biceps and cunnilingus. I may be able to hear Jemima in my head on a loop, ‘One man at a time Lola, one man at a time!’ but her little Jiminy Cricket voice is rapidly being drowned out by the crashing tidal wave of hot, dirty sex with men young enough to be my sons.But yes, there still will only be one man AT A TIME. Not even I, with my witty banter, speed typing skills and extensive vocabulary can entertain via social media more than one man at a time. I am a strong and capable worldly woman, but I am not superhuman.

Who am I kidding. This is just the talk of a wounded woman. I’m not going to squeeze into the most figure enhancing outfit I own and go party the night away with a bunch of toyboys. I’m not going to sneak into Weston’s room in the middle of the night, all stockings, suspenders and lustful cougar eyes and I’m certainly not going to let the Mountie rub his stubbly chin against my inner thighs. I’m going to sit here, eat carbohydrates and continue to come up with ridiculous and far fetched excuses for why Mr. Surprise has just deleted himself from my life, after such a valiant effort to put himself there in the first place. Dick. Fucking butterflies. Grrr.

Sex: 0

Drugs: 0

Alcohol: 0

Caffeine: 0

Meat: 0

Physical Health: Still breathing!

Mental Health: As above!

The Tempted & The Damned

‘Be still, my stirring vagina, these temptations are sent to test us’.

This is all I have been saying to myself for the past few hours. I am like the proverbial bitch on heat; a rampant, wanton mess of womanliness, desperately caught ,without hope of release, in her own wild abandon. What tempts me can also damn me.

I currently have two very flirtatious text conversations taking place, both with former students of mine. This is wrong on so many levels and yet my vagina, quite rightly, keeps pointing out that they are 20 years old now, fully grown young men, and I haven’t been their teacher for many, many years.

One is just so beautiful that looking at him is like willingly submitting to the lustful yearnings of my vagina and permitting them to put me into a headlock. My eyes become transfixed on him, the rest of my body limp and pathetic, possibly with a little drool in the corner of my mouth. I am powerless against the desire to smell him, stroke him, lick him. He is bronzed and muscular with dark brooding eyes and a sultry, teasing smile. If I had not known him as a 13 year old boy I would have undoubtedly made his picture my screensaver by now and used that beautiful face as masturbatory fodder for the next three months. But I did know him as a 13 year old boy and herein lies the problem.

The problem repeats with the second texter. Although I was never technically his teacher, I know him through the education system and it would be horribly inappropriate to engage with his keen and eager pleas to sleep with me. Yet it is not a cheeky school boy writing these texts and Facebook messages to me. It is a tall, slender man, a lovable rouge with strong hands and a glint in his eyes that blatantly advertises how utterly, truly filthy he is in the bedroom. He is intimidated by me, yet so determined in his quest to fuck me that he soldiers on, taking hit after hit of rejection and soothing it away with more charm and wicked promises.

I must compose myself. This is a nightmare beyond regular Lola proportions. I must behave. I must step away from the tantalising young men, not because of Mr. Surprise (which is a story I loathe to tell but will eventually get around to regurgitating in all its predictable crappiness very soon) but because it has been a very long time since I was faced with a moral dilemma and I feel if I don’t get this one right I may be thrown into the pit of the damned much sooner than expected. I need to do the right thing. I need to be reminded of what it is like to be a responsible, respectable, mature woman; to see how being ‘normal’ and ‘settled’ has its wonderful perks and how I don’t always have to be the crazy, reckless bitch who is led by her vagina.

I’m going to have a shower now. A cold one. I’m not going to think about those adoring young men, or their tight torsos, or what they look like when they sweat, or anything to do with men at all. I am a grown up and will act accordingly. I will not throw myself into regretful, bad, dirty, filthy, sweaty, passionate whoreish behavior to mask my disappointment in Mr.Surprise. I will not be tempted. I will not be damned. I am showering. Yes. Cold showering.

Apologies In Advance…

I have to offer my apologies now for any future blog posts that induce waves of nausea and mild discomfort. It would appear that Mr. Surprise and I are slowly turning into ‘those people’. I have neither the willpower or desire to stop it. Sorry!


Sorry! I Was Being A Man!


‘You forgot to turn off the bathroom heater’

‘Sorry! I was being a man!’

‘Who left these dishes in the sink?’

‘Sorry! I was being a man!’

‘If you don’t tell me when there is stuff in the washing machine, how do you expect me to know to hang it up?’

‘Sorry! I was being a man!’

Every time these words come out of Weston’s mouth, I instantly feel the soft lapping waves of an epiphany float over me. Of course. He’s a man. I can’t expect him to remember silly little things like laundry and buying toilet paper because he’s a man. This isn’t me being sarcastic or derogatory about the male gender, this is me remembering that there are differences between the sexes and one of them is that men generally suck at organising a household. I know I’m stereotyping and generalising, but that isn’t the point here. The point is that one little phrase from Weston, that simply explains why he is so inept when it comes to simple household chores, is enough to negate any angst I may be feeling about the situation. My irritation is defused by a reason for the lapse.

This ‘Sorry! I was being a man!’ has somehow revolutionised my approach to all men. As well as domestic duties, communication is often a stumbling block for the male gender. I believe men are just as capable of talking about their feelings and expressing their desires as women, but the problem lies in the fact that women want to do it almost all of the time. Yes, thats another stereotype and generalisation, but women bond with each other through sharing their experiences and emotions so it is no surprise that they also have this urge to connect when in a relationship with a man. Men bond very differently, through shared interests and activities. When the man recoils from chatter about his relationship goals or doesn’t want to discuss his hurt at being overlooked for promotion, however, it is seen as his inability to communicate. This is simply not true. He just doesn’t need to talk about everything all the time. He is being a man.

My son, the other man in my household, has clearly been raised in a predominantly female pack. When he is angered, upset or frustrated, he rants. He gets that from me. I find it easier to spit out all my angst in one long torrent of abuse, as if exhaling a poison, after which all is forgotten and I move on. This, along with the men I know all ‘being a man’ has been known to cause some friction between myself and the opposite sex.

I rant, they recoil. I rant some more because they recoiled and the whole sorry process starts again. Just like with the dishes and the laundry, I need to stop taking this recoiling from certain discussions as a personal attack on my feelings and opinions and just accept with an open and understanding heart that they are not running away from me or dismissing how I feel, but are simply ‘being a man’. It’s truly enlightening.

Of course, I’m still left with wet clothes in the washing machine, dirty dishes in the sink and the faint outline of the word ‘mug’ on my forehead, but I have to accept that the males in my household are also faced routinely with my ‘being a woman’. Maybe if I vocalised this some more, if I actively said ‘Sorry! I was being a woman!’ every time I rant, or leave the bathroom sink littered with eye liners and lipsticks, or eat all the carbs in the kitchen because its that time of the month, the communication between my males and I would flow a whole lot easier. I’ve always been a fan of celebrating the differences between men and women. The way their strengths and weaknesses compliment each other. This little realisation may just help me do that.

Of course, this could all be utter nonsense and the truth of the matter is that Weston has just played me perfectly…by being a man!

When Saturday Nights Don’t Go As Planned


‘We’re not having sex,’ I told him, ‘but you’re more than welcome to come over for a smoke and a movie?’

The Canadian Mountie had been badgering me all week about getting together. He assured me it was my charming company that he wanted, rather than access to my pants, and although I didn’t entirely believe him I had to agree that I’d missed our chats and hanging out together.

‘I never mentioned sex,’ he laughed ‘Is that all you think about?!’

I had spent the previous evening stoned to the point of paraplegia with Weston. The vodka had flowed far too smoothly and we had spent the night watching Jackass and random YouTube videos of people falling over. Considering we were both in a ‘I hate the world’ mood, it was fitting entertainment. We eventually passed out, without anything more than a friendly hug taking place.

Now here I was, opening my front door to another past conquest and testing myself and my willpower once again. I know the Mountie well. I didn’t think for one minute he would be able to spend the entire evening without attempting to kiss me, but considering we have spent quite a bit of time together recently without any physical contact, I was confident enough that I could keep any advances at bay. I was home alone and appreciated his company, but the misunderstanding with Mr.Surprise had left me feeling vulnerable. It would have been all too easy to find some comfort in the arms of the Mountie.

We smoked, we drank, we talked, we laughed. By 3am I was ready for my bed but far too wasted to actually get there. Mountie made some comments about having to get home but instead of gathering up his belongings, he leaned in and kissed me. The stubble I used to find such a turn on was now just a scratching irritation on my skin. He kissed me with the force of a man who hadn’t eaten in a month and where this passion and intensity formerly excited me, now the weight of him against me felt threatening. Mountie wasn’t doing anything he hadn’t done before, but this time I didn’t want it and I sure as hell was not going to give in out of some weird, misplaced obligation.

‘Don’t I do it for you anymore?’ Mountie asked as I pushed him away.

That was a tough question to answer. There was a time when he definitely ‘did it’ for me and nothing in his attractiveness has altered. He is still this strong, muscular, rugged man who has buried his face between my thighs and made me scream in ecstasy time and time again. I couldn’t think of an answer to his question that was honest but also sensitive to his ego.

‘Its not you. It’s me,’ I babbled back. Those five little words have been used as a get out of jail free card for people walking the end-of-a-relationship gauntlet for millennia but now here I was, using those words and feeling no release. Instead, things just felt awkward.

‘I’m seeing someone. Kind of. In a way. Its sort of recent…’ My non committal explanation failed to impress the Mountie. He looked as confused as ever. It was time to come clean about Mr. Surprise.

‘It’s not serious but he did ask me to go away with him this weekend,’ I continued, ‘but I didn’t go because I’m a commitment phobic idiot and, by the time I realised, it was too late and he went without me and now I really regret it and, well, I like him. Which is why I can’t do this…’

Mountie avoided making eye contact but managed some noises to signal his understanding. He thanked me for a great evening, hugged me goodbye on the doorstep and disappeared into the approaching dawn. I crawled into my soft, inviting bed and checked my phone one last time for a message from Mr. Surprise. Nothing. I really should have said yes when I had the chance.

When Friday Nights Don’t Go As Planned


Weston had an argument with his ex girlfriend and is seriously irate.

Mr. Surprise and I have had a misunderstanding that has left me rather upset.

Weston and I are home alone with Russian vodka.

There’s no way this can go bad, right?!

Update #82

I have deleted my OkStupid account.

I am not sleeping with Weston anymore.

I am not talking to any other guys or going on any dates.

There is only Mr.Surprise.

I am taking a huge risk with this man. I know there is something waiting in the wings to knock me off my guard and make me doubt my decision. I dread this story becoming one where I am made a fool of and end up hurt and humiliated, yet there is a part of me that is as prepared as I can be for that. I do not trust him yet, nor do I see flowers and rainbows in our future together, but I do believe Mr.Surprise wants a future with me in it. That will do for now. Who are any of us to know more than that at the beginning of a relationship.

I am not thinking about any other men.

I do not want to sleep with any other men.

There is only Mr. Surprise.

I think I like it this way.