Betty Page has been in contact. We still speak via text a little but no further dates have been arranged.
Anyway, she sent me this message yesterday at midnight.
‘I should have guessed the email name tbh :-/
Anyway, at the risk of being an annoying tart, I happened upon this whilst moving from one portable hard drive to another this weekend and it happend that you were the person I wanted to send it to. Mostly because I really did enjoy our lovely shag the other week, although I suspect I was a bit drunk and awful. Sorry about that. I’m better in real life.
Right, so, I’ve attached what can only be described as some pornographic footage of myself from a few months ago. Since then I’ve lost a number of pounds and I hope you’ll forgive the soundtrack happening in the background. But here you go anyway. Tis yours to enjoy.
It is a very rude video, more rude than Biscuit’s most X-rated balloon hats.
I am shocked.
Friday night night was something of a last minute plan. With Dragonforce now in Quatar, I agreed to meet a man I barely know to go drinking on the rock scene. Toast then gleefully announced that the planets had aligned in his favour and he *would* go to the ball come to London after all.
“You two really are a right pair of pussies.” – FleetStreetFox
In a ‘come one, come all’ spirit, I threw the invite to join us open to all who I thought might fancy it. I was joined by FleetStreetFox who, prior to meeting us a week earlier had scathingly taken us for a couple of inept morons. Whilst that may well be the case, we were clearly shaping up to be a likeable couple of inept morons at least.
“Your joint state of pathetic romantic anxiety would probably not help you get invited to any [threesomes]” – FleetStreetFox
With Toast planning to hook up with us after meeting Betty Page I attempted to coerce Scalene to join us to in an effort to reunite the anonymous blogger quartet from the previous week, but he was otherwise engaged on a non-romantic encounter.
“You three would make the world’s least successful and most inept sexual tag team.” – FleetStreetFox
FleetStreetFox was again living up to her moniker, dressed in figure hugging black and leather; serendipitously the unofficial uniform of the rock scene, so she fitted right in!
Alternately pouring caustic scorn on the perceived fashion crimes of the venue’s incumbents and confusing Toast by replying to his Betty Page updates on my phone, she was thoroughly enjoyable company once again.
“Biscuit would have to be Soggy Sam. Liable to wilt under pressure.” – FleetStreetFox
After a while I even managed to overcome her reticence and enourage her onto the dancefloor, which felt like a deleted scene from “School of Rock” where Jack Black teaches that it’s easy to dance to rock music after all.
Then something utterly surprising happened. Standing at the top of the stairs we were face to face intently discussing something that has long since ceased to be important. The next I knew, we were kissing! Blimes!
Leaving for home shortly after, we grabbed a taxi back to mine as she had previously arranged to crash in the spare room. There may have been unspecified further hijinks but, being a gentleman (and fearing for my vital organs) there will be no further details.
Or at least someone attempted hijinks but I was having none of it because I’m not that kind of boy.
” I still think that eventually one of you, or Scalene, will elope with the foxy FleetStreetFox.” – Molly Bennett
“You will have to arrange a lobotomy too. And get several bottles into me.” – FleetStreetFox
Throughout the night, I had taunted her that every time she rifled through my phone/facebook/email messages (ever the tabloid journalist) I was deducting from her final marriage percentage.
With this in mind, and obligated by the rules to provide a M%. I can officially declare the final figure.
Marriage percentage: minus 13%
All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable night with great company! Now, if she could just refrain from trying to find out if I am conducting an illicit homosexual affair with my ‘advisor’ or am hiding a body under the patio then she could have retained the previously healthy score. She can’t say I didn’t warn her!
*runs away and hides… and changes name…*
If there is a lesson here, then it is surely the following: We might APPEAR to be utterly hapless twats, but we are at least personable with it!
“I am NOT ‘an opportunity’, neither. I’d be a fucking lucky break, especially for one of those twats. JESUS.” – FleetStreetFox
The date was late. Or to be exact I was late, I had to visit a friend in hospital and then change at Biscuit’s new place. So I didn’t meet up with Betty Page until about 10pm.
She was waiting for me in a pub on Tottenham Court road. The date had been off and then on again so she was wearing very casual Friday clothes instead of what I’d imagine would be normal date gear.
She wore a stripy blue top, dark green combat trousers and faux-biker boots and leather jacket.
She looked like her *ahem* pictures, wit shoulder length dark hair and dark eyes. Her voice was fairly low with faint Midlands accent.
The meeting was a little awkward at first, which just encouraged us to drink a bit more. After the first pint Betty Page took me to her club in Soho and bought me loads of cocktails.
The conversation was fairly easy, not that intense connection you sometimes get with people but not awkward either.
She mentioned she liked rock music, and well a load of other things that Biscuit is into. I sort of thought she was on a date with the wrong person.
I wasn’t sure how things were going really, or at least I wasn’t sure until she raped my mouth.
She had said she was going to the go to the loo, looked at me a bit weirdly and then latched on to my face. It was all rather shocking.
I was a bit taken aback by all this and finished my drink eyeing her up carefully. I was very drunk.
“Hey,” I said “Biscuit is out in Camden with a friend, we could go and join them?”
“Or,” she replied. “we could go back to my place and have sex.”
Blimey, I thought.
And kept thinking as were we in a cab going somewhere with her saying “I’m going to get my money’s worth out of you.”
I’m still not sure if she did.
Marriage percentage = 20%
I’ve been chatting to Betty Page rather a lot via text message.
It started off as quick message so we had each other’s numbers pre-date, but has since has turned into a river of silly messages. We haven’t even met up yet.
For reasons I still don’t really understand she mentioned she had ‘lovely boobies’ and then ended up sending me a picture of said items.
I was a bit shocked (in a nice way) is this now the norm?
Do people in London send each other pictures of their body parts to aid recognition when they do meet? I don’t remember this happening when I lived in London.
Anyway. Betty Page and I were talking about the gym. I mentioned how the men’s changing rooms are either full of overtly loud conversation of absolute silence. She replied with
BP: I don’t know about the men but we ladies spend a lot of time photographing each one another in the changing rooms and having sexy water fights.
T: I always suspected as much. My life doesn’t involve nearly enough sexy water fights.
BP: Splashy Splashy* *could also refer to bukkake
T: Is that what happens in mixed changing rooms?
BP: Pretty much entirely.
T: I’ve always thought bukkake would involve a bit too much organising to be any fun. You know getting the timings together, who has to clean up. That sort of stuff.
BP: What kind of nibbles would be served at a bukkake evening?
T: A writer I know went to a swingers party and she was disgusted that they served sushi. For Bukkake I’d recommend pineapple (for flavour) and strawberries (to replace lost zinc post-bukkake).
BP: Chicken wings probably not a good plan.
T: Sticky ribs are probably also a no-no.
BP: Wasabe peas?
T: Curry. Any sort of curry.
BP: It would be cool to have one of those black lights like on CSI, could have a disco ball version. All the spunk would look quite beautiful.
T: That’s a great idea. Perhaps you could do a sideline in bukkake consultancy?
BP: Clearly these things need thinking a lot of thought.
T: I had no idea of the planning required.
BP: Could have been quite embarrassing if you’d have tried to do a spontaneous one without this conversation. It would have been chaos.
T: Yes. I have been warned. Have you ever tried it? I mean outside of the normal changing room antics.
There was a very long pause here, instead of the usual instant reply. I though’d I’d gone a bukkake too far. Biscuit was sure I’d blown what could have been an amusing date by being too cheeky.
Then about two hours later I got the following reply.
BP: I think bukkake is a stricktly group-based isn’t it? In which case no, but I’m not averse to a gentlemanly shower in private.
This made me spit out the cup of Earl Grey I was drinking with shock and ‘tea bukkake’ all over my computer. I suspect Friday will be an amusing date.
I have some new dates arranged. Thanks to a simple plan.
I cunningly waited until Biscuit was distracted with moving house, and thus all of the women in the whole world were mine to talk to alone. Ha! In your face Biscuit!
It worked too, although they are not ‘dates’ as such, not yet at least.
I’ve got that sort of pre-date arrangement. You know where one of you says ‘do you fancy a drink’ and the other says ‘yes that would be lovely’ and then you both make a serious face while you try to find a day as soon as possible when you are both free but that also gives you enough time to shave various parts of your body and find your good underpants.
There are three pre-dates arranged, two of them sensible, one highly unlikely.
Date 1: Betty Page
She contacted me first, which is always fun. Lives in West Hampstead, runs a web consultancy. Is a bit kinky, but not in a scary way, I hope. She asked me out for a drink, specifically said that we would be getting drunk.
The drink bit means I can’t ride down on a bike so that will make planning a bit more tricky. This will probably have to wait a week or so as weddings are eating up most of my free time at weekends at the moment.
Date 2: Maths Teacher
A Jewish maths teacher, she lives in Hampstead and her brother has a tiny little dog called Dave. I contacted her first, and I have to admit she wasn’t hugely responsive, however I kept going in a chatty light-hearted way. This was mostly due to it being a way of avoiding packing*.
I think normally I would have given up and moved on but I didn’t and a couple of hours later we ended up talking on Skype, for ages.
The call lasted three hours, making it one of the longest conversations of my life, ever.
It was three hours of giggling about Eurovision, mathematics and Azerbaijani rap bands called Dayirman (who are aces it turns out) and it only ended because it was really, really late and I had to move house* in the morning.
So who knows how long it would have gone on if that hadn’t been the case? Being able to talk to someone at length – about nothing in a funny way – is incredibly important to me.
Biscuit is of the view that a three-hour conversation is practically a date and so I have to give a marriage percentage. I’d say she is a solid 50% just going on her mind. If we get on in real life then she has to be a contender.
The vague plan is to go and see the Gaugin exhibit in the Tate so I suppose I’ll find out then if she is actually a man. Even if she (he?) is, given the quality of the phone conversation I think I’d have to consider it a little bit.
Date 3: Highly Unlikely
Californian jewellery designer, has good hair.
I really shouldn’t look at the profiles of girls in different countries on dating websites. I’m just teasing myself.
It’s like looking at a sweet shop full of sweets you aren’t allowed to eat. delicious sweets that you want to try but that are forbidden. Forbidden doesn’t really work for me so I ended up having a brief trans-atlantic phone call about Jam at 3am in the morning.
On the plus side I now have an offer of a meal from Californian woman next time I’m in San Francisco, which is lovely but well it’s a bit of a commute.
*I’m moving house too, somewhere a bit rubbish for a few months and then on to London!**
**Eeek I’ve just realised this means I’m distracted and so Biscuit is going to have all the women in the whole world to talk to, alone. Damn it.