Manners or RIP – the German lawyer

WARNING: this post does not contain any erotic writing.

So last night’s encounter with the German lawyer was a disaster. First, he was late in calling to arrange to meet. I had just taken the first few sips of white wine and was still wearing my dressing gown after a hot bath when he finally phoned. I had already decided I was not going to go out again. It was close to 11pm, but somehow he managed to persuade me to meet him

“I’d really like to see you”, a line I find it hard to argue with.

In 10 minutes I was dressed again – black skirt, black polar neck, black boots, red lipstick and stockings. I decided to cycle so that I would have a cheap way of getting home later. On the last two occasions with the German, I have had to pay for a taxi home. It seemed like an unnecessary expense this time round. Pedaling quickly through the cool night I arrived at our rendezvous a few minutes before him. We went to a bar, where I let him buy the first round. After all, I had bought dinner on Friday night.

The next few hours were odd – he seemed to feel the need to raise the question of my marriage (slightly hypocritical given he had no qualms last week), his recent ‘devastating’ break-up, questioned why I had left in the middle of the night on Friday, etc, etc. It seems he has ‘issues’ to deal with, not least learning some bloody manners. He was sipping his drink slowly, as he’d already had a quite a few beforehand, so I was forced to buy myself another beer. In my book, he should have at least offered. We even discussed sex and what it was we liked. I told him quite clearly that without some form of clitoral stimulation I’m lost. Jokingly I said:

“You do know where the clitoris is, right?”

“The what?”

“The clitoris.” I thought he was joking.

The bar was shutting around 1:30 am and so the question arose of what happens next. We kissed again and I had that same butterfly, melting sensation. It seems to interfere with my ability to think logically. He asked me to come back to his place “Just to sleep next to each other”. I resisted, knowing full well that I was not going to endure another night of freezing my ass off with no covers, no pillow and his snoring. So I agreed to come back to his place, on the condition that if I cannot sleep he would not take it personally if I left. He agreed.

All this time, I was thinking – ok, so the first sex with someone isn’t always great. But the second time things usually take a turn for the better and it can be mind-blowing (especially after giving such explicit instructions). Let me put it this way: there was no ‘mind-blowing’ anything. I did all the blowing, reminding myself where to find my gag reflex in the process. I had a real sense of dejavu. We fucked again, he used that old chestnut about the “condom desensitizing” him and DID NOT, I repeat DID NOT make ANY effort to find my clitoris. I can only conclude that despite his Doctorate in law, he simply has no idea about female anatomy. He seemed to be fiddling about with the bit further down, near my vulva. I just didn’t have the heart to tell him.

Instead, he ended up coming over my chest, rolling over, taking all the covers and then asking me if I needed ‘something’. Yes, I needed to get the fuck out of there (and some tissues). So, I lied, said I was an insomniac and there was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep, got dressed and left. There was definitely an awkwardness in the air – both of us probably thinking “what the fuck?”. Turns out I’m away for a few weeks, then he is, so happily there is no opportunity for us to meet again until at least the end of April. Or ever again.

I left him in bed (he did not even bother to get up to show me out), jumped on my bike and cycled the 25 minutes home. About 2 minutes from home, at 4am in the morning, when not a single car was in sight, I skipped a red light, not wanting to be harassed by the usual drunks near the station, only to be PULLED OVER by the police. They took my ID, made me stand there for 10 minutes whilst they checked my details and then had the audacity to FINE me 50 for jumping the red light. As I cycled off he wished me  “a nice day anyway”.

Fuck. Fucking tossers. Fucking disaster.

RIP the German lawyer.

“The only things one never regrets are one’s mistakes.” – Oscar Wilde


Filed under flings, General, RIP

2 responses to “Manners or RIP – the German lawyer

  1. Pingback: Perhaps there’s a thesis in that… « Serialadulterer's Blog

  2. Pingback: German lawyer – would you? « Serialadulterer's Blog

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