The Importance of Being Pussy

There were many things in life upon which PussyGirl and the Pussy Posse liked to reflect.

In her (limited) spare time, PussyGirl found this a cathartic pastime and enjoyed musing over the philosophies of life. Recently, her readings had led her to favour the Socratic - life is simply a continuous process of learning and with every new event would come new information to process and reflect upon. In essence, the more she knew, the more she had to learn; a perfect mantra for life in the big smoke and the murkiness of Internet dating.

She liked to observe the anthropological idiosyncrasies of those around her and attempted to gauge exactly what she could learn - sometimes, she concluded, there was nothing new to assimilate and often her conclusions were simplistic and replete with the vernacular; after all a twat is a twat is a twat. She wondered if this might be taken on as a new philosophical precept. Maybe not.

As she reclined on her PussyDivan, PG deliberated over the qualities of her immediate feline companions, CC, MiMi and DeeDee - there was, she concluded, a great deal to learn from the kitty troika and the qualities they displayed.

MiMi, otherwise known as PramFaceKat, was a petite redhead, of green eyes and a friendly disposition. Despite having a prole of seven kittens, she was a loving and light hearted kitty, independent, yet affectionate and unaffected by the abandonment of the Kittyfathers (it is believed that there was more than one, given the array of eye and fur colour in each kindle). There was a great deal to admire here, in the short space of two years, MiMi had delivered and nurtured her children, seeing them into good homes and returned to her usual sunny disposition - not to mention snapping straight back in to shape. She was a trooper in the best sense of the word.

CC was another bag of cats altogether: strikingly handsome, young and slightly reckless - he was known for approaching strangers' cars and begging his way on to the passenger seat just for the hell of it. His beauty was legendary; muscular, fair with exquisite markings and eyes the colour of a calm sea on a clear day. In observing him, PG had come to notice that his constant calling and chattering was not to plead for more food, but to garner love and affection. He was a friendly male and enjoyed nothing more than good company and his fair share of petting and stroking. Another lesson learned, not all of the male persuasion were one step away from fully blown affective dysfunction - CC was walking, kittystalking meowing proof of this. Moreover, while he played on his looks, once his personality was allowed to shine through, it was apparent that he was more than just a pretty kitty face.

And so to DeeDee, the world's serenest feline. Here was an example of cat fortitude if ever there was one. Our feline heroine, despite her outstanding longhaired fluffy beauty had been abandoned to her fate in the garden of PussyMansions. She had survived a cold winter, living on her wits and looks, taking refuge in the ramshackle garden shed. PussyGirl had spotted her and wondered who she belonged to. Slowly, they built a bond - initially through chicken scraps and saucers of milk. DeeDee left the shed and ventured indoors, choosing the safe haven of the underbed. Six months and much coaxing later, she began to integrate into the daily life of PussyMansions, sleeping in open spaces and sharing mealtimes with CC and MiMi. It was clear, that with patience and love, even the most frightened of pussies can be saved and brought into the fold. DeeDee proved to be serene, good natured and highly affectionate and enjoyed nothing more than a snooze on the PussyDivan with PG and the gang.

This troika had afforded PG much material for reflection on the varying natures of the individual:- that not every meow is a cupboard call, patience is a virtue, adversity can be overcome, unexpected motherhood can be a blessing, good looks are but a part of the sum, and you can never make a cat do anything it does not want to do. Coercion is an alien concept to those of the pussy persuasion.

PG noted these reflections in her pussylog and vowed to take these lessons forward in her quest.

Pussycat, Pussycat Where Have You Been?

Indeed, that was the question.

PussyGirl had been a nomadic kitten for much of her life, settling in places for some time and then taking off again when she felt the kitty wanderlust.

She had undertaken voyages far and wide, learned many languages in order to converse with the locals and enhance her own experiences in lands far flung and nearer to home. While she exhibited levels of caution at times, conversely she enjoyed nothing more than taking off on another adventure, be it long or short haul. She was, in summary, and slightly paradoxically, a cautious adventurer.

This pussycat's recent excursion had been a short one, but nevertheless, enjoyable and memorable in equal measure.

One clement autumn evening, she had taken off in the Pussymobile to the countryside for some fun and frolics, aided and abetted by her pussypal, FashionKat.

They arrived late on Friday evening, admired the mountain silhouette in the dark of night and then headed for the hotel bar. And it wasn't long before they had made inroads into the wine stash. PussyGirl remarked to herself how much she liked these getaways, acknowledging her need for stimulation, intellectual or otherwise, not to mention a good old fashioned knees up.

It seemed, she thought, that this would be another of those slightly raucous weekends, fuelled by fun and doses of very nice wine - and the occasional anecdote to pack in the luggage for the journey home. Much to her delight, PussyGirl was wrong. She had not counted on meeting SharkMan in the mountains, and this encounter made her trip unforgettable in all sorts of ways.

Their collision had been a beautiful and unexpected one. He was a curious creature, bit of a loner, slightly kooky and hugely entertaining. He admired her leopard print gabardine and she admired his sense of adventure - he travelled the globe counting and conserving endangered sealife. "How very sustainable and ecological," thought our feline friend.

They sat under the light of the silvery moon, while he played owl to her pussycat. There was no pea green boat, but there was a crate load of pussy petrol and more than enough kitten cocktails. They caroused and cavorted under the sparkling carpet of midnight blue, giggling and sitting closer each time. "This", thought PG, "is much more like it - a man of intellect, humour and kookiness who likes a drink or six. Hurrah for the faraway!"

Alas, like all good stories, this one burned bright and short. PussyGirl could not quite fathom where it had faltered as she took out her pen to scribe him a farewell note. They had met again on her second night, continuing in much the same vein. But something went wrong, and for the life of her, she was not sure exactly what. There had been more PussyPetrol and more laughter, that much she remembered. And she recalled SharkMan leaving abruptly, almost without warning. He had planned to meet her when he was in the big smoke; but this night, he felt should draw to a close. His explanation was vague, she thought. True, their squiffiness might impede true love from flourishing, but this had hardly stopped them the night before.

No matter, his mind was made up - she urged him to reconsider to no avail - to which she declined his offer to meet the following weekend in the smoke. Why then and not now? Later, upon reflection, she would come to rue this utterance, but at the time it seemed a fair retort to the rejection she felt.

She signed off on the note and placed it gently under the doorway; she hoped he would at least read it.

"Dear SharkMan

A short note to tell you how lovely it was to meet you - really.
Please email or call if you would like to see me when in town; I can come and meet you.
Meantime, good luck with your seafaring voyages and look after those lovely sharks!

Yours with much affection,

PussyGirl"
xxx

And with a deft stroke of her pen, she ended this short episode and kissed goodbye to the mountains, the fresh air and their beautiful collision.

Hair Removal

PussyGirl had always been a feline of pulchritude, and this episode was to prove no exception.

She believed that cleanliness was next to godliness, a product of her convent school education and her general sense of order, personal and otherwise. Her incursion into the world of the Internet dater had so far been in keeping with this philosophy, but after several exchanges with SomewhatHairyChested Man, this kitten realised that sometimes less is really more, and if there is excess hair causing bother, the best thing to do is to remove it ASAP.

The initial exchanges went well; a little chit chat, some minor details exchanged and a promise to chat some more later. It was, in this instance, a case of third time unlucky for PG as SHCMan began to reveal some of the more unsavoury aspects of his personality.

It all began quite well on that spring evening, as he nudged her via the online chat facility. PG responded immediately and asked him what he would like to know this evening. He reminded her that he had requested a rendezvous, taken her mobile number and subsequently sent her several text messages to which she had not replied. He was not in the least bit amused he felt obliged to inform her.

PussyGirl was puzzled - logically, she checked the number with him - and true to form, he had noted it down wrong.

"Such a shame, sorry you were texting the wrong person; you should have just sent me an email, you have my address and I could have checked whether or not you had the correct number"

"Alright, alright. DON'T you tell me what I should have done! God knows how much money I have wasted on texting you."

"Well, no matter, we are chatting now and that is the main thing."

"No, not really. I feel like a right idiot. Texting you and you did not reply. And now we cannot meet because it is too late and I s'pose you have other plans."

PussyGirl felt her perfumed whiskers bristle. He really was labouring the point.

"Well, no you weren't texting me, you were texting somebody else, so that kind of negates the chances of organising anything."

"Listen, I told you, don't tell me what I should and shouldnt of done (sic). I told you I was trying to contact you and all you can do is tell me what I should of done. Spose your busy then today."

Cautious kitten could feel that he was agitated, and while she wished not to make things worse, she was annoyed by his tone and his poor grammar.

"Yes, I am actually. Off for lunch with a friend."

"A man, I spose. Where are you going?"

PussyGirl decided not to give him any information, rather she would distract him and change the subject entirely.

"Well, it might be, but anyway, I am much more interested in you; tell me something about yourself again. I would like to know."

"I have told you everything you need to know, and I am not sending you another picture because when I do, women tell me I look too criminal for them"

"Ahhhh. That is an interesting reaction, but I can tell you, I don't put much store by looks (she lied) and I wasn't going to ask you for a photo. It would just be nice to know a little more about you."

"Oh, no", he replied "you tell me about you. What do you do?"

This was getting silly, and he was getting angrier and angrier she sensed. It wasn't her fault he couldn't see past the entangled mass of body hair on his chest to write down an eleven digit telephone number.
However, in her usual patient slinky cat mode, she persisted and gave him a brief synopsis of her job description, alluding to her management role in education.

"Yeah, right. I am sure you do that. NOT!!!!!"

"Sorry????"

"I bet you are lying. That seems like a bit of a high powered job to me."

"And your point is?"

"I don't think you could do it."

"What you mean is, you know you couldn't so you don't think anybody else could."

"Listen, I wouldn't want some job like that. Hate being in offices me. Too depressing."

"Who says I work in an office?"

"Don't you?"

"No, not always."

"But you use a computer?"

PussyGirl was beginning to think that this guy was really troubled and that perhaps women were not his favourite people.

Having diverted the conversation once again, he proceeded to tell her exactly what he liked in a woman.

"Big breasts, long legs, blonde if possible, but I don't mind dark hair, not too fat, not too thin and any colour eyes....."

"That does seem a bit prescriptive," she informed him.

"What does that mean?"

Oh dear, this was not going well. HairyMan was seeming more and more neandearhtal with every message exchanged.

"How tall are you?"

"How tall would you like me to be?" she giggled to herself as she typed the message.

"Look, you. stop being funny. I know what I like. And let's be honest, you are only looking for a guy on the net, because you cannot find one. You are desperate!"

She steeled herself and went in for the kill. Specimens like this hairy critter really needed to be put in their place and she was more than woman enough for the job.

"OK, enough now. You are just being disresepctful. Clearly I am neither desperate nor unattractive, though sadly, you will never have the opportunity to confirm that as I can tell you that given your last outburst, I have absolutley no desire to see you."

"Furthermore, let me tell you that the other guys I have met so far have all been very complimentary about my appearance and demeanour, so clearly this is something that only you have a problem with. Tell me something, do educated, smart women scare you?"

"What? No. don't be stupid. So you have met other guys have you? I knew it. Knew you were the type who puts it about. Probably gossip to your girlfriends about how they are in bed."

This was, quite literally, incredible; but PG was not easily distracted from her task. Vaporisaiton was the only answer. But not quite yet.

"Actually, I am a lady, so of course, I could never reveal any intimate details. You, on the other hand are no gent - unlike my previous suitors, all of whom are happy to be described in the draft novel I am writing......"

"Let me get this straight. You are writing a book about the men you have met on the internet? What am I some sort of guine pig? Lol."

That last lol was a nervous one, her feline intuition told her.

"Have they seen this book? "

"Oh yes, I have shared it with them and they are all delighted at how they have been described so far."

"You, PussyGirl, are sick. I want no part of this. Do me a favour. DONT EVER CONTACT ME AGAIN YOU WIRDO."

PussyGirl thought and thought. Her claws were slightly extended and obstructing the keys as she typed.

"I was rather hoping you would say that HairyBoy. One tip. Be nice. Actually, no, two. Use spellcheck - it impressese the ladies much more and gives us some chance of understanding your tangled prose."

And with that, PussyGirl closed the chat screen and rid herself of a whole load of unwanted unsightly hair.

Somewhat Hairy Chested

It was with some hilarity that PussyGirl recalled the very heated exchange between she and the man of the somewhat hairy chest.

As much as this comment could seem like a satirical one, this man was entirely serious in his description of himself, and that in itself was cause of both mirth and incredulity at Pussy Mansions.

Poring over his profile, PG thought that he sounded like an ordinary guy - history tells us that this can only mean one thing: dull! Indeed, where there is a dull man, there is often an unhappy one - the law of averages tells us that a dull man is always least appreciated by the fairer sex - simply because they have no outstanding features. Alas, poor PussyGirl had been blinded by the deluge of emails and virtual kisses she had received in a steady flow since posting her profile. She felt it rude, and slightly churlish to not respond to all comers - let this be a lesson to her!

She read his profile once more:-

His ideal partner was " Female between the ages of 35 and 60, kind, fun, adventerous, discreet,clever and with style.....Someone with the ability to open little doors in my mind to new things! A lady who has the ability to overwhelm me in ways that i have not been overwhelmed before."

Hmmm, she wondered just how many doors there were in his mind, and whether they were of the revolving type or self-locking.

He proffered further information about himself:

"
im looking to feel the buzz and butterflies that you get when you enter into meeting a secret person from in here. I love the anticipation and the planning to meet..... I work my own diary and really enjoy meeting women during the daytime though with some occasional evenings aswell."

PussyGirl wondered if he knew about spellcheck, capilaisation, what working your own diary meant and what had happened to the space in the last word.

His appearance was just as confusing:-

I would describe myself as athletic(ish)!, shaved headed, and somewhat hairy chested kind of man. It`s really difficult to describe ones self with out sounding conceited."

Well, at least he recognised modesty as a value, though at this point, PG was not entirely sure that he had demonstrated it thus far in his description.

No matter, let us see what this self styled, self-employed Adonis was looking for :

" What type of relationship am I looking for? See how it goes."

Well, at least he wasn't fussy!

By now, you are thinking, the batteries in those alarm bells should have been well and truly exhausted, but in her haste, PussyGirl persisted and answered his message to exchange contact details..........A hairy chest can do strange things to a girl.


To be continued.........

Valentine's Day is Over

Our feline temptress had continued in her cyberquest and on balance, she was doing well.

The long list, despite some initial outliers causing minor fluctuations in her averages, was more or less stable with ten hits per day - the selection process was now second nature to Miss PG and she had to admit she rather enjoyed surveying the analyses posted by those men in search of love.

She noted with interest that many of the potential suitors were keen to describe their fondness for all things romantic:

"Looking for a woman, just one, to share intimate moments, red wine and sunsets with..."

" I am funny, articulate and can be romantic with the right woman...."

"This is a genuine endeavour.....seeking a woman who is elegant, funny and romantic for fun nights out and sweet nights in......"

It reminded her of one of the more memorable moments with EunuchMan, or rather his attempts at injecting some romance into their often lacklustre union.

Shortly after their marriage, two months to be precise, he announced he wished to do something genuinely romantic for his new wife:

"I have been thinking, it's Valentine's Day next week and I would like to cook you dinner, PussyWife. What do you think?"

"Ooooh, that would be nice, but you know, I am not one for pandering to the whims of calendar commercialism, so really, you don't have to. Make it any evening you like and I will be just as appreciative."

"No, it will be Valentine's Day. I want to do something romantic. Errrrm, by the way, what can I cook?"

PussyWife thought for a while and suggested the simplest of menus - EM was not exactly competent in the kitchen having been mollycoddled by an assortment of female relations during his formative years and indeed now by PG - "How about steak, salad and red wine? Easy!"

And so the date and menu were set.

On that fateful evening, PussyGirl arrived home in upbeat mood. She was delighted that even though EunuchMan did not always make the grade regarding conjugal obligations that he was indeed aware of the need for seduction and hoped that this was a sign; perhaps the barren landscape of their bedroom endeavours would receive a much needed rain shower post prandially, and normal service might be resumed?

She pondered this as she set the table and awaited the arrival of her chef consort.

Sadly, things did not go according to plan. EM called at eight, to announce that he had been held up at work. They had continued on to the pub and he would be leaving shortly. Knowing his fondness for barley wine and whisky chasers, PG assured him that another night would be fine. The steak and wine could keep, and anyway, she was getting hungry. Why not stay on and cook the meal tomorrow? But he insisted, he would be on his way forthwith.

And so time passed, text messages were exchanged and further assurances were made. PG knew it was time to get the toaster on when he managed to slur his words in the last text. Why could he not just settle for tomorrow? She was no harridan nor harpie and simply wanted to eat something. Pussies need sustenance and she was running out of patience.

As she wrapped the cheese and returned it back to the fridge, she heard the drunken gait of EM on the stairs, the scratching of the key at the door and neatly sidestepped him as he fell through the doorway.

"Am gonna cook now, promise........."

"You can't, it's gone midnight! Leave it now and do it tomorrow. And I have eaten already."

"No, I shaid am gonnnnnna cooook and I will."

What followed can only be described as a debacle. In his stumbling and mumblings, EM managed to pour oil across the hob, carbonise two perfectly edible sirloin steaks and almost set himself on fire.

With no regard for Health and Safety he sliced open the ciabatta and clumsily stuffed the steaks between the bread.

"Oh, so are you not cooking for two?"

"Shut up! Selfish bitch! You have had your dinner and this is mine. If you couldn't wait it's not my fault......."

With that, he sat down at the neatly prepared table and began to devour the hastily arranged steak sandwich, gave a resonant belch of appreciation and proceeded to collapse on the bed fully clothed.

PussyGirl collected the debris and slowly washed the dishes and she contemplated her Valentine's Day meal.

"This does not bode well," she thought to herself "he didn't even touch the salad. Nor me for that matter."

When she reflected on this unromantic romantic dinner, PG admitted to herself that all was not well with her union.

Years later, embarking upon her Internet escapades, she drew on this experience and vowed that any man who wanted to show her his romantic side could do so - only not in her kitchen.

A Very Reverential Dilemna

Little Miss PussyGirl had been in Socratic thought mode for some time now.

It was true, life had dealt her some harsh blows, yet she had survived them all and with a certain aplomb she liked to think. She understood the philosophy here, and was keen to make it work for her - that with every experience, while she knew more, her disposition to know less increased, as did her capacity for disappointment and happiness in equal measure.

She had, effectively, leaned heavily on her own catholic upbringing to assimilate the hard knocks and thought she understood, in a slightly pious way, that all these life events and choices served to build character and give you a whole load of anecdotes on which to dine out.

It was a very ordinary winter's night when her religion was tested to the very core and her mother's values about those of the non catholic apostolic bent were corroborated.

After a jaunt to a Private View with a work colleague, Miss PussyGirl was a little the worse for wear having hoovered up the free pink champagne on offer whilst commenting on the contextual reference of the large and slightly disturbing canvases she had seen before her.
She was impressed with Art and all things arty - since working in the field, she had discovered her own inner artist - piss artist mainly - and took her out to the regular private exhibition views where she performed admirably.

Once out in the cold night air, PG and her alter arty ego realised that some kind of remedy might be necessary should she wish to make the journey home without so much as a drunken wobble. And so the hatched her plan to visit the Burger King at the station and down a few non alcoholic drinks in order to restore her natural balance.

"So far, so good," she thought , as she sipped delicately on her drink through the red striped straw. "One more of these and I will be ready to head home with the guarantee of not a trace of a hangover tomorrow."

He tapped her on the shoulder and peered into her slightly bleary eyes "Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are?"

"What, erm, no, why?"

"Because I think you are, and I would like to take you out for dinner Miss Pussyness, please can I have your number?"

"Hmmmmm, well to tell you the truth, I am not what you might call compus mentus, so no. Not really. And another thing, I don't give my number to strangers."

"OK," the slightly overweight man of average height and build replied, "can I at least give you my card?"

PussyGirl thought for a while and then agreed. A card is a card and that way he might bugger off sooner. It wasn't that she liked or disliked him, she was too merry to really care and just wanted to get her train back to PussyMansions.

"Here you are, please call me! You are quite lovely and I would be delighted to take you to dinner sweet kitten."

"Never reject an act of kindness, " she remembered from her darker days, and took the card obligingly.

Some weeks later, PussyGirl was listening to her usual morning radio programme when SmugPresenterPerson introduced the Soundbite of the Day:-

"And now, for some thoughts on Lenten abstinence, we move to the Reverend Most Religious PussyLover....."

PG stopped in her tracks and dashed to the fridge, pulling the card out from underneath the ginger cat magnet.

"OHMYYYYYYYYYGOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDD! It's him. The smarmy fucker - and he a Reverend to boot. Well I never!"

Still, he is on national radio and he did take a liking to me," mused the feline wonder.

His talk was well delivered, if a tad dull. In his best Sunday School teacher tones he preached about the virtue of abstinence and self restraint and how, in these credit crunch times, it could only help us to ride out the financial maelstrom.

PussyGirl wondered what to do - this was, after all, a coup of some note and she could not let it pass unmarked.

"Dear Reverend,

Thank you for your enlightening views on abstinence today.
Interesting that you don't appear to practice what you preach.

Still, it was lovely to meet you.

I hope you and the family are well and maybe see you next time you are on the pull, in pursuit of slightly pissed pussygirls.

Yours soberly,

PussyGirl"

He responded almost immediately;

"Dear PussyGirl,

Thank you for your kind words.

Yes, I think we were both a little pissed.

Yours,

Reverend PussyLover"

Oh dear! Smarmy was the right word, and he was backpedalling so fast it was ridiculous;

"Reverend,

Speak for yourself you pagan priest!

Not yours,

PussyGirl"


Socrates was right, and so was her mother. The more you know, the less you know and never trust a man of the cloth who can take a wife.......

Could It Be Magic?

Armed with her resolution re EnunuchMan and the festering pants, PussyGirl had returned to her filtering and filing.

She had been literally inundated with profiles and requests for all sorts of communication - some barely acceptable to the average decent citizen.
PussyGirl, was above all a pragmatist and she knew that in order to meet her Prince, she would have to kiss all sorts of amphibians.

In fact, she saw this as all part of the fun; she hadn't been kissed for a long time and at least, she thought, if nothing else, she would relearn the age old art of liplocking.

PussyGirl had been contacted by MagicMan - the moniker will become clear as this tale unfolds - and had decided, after various postponments, that she really ought to meet him.

"There is something endearing about persistance," she thought "and what harm can it do to meet for dinner?" He had contacted her assiduously over a period of six weeks. Looking back, PG knew that this should have been a warning sign, but she was an optimist at heart.

The protocol was straightforward : -

1. Accept initial request for contact details; use a chat service whenever possible, otherwise the emotionally challenged ones start sending you pictures of their penises at all hours of the morning in the futile hope that you may be overwhelmed by the sight of such appendage and instantly demand sexual communion with them

2. After a satisfactory exchange of chit chat, cut to the chase and arrange a telephonic exchange - mainly to ensure they at least SOUND reasonable and have no heavy breathing issues (sadly halitosis, club feet and dodgy dress sense are not detectable via phone lines).

3. Pick a date - always ensuring that it is somewhere visible and close to the tube if an emergency exit is deemed necessary.

And so, MagicMan had passed the initial filtering and a date had been set. The venue? A riverside eaterie south of the river. What could go wrong?

As PussyGirl waited, the first doubts began to creep into her mind. She had seen a photo, but it was slightly blurred. She did remeber that he looked a bit small; but hey Dustin Hoffman is small and he is OK. Tom Cruise is also small - hmmmmmmm. Enough said.

MagicMan phoned her just as he was due to arrive:

"Now, where is this bloody restaurant????????? I am in it and I can't see you, unless you don't look like your photo...."

"Well I am here, in the place we agreed, just by Tower Bridge, southside....."

"What? You didn't bloody tell me southside, I am by St Katherine's Dock...."

"Not to worry, you mustn't have checked the map on the link I sent. Look, just drive across the bridge, I am still waiting for our table, so I will let them know..."

"Drive across? Don't you know how many miles I have done today, Manchester to London and more. Christ, what a grind!"

"Ok, look if it is too much trouble, let's leave it. You sound agitated..."

" I AM NOT AGITATED AND I WILL BE THERE!!!!"

Yikes, he was one angry man. Still, wait and see. Could just have had a bad day.

Half an hour later, the full horror of her error became apparent. Here he was is all his gameshow host glory, with an overpressed suit and a much too sharp shirt. His tie was ridiculous and the cufflinks too bad to mention. And the hair? one word - bouffant.

PussyGirl decided to persist, he could be nice, don't judge a book by its cover (this one would be a crappy life manual with an uber glitzy cover for sure).

MagicMan was keen to talk, about himself mainly. He was separated from the bitch from hell, sold "biological implements" for a living - his own company mind, and had a son who was at university "wasting his time, like everyone who goes to uni".

PussyGirl saw an opening and leapt at it: "well, I work at a uni and I have to say, there is a value attached to Higher Education."

And then, he was off.

To summarise, MagicMan ranted at length about the wastrels in Education, his own University of Life approach and the fact that while PussyGirl might be fluent in seven languages, he delivered results for the economy and could get by with a phrase book.

It got worse; he offered to pay the bill, informing her that it was on expenses anyway, so he wasn't really inviting her to dinner - which was a good thing because women used sex to bribe men and they (men) had to use money............

"Oh, Lord," she said to herself "no wonder it seemed easy to get hits. These guys are all unloveable at best and angry misogynists at worst. I need to escape and fast."

PussyGirl informed MagicMan that she really should be making her way home as it was getting late and academia, despite his misgivings, could be a tiring place for feline temptresses.

As they walked to the tube, she hoped and prayed he would not try to kiss her.

"Listen, love. I just want to say that I have had a cracking evening and you are not bad really. I've an hotel booked round the corner, and it would be a shame to waste it."

PussyGirl sweetly replied "Indeed, so you should go back and make the most of it, unless you are planning on sleeping in the street."

"What? I came all this way and now you are not coming back with me. I was gonna tell you that I thought I had won the lottery when I met you. Not bad looking, a bit on the chubby side, but I like something to grab hold of, but......"

PussyGirl didn't hear the rest of his sentence, she had already made her escape and was boarding the train home.

"Jesus, I nver met such an angry man. He reminds me of someone. Hmmmmm........"

And then it came to her, "An Angry Paul Daniels!!!!"

And that, dear reader, is angry.........

On the Skids

As PussyGirl gazed at the machine, following the cycle of her first wash at the laundromat, she contemplated her current predicament.

She lamented her lack of home laundry facilities - she had installed her pussy posse in a bijou pied a terre in a salubrious leafy suburb of South East London and was quietly congratulating herself on surviving the trials and tribulations of recent years when she was catapaulted out of her soap-filled reverie by a shocking memory.

She remembered with some horror the very reason she had opted for the path of singular and not plural and recalled with a certain amount of relief the definitive separation from EunuchMan some years previously.

Theirs had been an unhappy, sexless and largely loveless union and at her behest the parting of the ways had come to pass sooner than she could have ever imagined.

There had been many moments of angst and anguish, engendered by foolish acts and rash gestures, but one in particular stood out.

Prone as EunuchMan was to his Friday night blotto sessions, PussyGirl had been more than understanding and ordinarily had no objections to the archetypal pseudo male pastime of getting royally leathered to the point of oblivion. Truth be told, she had enjoyed her fair share of electric lemonade filled evenings with EM and his macho workmates.

She had tolerated the incoherent speech, the falling upstairs and the random accusations of gross ugliness proffered by said consort in his various states of inebriation, but this particular evening had shocked her to the core - and left her with no option.

On that balmy summer's night, she was woken by a very pissed Eunuch in a state of partial undress. She wondered "blimey, per chance he will break the duck and we will finally consumate this union after all this time, " she speculated to herself:- "So this is what they mean by Dutch courage!"

Alas, her ardour was soon quashed when she saw his skinny white arse, pantless looming in front of her face.

"Dear God! This man is just an extreme sexual fetishist and he hasn't been able to tell me. He wants some kind of depraved arse action and his catholic leanings have rendered him unable to share it with me. No matter, I am his wife and will accommodate his desires whilst hopefully fulfilling some of mine"

And then, the cloud of flies. This was a moment she would never forget. As he mumbled about Guinness and lack of toilet facilities, he proceeded to expose the contents of his soiled man-bottom to her and she thought she might be sick.

EunuchMan had literally crapped himself, incapacitated by the booze. Several pints of stout had worked their magic and the fruits of his duodenal labours were laid bare before her.

Mindful that any discussion was pointless, PG instructed Cartman to visit the bathroom and never darken her side of the bed again with his crap encrusted faeces ridden arse.

She was, quite frankly, disappointed and disgusted; she knew for certain their union was quite literally on the skids.

This served as a vital lesson for PussyGirl. There would be no more shit in her life and no more shitty men.

She gathered her smalls from the tumble dryer and headed back to Pussy Mansions to contiune in her quest for the unblemished man she so thoroughly deserved.

Stargazers, SpecialForces and Somewhat Hairy Chested

PussyGirl, for once did not know where to start.

She sat, staring at the screen of her PC, wondering how she was going to manage this.

In fairness, it wasn't really capacity that concerned her, it was how to be equitable. After all, each contact, virtual kiss or cyberstalk she received was worthy of a reply and acknowledgement.

Having studied the various profile types, Ms PussyGirl knew she needed a system of attribution and classification.

After some consideration, PG felt it best to go with the "less is more" logic; to explain - the shorter and sweeter the message, in combination with a pared down profile, would bring the potential beau in question one step nearer to the top of the long list.

Those waffling on endlessly and waxing lyrical about their own attributes would be placed further down the long list - possibly even banished forever. She would respond to all messages received minus the lewd, crewd and socially unacceptable.

At first, this idea seemed at odds with PG's open-mindedness and tendency to the bawdy now and again. " However, " she countered, " this is the first representation of the self, so if he starts with overt references of the Benny Hill variety, it cannot bode well."

And therein lay her filtering theory: respectful, polite, succinct and where possible with a sense of humour; these were the essential criteria of the successful suitors. If they made the grade they would make the long list. Once on the long list, PG intended to arrange a rendezvous and take it from there.

PussyGirl began sorting and it wasn't long before she had a shortlist from her long list:-

Stargazerguy to SpecialForcesMan through Somewhat Hairy Chested.

This was beginning to look more and more interesting.

And PussyGirl was thrilled!

Filters and Fantasies

Barely twenty four hours had passed from posting her profile until the deluge began.

PussyGirl had received over sixty messages in that brief space of time. She was duly impressed. "I wonder, " she thought, "if this is going to be easier than I imagined. There seem to be a lot of eager men out there.....or maybe I am just irresitible and never realised." PussyGirl knew she needed some time to reflect; she was keen not to imbue herself with a false sense of validation. How could this be?
She began to unpick the reasons behind her easy won success.

"Now," she said " these guys are looking, so really it is no surprise that they should contact me." After some deliberation, and drawing on her broad life experience and years of academic training, she began to understand it was a simple case of supply and demand: there was a 60 - 40 ratio of men to women on the site. "Hmmm! The balance has tipped in my favour. Good. About time too!"

There was also the issue of fantasy - PG would soon discover that all was not what it seemed, but for now she only had a brief notion of the ends people would go to in order to make themselves seem more attractive.

PussyGirl had been honest to the last detail: age, sex, marital status, the lot. She had posted a recent photo and given a fair appraisal of her qualities, ensuring the list was short and not too flowery. "Why," she asked herself, "would anybody lie about themselves on a profile? In the end the truth will out." And how, dear friends, how.

Still, for now, she was basking in the deluge of offers and responses:
"Meet me PussyGirl!"
"I want you, oh statuesque beauty!"
"Come and fill my life with pussyness please!"
"Let me star alongside you, please pussycat lady."

And so the hits kept on coming. There was only one thing to do, well two actually - get filtering and start a diary.

This was looking like a beast that needed guiding, and PussyGirl was just the woman for the job.

Profiling

PussyGirl had taken the first step; she was going to get herself out there and see what kind of mischief she could make. It was a New Year and she needed a new approach. Hedonism appealed greatly. After all, the basic ingredients of a successful existence were all in place - she had a good job, place of her own, good circle of friends, some longstanding, some not; a close and loving group of siblings to fall back on when times were harder than they should be. She missed the fun bit of having someone to date and all that it entailed. She was bored of working long hours and then coming home to just her pussies for company. She just, she decided, wanted some fun!

She was, after all, known for her minx-like behaviour, her love of the irreverent and generally upbeat demeanour. She had a reasonable amount to offer, or so she believed.

PussyGirl wondered what the competition would be like; perhaps slightly unladylike to say it, but nonetheless a consideration - the driving force of many a man, and woman's, motivation and not to be overlooked.

"I shall engage in this as an anthropological experiment," she thought to herself, "I will research the beast that is the Internet dater, perhaps engage is some philosophical reflection upon my own status as an outsider within or maybe even meet someone and get it on with them," she mused.

Starting up was easy and she dedicated surprisingly little time to the operational detail. She picked a site at random and registered. She noticed, that slightly unfairly, women did not pay for their membership on this site while the men did. Still, perhaps that was a bit of positive discrimination she could overlook just this once.

The profile? Hmmm. The creation of the profile should not be taken lightly, she noted to herself. A cursory trawl through some of them had left her impressed and agog in equal measure. She thought about categorising them: The Narcissist ( one thousand words minimum on likes in a woman and likes about himself - yikes), The Mentalist (I like to drink wine and dance to music on my own, I am so at one with myself), The Reductionist (unhappy at home and need some distraction), The Shrewd (single professional seeks cultured individual for mutual fun) etc etc. However, time was of the essence and that task of analysing the dating types could wait til later. She adopted The Shrewd approach and posted a profile in which she stated the bare details of herself and invited those who wished to contact her.

Now all she had to do was wait and see.

Initiation

This all started some time ago - a decision made not in a moment of madness, but after much cogitation.

PussyGirl had endured some heavy trials in her life thus far and this was her attempt at breaking free. Well, not quite.

She had, in the short space of three years, witnessed and lived though the horrific near fatal road accident of her beloved twin, left the abusive and emotionally repressed husband who had witheld sex for five years and then fucked the biggest trollop in the office - in between bouts of drunken abuse doled out after his Friday night outing with the office and focused purely on the revolting nature of his wife and partner of 9 years; and then, to top it all, the new guy she had met and fallen in love with killed himself while she was out of the country celebrating her recent unexpected redunadancy.

It was true, she had experienced the roughest of rides and she didn't mean sex. And that is what got her thinking.

Sex, indeed, the opposite sex, why not? Eight years of celibacy had left her slightly out of the game.Deadboy had reinvigorated her, igniting her desires to all sorts of heady levels. But, he had died, and so did a piece of her. The depression set in and she went madder than she thought possible.

A lot of sibling love and friendship later, she emerged to find a new job and started the slow journey back to normality and humanity.

And then she started to think about maybe at least trying again. Why not? She was young, attractive and known for her wit and generosity. She didn't want to be alone forever. Deadboy was the great love. But he died and how! And he wasn't coming back. Even Eunuch Man, the ex, had found some poor unfortunate to move in with him and make his dinner in exchange for the odd blowie on a Friday night.

She needed a plan and she mustered one pretty quickly. Cliched, but nevertheless very doable, she decided to start her quest. She thought about it - she had been a virtual wife - everything but the sex and love; she had been a virtual fiancee - everything but the future with the man himself; so sod it, she would do the only thing she could. Go virtual and start her internet dating quest.

There was fun to be had. Or so she thought......