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.