When You’re Just Not Fluffy Enough.

I love men who say they like strong women. As long as it’s not just lip service that is, because it’s one thing saying it and another actually dating one and one thing I’ve found in dating dinosaurs is that not a lot of older guys actually like strong women. They say they do but it’s not usually someone they can see themselves with, usually because we have an opinion and are not afraid to be vocal about it which starts as a discussion but leads into an arguement which usually ends with “What the hell do you know? ”

I know quite a lot actually, which is another thing that winds men up. Older men usually (not all by any means ) like their women to be a bit, shall we say, fluffy. They like their women to be a bit subservient, no way can their women be cleverer than them, funnier than them or earn more money than them. They want them to have to rely on a man to get things done, things like booking tickets for holidays, anything to do with the car, house, complaints, they like to feel as though they’re in charge. Which was fine back in the day when women weren’t encouraged to do much apart from staying at home and looking after the kids, but times have changed thank god and although the guys know this, they’re actually having a hard time accepting it.

So, although a man is quite happy to let me organise our date (only because he hasn’t been in Manchester for the past 15 years) after that he’s likely to expect his date to be a bit fluffy which is sometimes where it can go a bit pear shaped unless he’s a guy who sees strong women as a replacement mother. Either way it won’t end well for me even though I do try. I try to be a good date and laugh in all the right places, ask questions even though most of the time I won’t get asked any, turn up all sparkly, well dressed even though it’s usually coffee, but unfortunately most of the time I know my date will be disappointed because I’m just not fluffy enough. I’m not someone who’s going to accept certain things that older men think is acceptable.

A fluffy woman will accept spending every Saturday night at his local social club where the only wine on offer is a disgusting chardonnay served warm from a keg, but then you might be asked did you want half a lager and lime?

A fluffy woman will listen while her date tells her about kicking off in the local supermarket because the price of baked beans has risen by two pence.

A fluffy woman will sit quietly while her date tells the old old jokes that comedians told back in the 70’s, and will dismiss watching programmes like Live at the Apollo and Comedy Central  as “new alternative comedy” which he hates.

A fluffy woman will also usually have to listen while he goes on about his ex and even though she’s now married to someone else he knows he can get her back tomorrow.

A fluffy woman knows that her man likes to be listened to, fussed over and feel that he is all she needs.

A fluffy woman knows her place. She dresses for her man and not for herself, so she’ll hardly ever be seen in trousers. She works part time, has no career aspirations and would be quite happy staying at home waiting for her King to come home after a hard day at the office. But fluffy women aren’t stupid. Some have probably dumbed themselves down as they realise that’s the only way of dealing with these dinosaurs  in order to get what she wants.

I’m not fluffy, I’m strong, opinionated and vocal and to be honest I’m probably getting worse as I get older and let’s face it, as we get older everyone just wants an easier life so I can’t really blame the guys for running a mile. I want an equal partnership without feeling as though I have to stroke someone’s ego when some woman has upset them by becoming Prime Minister/President. I don’t apologise for being who I am, what you see is what you get but there must be someone somewhere who can appreciate a full time goddess.

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Don’t listen to the rumours I’m not that bad, honest.

 

 

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Mistaken Identity

A few days ago I had a new follower on twitter who said he was a pay pig, a term not everyone is familiar with but as I know of a couple of people who do have them, I was curious to find out more. I was aware that they buy gifts for their favourite girls from an Amazon wish list, pay money into a lucky girl’s bank account, and some girls actually make a living from this so what goes on?

A pay pig is also known as a cash slave, human ATM or a cash piggie  who looks for a mistress online, this is an extreme form of BDSM but as there is no sex required a lot of girls soon want their very own pay pig and you can see why. Pay pigs are submissive who like to be humiliated, manipulated, seduced and quite a few like to be blackmailed by a woman who is known as a Fin Dom, a financial dominatrix. Forget 50 shades with whips, chains and bondage, a guy getting “wallet raped” is as real as it gets, handing over your wife’s mobile phone number so you can be blackmailed and handing over your credit card and money at the same time is the ultimate female domination for some men. A woman can dictate how much he can spend a week on himself  (which is usually not a great deal) while keeping the rest for herself.

So how did this guy find me? It was a case of mistaken identity that’s how. Obviously he was scrolling through the goddess hashtag on twitter and as I use it on my twitter bio (First Dates Goddess) he thought I was someone else. Let’s face it, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I thought my new place on the Quays was at the expense of someone’s family having to eat beans on toast every night.

Looks like I won’t be giving that paper round up just yet.

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It’s Not Me It’s You.

When you’ve been single for a while (ok, a long time) after a while you start to think that maybe, just maybe, it could be that the problem is you. Perhaps being too chatty on dates, or too quiet, wearing the wrong outfit, being too loud, not really giving someone a chance, not really listening, you can focus on any number of things but then I think back to some of the dates I’ve been on.

To the guys who can’t decide where to meet (most of them) let me tell you that a woman wants a man to take charge so it’s a bit of a turn off when I’m making all the arrangements for a first date.

To the guys who would rather I went to meet them at their local pub on a first date because they get a nosebleed if they go out of their comfort zone, let me tell you that already, you’re not making me feel that I’m worth the effort.

To the homophobic, ignorant, vile narrow minded guys who say they don’t understand how I could live with a gay man, and I probably won’t find anyone because of it, there are no words.

To the guys who say I would have been perfect if I was three inches taller/blonde hair/thinner/younger I say have you looked in a mirror lately because that moisturiser isn’t working.

To the guys who assume that there will be sex on the first date so you’ve booked a hotel room, you’ll never know how good it could have been.

To the guys who’ve apparently got in a relationship in the two days between organising a date with me and meeting up, I hope she’s got a couple of kids you didn’t know about.

To the guys who post the (only) picture on their profile that’s a few years old, please don’t. There’s not always a first aider around when we meet and I nearly die from shock when I see that you’ve lost all your hair and are three stone heavier.

To the guys who seem up for a laugh and then turn into a grumpy old man who complains about everything from the price of the parking to the price of a coffee on a date, let me tell you, it makes you unattractive.

To the guys who say they’re not really looking for someone then text/message every other minute asking how you are, what are you doing, when are you seeing them again, sort your head out.

To all the young guys who ask do I have a problem with the age gap? The answer is yes, please don’t be offended but I’ve probably got tights older than you.

To all the guys who’ve shown me pics and videos on our date of their now deceased partner, or new car, golf clubs, and even grandkids, it was probably my yawning that put you off.

And to the guy who forgot my name on a date on national television. Well, we all know the answer to that one.

So after careful consideration and realising that not every one is on the same page, I’ve come to a conclusion.

It’s not me, it’s you.

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