Who the Fuck am I Kidding?

Many of you have contacted me to ask for my update on the Scandinavian Diplomat date and I suppose it's time to get round to it. I'll be honest and confess that I've been delaying the post because putting this down in words would be yet another A-ha moment, and I find that marginally annoying.

Let's start with the date itself, shall we? SD picked me up a bit earlier than I'd been expecting him. Normally, I get very irritated by that sort of thing (because I tend to run very late) but I was ready so it wasn't a tremendous issue. He was looking gorgeous in black tie and he was driving a lovely German stick -- have I ever mentioned my fetish for watching men shift gears whilst accelerating quickly?

As I sat beside him fishing through my bag (and it was a bag; a messenger bag, LOL -- I cannot be arsed to carry a purse round with me) he started to relay all of these little tips about how one should act around his ambassador. Irked, I immediately dug through my numerous accent mutations until I managed to locate good old home-grown Bklyn girl, and promptly told him to suck me. (Ok, maybe not in so many words...) And what did he do?

He laughed. This really did tick me off, because it wasn't an ordinary laugh but rather that "Now, now, little girl" laugh that so many men do when in the presence of a smallish female. I would be lying if I didn't also confess that this arrogance is somewhat of a turn-on, but in the heat of the moment I would never show such weakness and I slammed the cocksucker. After a good ripping, I pointed out that when we first met I was the entertainment for a roomful of ambassadors, consulars and the M.F'ng president of this country, FFS, and I could fucking manage a little dinner with a few Scandi embassy people!

He laughed again and put his hand on my thigh as he drove and I realized something dreadful -- I felt nothing at all when he touched me. This was odd, given how turned on I get by (some measure of) male arrogance. And then it hit me: His Accent. I realize many of you are Americans and few of you would have encountered large numbers of Scandinavians so I will just make the point -- he sounded 100% American, as do many Scandinavians. Ordinarily, I've no complaint about this, particularly when touring Scandinavian countries, as it makes gigging a good deal easier than it would be if they didn't speak English so perfectly. But, well, we all know the American accent is the fastest way to dry my knickers out. And I guess I just was too enthralled by his physical appearance to notice this before.

I tried to get wet for him. Really, I did. This was supposed to be my first truly pointless fuck (well, assuming he'd have gone for it; it's not like we had a written contract) and I was moving toward greater lack of appreciation of intimacy itself with a primary focus on sex for the sake of sex -- and I fucked it all up by letting that voice affect me. Not to worry; I was a polite date. I sat through a huge meal, traditional music and lots of blustery Scandi's who probably should have drank a good deal less; but at the end of the night I took a cab home.

Mind, I didn't completely put him off, I just told him I had to get up early and that I didn't fuck on the first date. (I probably said it more politely than that, but who can remember after that much champagne?) He was a bit upset that I didn't let him drive me, but I used the excuse that he'd been drinking at some point. He asked to see me this Friday and I told him I have a gig -- which is actually untrue (shame on me) but I couldn't think of anything else to say.

Anyway, the second A-ha moment: I think I've realized what it is about the posh English accent that soaks my panties; and it actually makes sense. To me, anyway. Are you ready? It's the implied intelligence. I know it is. Silly that it should take me half a decade to suss it out, but hey, we can't all be sly motherfuckers. Yes, boys and girls, I do get wet in the presence of great intelligence. And while there are many brilliant American men bumbling about, they all sound... well... average. Y'all remember the neurophysicist I dated? The Cambridge *and* Oxford tosser? Yes. I'm trying to forget him as well -- but he did have a lovely accent. And, for a time, I had lovely wet knickers.

Not to worry, I've every intention of sticking to my new No-More-Boyfriends plan; I just think perhaps I'm going to have to integrate my posh fetish into it somehow. No fucking idea how I'm to manage that in a non-English speaking country, though. Who wants to send me a posh Englishman? I promise to send him back as soon I've had my way with him.

xx Isabella