Leopardskin Shoes Diaries

Horsing Around

2011-11-27T16:51:00.003Z

It’s fair to say that in almost twenty years of dating I’ve witnessed some weird and wonderful willies. They never fail to fascinate, if not amuse me. Through my exhaustive research, I’ve conducted an empirical ethnographic survey of ‘winkies’ and the men attached to them, entitled ‘Cock-Tales’, but unlike Fairy-Tales and Thai Massages, there isn’t always a happy-ending to my stories! Tonight’s ‘unhappily ever after’ is all about gauging the measure of a man.

In an enchanted field far, far away, Copper, my magical noble steed, had me on my back, but that’s when I decided it was time to turn my back on him. His flighty shenanigans gave me a nasty dose of whiplash – which is usually the sign of a good ride, but this wasn’t a Saturday night session in the sack, instead this was a rainy Sunday morning ride-out leaving me with more than grass stains on the knees of my skin tight cream jodhpurs. “Thanks a lot, ya moody nag,” I yelled at him as I hauled myself out of the pre-jump mud-bath and shuffled off to the surgery to be fitted with a dashing neck brace! I later thanked the beast, and the trapped nerve in my neck, for instigating my introduction to the quixotic joys of valium – yum, yum!

Copper was a big fella, but I was used to wrapping my legs around big guys, I’ve always liked tall men. At 16 hands – the units used to measure nags – I had taken quiet a tumble from Copper, so I decided to hang up my chaps and stirrups. My riding days were over, but it wasn’t all in vain - I learnt to apply my equine lessons to my other life in the saddle and so I adopted similar hand-metrics to gauge the cut of a man! My dainty mitts are elongated with sinewy piano fingers, and I know that from the tip of my index finger to my wrist is 8 inches. So when I reach into a toolbox with my candid callipers, I can discretely measure up to see if he’s the man for the job, or, heaven forbid - if I’ll need to do some DIY.

Earlier this year I dated a Budweiser Clydesdale, a draft horse from the West of Ireland, clocking in at 6ft 4” with size 12 boots, I couldn’t contain my giddiness when we met. Aside from the romantic butterflies and the pixie dust that clouded our dates, I was scared! I felt an excitement tinged with fear, presuming he was proportionally equipped. I wondered how many hands he’d measure up at, and if I could handle his ample handful. Would I be able to get this stallion into my box-stall? Especially considering I had been doing my ‘squeezey-squeezey’ exercises every day for the past few months, my pelvic floor was now tighter than my corkscrew curls. This meant that I no longer had a loose box to house any old horse, instead my stable had been renovated and downsized to accommodate a bantam cock. Confident that this stallion would be a shoo-in, I wondered if there was a sexual equivalent of a shoe-horn to aid our future rolls in the hay. Was this man to be my modern day fairytale Stud-Prince-Charming hybrid? Maybe dreams do come true!

On each date with this Clydesdale, he behaved like a dressage champ, refined and disciplined – the perfect gent, he didn’t veer off track, buck or make any sudden moves on me. “How refreshing,” I thought. Even when we snuggled in for a snog, there was no pocket-rocket pressing up against me. “How on earth was he managing that,” I wondered. His self discipline intrigued me. I guessed he must’ve raided the tack room to restrain his tackle and tucked himself into his under-carriage! Whatever his tactics were, he was discrete.

With 150 miles between us and his irregular shift work, our dates were sporadic, leaving me champing at the bit for a feisty canter. But after a few weeks of polite phone sex he was summoned to Dublin for a Saturday night trough of beer and cocktails! I was a frisky filly and made a drunken lunge at his saddle bag, caressing the top of his thighs through his jeans, teasingly tickling him. Coyly taunting, I whispered “where’s he hiding?” But he dodged the question and ordered another round of beers whilst still maintaining a Houdini style masquerade with his lad.

We staggered past the post at 5am and headed toward my bedroom, but this towering mass of muscle simply wanted to cradle me in his arms. It was time for me to take the reins, I dropped my hand, ready to measure, dived in and rummaged, and rummaged… and rummaged, eventually catching hold of something that stretched from the tip of my index finger...... to my knuckle, a whopping 2 inches!!! The fairytale had ended! It seemed more like pantomime now, as I overtly over-acted my lust-less enthusiasm… I was gutted! It wasn’t even a fingerful never mind a handful! Perhaps he wasn’t hard yet, maybe I could spur him on and re-measure him later. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I thought if I kissed his little frog, it might transform into a fully equipped well hung Prince Cock-a-lot. But this notion was chimerical, if not comical.

So what’s a girl to do? Feign an instant headache? Point and laugh? Become an Oscar worthy actress and play a game of buckaroo, levitating inches above his dwarf-like lad? I couldn’t think straight as I studied his little man, it was a puzzling night-mare. Had it been decapitated? It looked like it was missing its head – instead of a nice smooth dome to cap it off, I felt as though I was looking down the shaft of a double barrel riffle, except it was more like a sawn-off shotgun! A pocket pistol. Not one to ride roughshod, I wondered if I could shrink-wrap a condom if I applied heat. As I perplexed this notion, he saddled up and attempted to mount me – but I could hardly rebuff him, that would be like trying to lock the stable door after the horse had bolted… even if it was a miniature pony and not the Clydesdale I anticipated! Baggy condoms were the least of my worries, as his 2 inch ram-rod couldn’t even knock on my door, never mind reach far enough to enter!

The following morning he headed West and trekked back to the other side of this island, followed by an awkward phone call. He was being re-routed to the lonesome valley of Splits-ville, a one horse town. I explained that the distance between us was too much. In fairness I didn’t lie, but it wasn’t the 150 mile gap, I could handle that! What I couldn’t handle was the gulf between our groins!

And so ends my grim fairytale – the legend of the Cock-a-doodle-do-less Man… and his pygmy penis!

© Copyright Leopardskin Shoes Diaries 2011

A Sickly Sweet Date

2011-08-09T02:30:00.004+01:00

Sometimes you need more than a drink to settle the pre-date nerves. My flat mate handed me a lump of hash before bundling me into a taxi and sending me off for my latest internet blind date.
“But what if I get the munchies and start to chew the face off him”, I protested!
“How would that differ to any other date you’ve been on recently, ye big slapper,” was her retort.
“But he’s nearly twice my age, what am I doing? Maybe I’ll call him and cancel,” I begged. She giggled, “Hun you never know, he could be your sugar daddy, wouldn’t that be fun!!”

When a man twice your age greets you with “Hi Sweetie”, then you know his saccharine was lab produced in a vain attempt to inject a dose of placebo strength seduction. Bleugh, I felt ill, I wanted to turn on my heels and run. He was old, far far older than he professed in his profile and without an ounce of charisma or panache to forgive the tiresome drivel he was spouting. Twenty minutes into the date I was glad for the distraction when he casually produced a pen and stabbed himself in the belly, because at that moment I was just about to utter the unmentionable word “why” as I gawked at his hair plugs which were spattered along his receding follicle tide line. With absolute indifference, he popped the pen back in his pocket without skipping a beat of his monotone prattle. My bemused grimace was casually dismissed with a nonchalant quip “I’ve got it under control sweetie, no need to concern yourself”. What he didn’t realise was that my contorted facial muscles were caused by the nauseous waves of ickiness I was feeling as a result of the prospects of having to sit this date out much longer. “Maybe he’s got ‘it’ under control,” I thought to myself, guessing that he was diabetic, but what I didn’t have under control was my need to spice things up in a bid to battle off his noxious and infectious levels of boredom. So when he dismounted the bar stool and headed outside to the smokers decampment, I slipped him the wee stash of hash and asked him to roll a fat one – being a novice, it was a skill I had yet to master. I gave him 5 minutes and then followed him outside for sneaky drag.

Dopey and ever so slightly mellower, me and Mr Drivel returned to the bar and ordered a round of syrupy shots, as I secretly wanted to drown my sorrows at yet another disastrous date before I bid my farewells. But just as the wench-like barman plonked his perky slippery nipples on the bar and held out his hand for payment, Drivel-Date made an Olympic dash for the door shouting “meet me at the car”.
“Stingy fucker,” I thought as I threw a twenty on the counter and sauntered a stoned swagger out to the car-park, suspended in an animated hash induced haze, so much so that the emergency hadn’t yet registered. I didn’t even know which car he drove, or even if he was going to still be there. Glancing around in the darkness, I figured that the legs flopped, corpse-like out of the open door of the staid family saloon must’ve been his, so I lurched on over to find him pressing his blood soaked finger onto his glucometer, then yelling at me to get help.

Help? Help what?
“Anything below 4 is dangerous,” he yelled, panicked, as he waved the screen which was flashing the lonely digit 1. This was serious. Smoking that joint had plummeted his sugar levels to a potentially lethal low, but thanks to that nefarious joint I was too loaded to react either physically or mentally. By the time my brain computed the words ‘diabetic coma’, he had already managed to drag himself back to the pub and was clutching the bar door, shouting “sugar, gimme sugar”. Thankfully the quick thinking bar man created a super strength sacchariferous shot – by chucking Lucozade into a pint glass followed by a bowl of sugar. Drivel-Date was downing his nectarous panacea by the time I floated off my hash cloud and strutted up to him, too benumbed to be of any use. He slammed the glass down on the bar and could’ve passed for a revelling student slamming Tequila shots as he painfully spat the word “Again!”
He grabbed the bar to support himself. Flushed and sweating profusely, there was froth forming at his mouth. “Beam me up Scotty,” I wished, wondering how the hell I had gotten myself into another fine mess!! All eyes in the packed Saturday night bar were locked on us, as I swayed with a stoney bemused half-smile, trying to act insouciant and make it clear that I wasn’t actually ‘with’ this guy.
“Oops” I hiccupped, as my diabetic date collapsed on the floor having just overdosed on sugar. Thankfully the bar man grabbed a bucket, dragged Drivel-Date to the nearest sofa and propped him up against it. Then, to reassure us all that there was still life left in him, Drivel-Date created a carrot coloured rainbow that spewed from his mouth as he let an almighty roar. This was not quite the mellifluous resonance I had hoped to hear on date night. My preferred intonations are dulcet tones emanating from the whispering lips of a big strong manly man, not a dishevelled past-his-sell-by-date Sugar Daddy slumped on the floor with his head in a bucket. Talk about drinking me under the table, this man was under the table undoing his drinking.

Splat! He Monika Lewinsky’d my dress with sticky goo. I was too wasted to react quickly enough to dodge his projectile candied vomit. I’m not in the habit of ending a date with man-goo on my frock, but at least if it was the other type of gunk then the odd’s are that I might have actually been enjoying myself, unlike this surreal smelly-vision nightmare I was observing. Moans were emanating from his flailed body that had now hauled itself onto the sofa, his feet high in the air resting against the wall, as he munched on a Willy Wonka feast that the staff had administered in a desperate effort to raise his glucose levels.

“Do you reckon he’ll live?” I casually queried the barman. A fed up nod was enough to confirm the prognosis of life, so I grabbed my coat and hailed a cab, feeling a tad guilty that my high made him hit an almighty low. That guilt lasted precisely half of a nano-second before I tucked into one of the bars of chocolate that I swiped from the stash that the barman provided to aid Drivel-Date’s recovery, and I wondered if one day I might actually meet my real sweetheart.
“There’s no eating in my cab,” barked the taxi driver over his shoulder.
“Fine”, I defiantly shouted as I shoved the whole Mars Bar into my mouth in spite of him, licking each finger with added animation to prove that I had purposely flouted the rules! One thing a man must learn about me is that when I need to eat, I need to eat, especially after drinking, or a disastrous date! I think he sensed I was a comfort eater when he sympathetically queried “How come yer all dressed up and heading home luv, sure it’s only 9 o’clock, what happened?”
I heaved a heavy sigh as I answered with chunks of Mars Bar pebble-dashing the back of his head, “well, you’ll never believe this, but...”

© Copyright Leopardskin Shoes Diaries 2011

Sheety Art

2011-07-23T14:50:00.004+01:00

I once went out with a guy who didn’t wipe his bum! Well, I can only presume he didn’t wipe his bum because his sheets were patterned with skid marks. He was a sheety artist!

The first time I noticed it, I panicked!
Had I just skidded? It was on my side of the bed. “Shit”, I thought (pardon the pun), “how will I hide this”? It was 4am and I was innocently nipping out to the loo for a pee while he snored his post coital brains out, but my semi-conscious sleep-walking bathroom adventure had now become a full scale operation of ‘find-the-crayon’ and figure out how to erase the note-to-self. There I was in the loo, after dark, looking for a dark after thought. I was contorted in front of the mirror, checking my bum from every angle. But I was clean as a whistle! Phew!
Then the confusion really kicked in as I puzzled how a neat brownish straight line had appeared on the sheets in my boyfriend’s bed – even worse still; on MY side of the bed? I couldn’t entertain the thoughts of him being the culprit, not my lovely new boyfriend! No! So I resigned myself to the belief that it was the tooth fairy, she was bored – no teeth falling out these days, so she entertains herself with brown crayons to piss me off!

But when it happened a few times, and always on my side of the bed, I settled on the theory that his house keeper had somehow managed to singe the sheets just ever so slightly with her iron at that very spot – on every single set of sheets he owned!
Each time I’d run to the bathroom and do the clean white piece of toilet paper test! I always passed with flying non-colours… each piece of quilted white tissue was whiter than white. I was no longer a suspect!

But how do you tackle a shitty arsed boyfriend who you’re besotted with? He obviously knows he’s doing it as the shits, oops, I mean the sheets are changed by the next night, ready for a new sleepover. In fairness, he was a lot older than me but his eye sight couldn’t have been that bad to never have noticed his own careless scatty art work!

Now I have always had a thing for good quality cotton sheets, with a high thread count and copious amounts of fabric softener during laundry hour to give them a yummy delicious waft of freshness. Food is barred from my boudoir - not even chocolate, for fear of brown crumbs contaminating my prized possessions. So when Mister Scat-Man had a sleep over at my house, and brought his crayons to play a game of join the dots on my linens, I decided that pyjama parties were now solely the reserve of his stately mansion (yes he was the son of a wealthy investor and they lived in a massive Georgian pile), of which my friends nick named ‘Skid-Mark-Manor’.

I quickly figured out that our cuddle-snuggle nights preserved the bright white sheets, however an evening of fun and frolics helped relieve his tensions, which in turn released his creative streak. A steamy session in the sack seemed to make him a little too relaxed, for he loosened up in every sense of the word. And thus an artist was born, well, an artiste on a par with a two year old who had just been given their first packet of Crayola, albeit containing shades ranging only from beige to chestnut! As time went by it wasn’t just a localised accident; it developed into fully blown ass-quakes! But the worst code-brown was yet to come.

Ours was one of those unhealthy relationships that flittered on and off, so because it was never a constant issue I had an uncanny knack of erasing the traumatic memory by the time we were back on again. But my tolerance peaked when he plopped, almost on my face, on a trip to Malta to rekindle our romance. The moment he manoeuvred into position for an erotic and sensual 69, his ass was several inches from my nose and I realised he was unwittingly lining me up for a ‘blumpkin’ (look that up in the fetish pages if you need an explanation). I screamed “NO” as the muck-fest slowly hovered above me, bobbing up and down as it searched for the right down-wind suitable for landing, cabin doors were already open, but as the ground crew it was me who needed the oxygen mask and to hit the emergency eject button. I yelled “Abort Mission, Code Brown, Abort Mission” knowing that there was a serious malfunction in his cockpit. I pushed him away and ran to the bathroom for refuge.

Strangely, I have never been able to look at ‘melting-middle-brownies’ in the same light again! I bid Mister Scat-Man and his crayon-bum goodbye… and me and my pristine sheets lived happily ever after…. Well, sort of!

© Copyright Leopardskin Shoes Diaries 2011

Flamin' Fanny

2011-04-20T23:11:00.009+01:00

I was sipping from a dainty little cup filled with glittery clouds of noxious wonderment! The joys of new love, you just can’t beat that giddy feeling!

Ok, scratch that, who am I kidding? I’ll be honest, it was new lust not love, and it had been a while since my last fun-fest, so it was time to blow off the cobwebs.

We retired to my bedroom in a hazy hash plume, liquored up and falling down. Bottle of champagne in one hand, two flutes in the other, my favourite combo! My tush bounced open the bedroom door as I announced with intensely careful articulation and gesticulation, emphasised with tremendously overt camp aplomb-
“Let me introduce you to my boudoir. My lair of lust! A lewd and lascivious den for lothario’s to lash their loins against my labia.”

Biting my lip to hold back the laughter and maintain my pseudo dominatrix commands, I stood in the shape of an ‘x’ at the threshold, teasing my wanton companion and soon to be lover. I taunted –
“Enter at your peril! Failure to meet my lustful demands will result in banishment to the fires of limp-dick hell,” I cackled.
“Jaysus love, you talk some shite!” he droned in his thick Tallaght-fornian accent, followed by the ever charming Dublin phrase – “now would ya hurry up and get yer diddies out.”
“First, let’s toast our roast,” I winked, holding the Champers aloft and nodding towards the bed.

I wrestled with the pressurised cork, before sending it flying across the room, knocking over the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. His clothed but equally pressurised cock, pressed up against me, it too was ready to explode and shoot across the room with a similar frothy spray. A dirty laugh rolled from my curled lip as my pheromones sent tingles to my thong.

An undignified drunken disrobing attempt ensued, but even in the darkness, my eyes became distracted by the vision before me. My femi-hard-on deflated and fell flaccid, I now had a semi-femi, as an almighty fear swept over me that my days on this earth could be extinguished by a suspected case of erotic-asphyxiation! Imagine my family in the coroner’s court hearing the verdict that their loved one died in a fetish sex game called ‘Beer-belly Death-squash’. They’d never recover from the shock or shame!

I discarded the delicate crystal flute, and refrained from making a snipe at his unappealing form, taking a swig from the bottle of bubbly instead. I was gonna need to neck a lot of alcohol before I could possibly neck him, so I glugged continuously until the bubbles tickled my nose. My swilling was as unattractive as the beastly body now laying in my bed, contaminating my crisp cotton sheets.

“Foreplay!” I requested, hoping it may re-ignite my engine.
“Nah thanks love, I hate anyone messing with me hood,” he mumbled.

Did he think I wanted to play with his fore-skin, fore-play??

Bemused and confused by this, I looked for advice from the angel and the devil perched precariously on my swaying shoulders, they were dicing with death as I staggered about the room, trying to decide if I should send this guy packing with a thanks-but-no-thanks card, or get back in the post-sabbatical saddle. But too late, Beer-Belly-Billy grabbed me and nibbled on my neck, my Achilles heel – a side effect from years of putting my foot in my mouth! I swear, even a pee-stained hobo could seduce me if they managed to plant a smacker on that vulnerable seduction point at the nape of my neck. But so far I’ve managed to refrain from sharing this secret with the homeless community.

I was now on my back with his hand up my skirt, panties pulled aside, with the great-gut grinding down on me! My lungs crushed, all air expelled – I couldn’t muster up the ability to communicate anything except a death rattle, which prompted this Neanderthal to shout –
“Oh Yeah Baby, I love to hear you moan. I knew I could turn you on!”

But just as I thought I’d never breathe again and the bends was about to kick in, his ignorance kicked in instead, as he attempted to plunge his tool into me.

“JESUS CHRIST,” I wheezed, “I’m not fuckin ready yet, I need to be warmed up first!”

Frustrated at his incompetence and gasping for a rhythmic breathing pattern, my flailed body flapped around seeking oxygen. Eventually my hand connected – hitting him up-side-de-head and he rolled off me. But this was his eureka moment and he stood up from the bed. I swear I heard the ping of a light bulb go off inside his hollow head, as he grunted -
“You got any oil?”

I immediately got all excited at the prospects of an erotic massage which would get my juices flowing, reigniting my femi-erection! So I leapt out of the bed and searched the bathroom cabinet for massage oil! Couldn’t find a thing! The best I could find was the body lotion that I smother on my skin after a shower, the rather aptly titled ‘Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion’. It would have to do, desperate times called for desperate measures, so I bounced it to him and dived onto the bed, lying face down, naked and quivering, titillated at the thoughts of a carnal caress.
I heard the splurt of the cream leave the bottle, a giddiness swept over me – sweet anticipation of those big strong hands all over my body, kneading my tension away!!

BAM!!!!!!

“aaaAAAAAHHHHHH! Fucking Hell! My pussy’s on fire, AAHH,” I cried, realising that the stupid fucker had not intended on massaging, instead he had covered his knob in the cream and rammed it straight into me!!!!

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!!!!!! My Fanny’s on fire!” I screamed as I ran, circling the room in a blind panic, “Call the fire brigade, quick!”

The dickhead stood there puzzled, still expecting a ride!

“Here love, stick me hose into ye, I’ll douse those flames,” he chuckled, thinking he was up for comedian of the year award.
“Don’t just stand there fuck-head, fan my fanny! Do something!” I cried.
“I’m not a fan of your fanny anymore love, wha?” he chuckled, again with his jokers hat on, so I gave up on him!

The tears ran down my face as I ran to the bathroom and tried to wash myself out!! A very difficult thing to do – trying to remove cream that’s immersed in the depths of your vajayjay – especially when there’s flames shooting out of it!

“GO! Leave Right NOW,” I screamed, as I heard him hovering at the bathroom door.
“Can I see you again?” he pathetically whimpered through the keyhole.

“Can I see you? I.C.U.?? Are you fuckin serious? My pussy is in I.C.U., the ‘Vaseline Intensive Care’ Unit!”

I heard the halldoor slam before I finished that sentence and for a moment I considered dialling 999 for some real firemen to hose down my fanny-flames! But as my bush fire subsided, I cried myself to sleep in the bathtub, the sprinklers still dousing the last flicker of flames!

What a Pussy-Catastrophe!

© Copyright Leopardskin Shoes Diaries 2011

The Curious Case of the Burning Bush!

2010-11-04T21:05:00.007Z

Poor Fanny! She’s had a rough ride of it over the years, but no more so than her recent episode, and all in the name of a ‘good ride’ !!!

Having had an unsolicited sabbatical, she had become rather overgrow!
Seriously? Who in their right mind would be that masochistically inclined to endure the excruciating pain of a Brazilian bikini wax every 3 weeks, if there wasn’t going to be some soft lips pressed up against it later that night to kiss it better? Really, I ask you?

My recent return to the dating scene meant that Fanny would remain untrimmed until “the right moment”. This is often a girl’s best method to refrain from diving into bed too soon with her hot new man, instilling discipline, all the while she’s painting the illusion of chaste and innocence!

The right time was soon approaching. It was early summer and my new boyfriend was away on a business trip. The distance made me want him even more than ever before. That was it! I decided to make an appointment for a ‘short-back-n-sides’, and booked myself in for a bikini strim with my topiary artiste.

Later that evening, pruned and sculpted, I admired the fabulous work of art in my hand-mirror whilst stretched out on my bed. I felt so sexy and couldn’t wait to parade my svelte and smooth body for the first time in front of my honey-buns eyes.
I watched the clock all day. Only a few more hours until I’d embrace my new love in the arrivals hall of Dublin airport.

But what’s that? A few stray hairs?
Damn, the Topiarist should have gone to Specsavers!

Eager to have a perfect putting green, I took matters into my own hands and splashed some weed killer on the oversight! But I should have left that tube of Veet on the shelf……for within seconds I leapt from my skin, as my skin leapt off me…literally!!! The chemicals in the depilatory cream were burning their way through my freshly raw post-waxing wounds.

“JAYSUS”, I screeched as I hosed down my burning bush, washing the chemicals away, but too late, the damage was done. My voice turned soprano as I sang “NoooooOOoooooo!”

I ran from my en-suite and lay down on my bed, shaking with the pain, clutching that hand-mirror once again, but this time I was like an insurance assessor scouring the area, noting the scorch marks to deduce where the fire had started and assessing the damage.
It didn’t matter, either way my beautiful Fanny now resembled road-kill.

I had literally burnt a hole in my hole!

“Ouch,” I sobbed, “poor Fanny,” as I realised that I’d have to make a pit-stop to the emergency clinic on the way to the airport! So I stuck the biggest plaster I could find over the enormous seeping wound and hobbled off to the clinic. Even this plaster didn’t like what it saw and attempted to shift its way along my girlie bits. The doctor and her young student assistant both recoiled in horror and refused to touch the mess. Under her strict directorial-ship, I had to tear off the plaster myself which was now embedded in the wound, stuck fast.
Armed with a tube of anti-biotic cream and a tube of steroid cream, I resembled Herman-Munster as I shuffled from the surgery back to my car.

An hour later in the airport:
“Oh Darling you look amazing, I’ve missed you so much,” he gushed as he wantonly slobbered all over me in the arrivals hall. But then he did a double take,
“Why are you limping, and are there tears in your eyes?”

"How bloody romantic," I thought sarcastically, as I began to tell him about the surprise love-fest I had planned for his return.

“That’s what you get for being a perfectionist!” he sighed as we waxed lyrical about how it had all gone Pete Tong in my thong!!!

© Copyright Leopardskin Shoes Diaries 2010

Game, Set and mis-Match

2010-10-24T00:13:00.007+01:00

I’d been out of the dating loop for a while.
“Jesus girl, get back in the saddle before you forget how to ride!” was the command from my well intentioned flat mate. To her it was a numbers game, one which I was reluctant of. “It’s just a number girl, now start giving it out to guys!”

Ten digits. That’s all I had to part with, ten digits.

I yearned for a different set of ten digits, ones that would caress me, hold me and touch me. But how was this ever going to happen if I couldn’t part with my ten digit phone number in this age of technology?
“Come on Leopardskin” she’d encourage on a weekly basis, “start dishing out those illusive digits”.

It was a typically grey Dublin day and I was running late as usual. My little two seater sporty number rallied around the bend in Templeogue, then screeched to a halt in the car park behind the main street. Realising my laptop was on the passenger seat, I grabbed it and tried to hide my cargo away from the prying eyes of thieves. As I studied my boot, looking for a safe dry patch amongst the mould and mushrooms in my biochemical mobile laboratory, I made a mental note to get my leaks sorted.

Then I heard the rustle of footsteps in the distance. “Where’s the parking ticket machine?” I shouted over my shoulder whilst wrestling the fungus riddled junk in my trunk, presuming I was communicating with an elderly man on his lunchtime stroll.
“There’s none, it’s actually free to park here” came the reply from a deep manly voice, “but you can give me the money if you wish”, he quipped.

Too busy to be polite enough to make eye contact, I engaged the banter from the murky depths of the boot, “Ah, but maybe I’ll give you my number instead, it’s worth so much more!” I chuckled.
After this faux flirty anonymous exchange I made a dash for the restaurant on the main street for a lunchtime meeting with my boss. I skittled across the tarmac in my precarious stilettos but was interrupted by a fine specimen that came bounding towards me, his phone in his hand. I stopped dead in my tracks and rubbed my eyes.
“Er, I’ll take you up on that offer” he enthused.
“What?” I was mortified.
“Your number! You made a promise, now hand it over,” he demanded, fingers at the ready to seal my secret digits into his Nokia.

His digits were ready for my digits? Oh My!!!!!

“Oh look I’m sorry, I was only kidding, I’m really late for a lunch date, bye”, as I turned and ran.
Not taking no for an answer, he persisted by explaining that he was a tennis coach in the neighbouring club. That wonderful sound of ‘Cha-ching’ rang in my ears so I turned back and looked at him. I took a moment to study his physique, mmMMMmm, not bad, not bad at all, and a fine racket too. Oh what harm could I do by finally parting with my number I wondered before blurting it out? My blushing cheeks were rising up through the layers of caked on make-up so I ran before he could look up from his phone.

That night his nervous digits dialled my ten digits, and after some faux-relaxed banter, he finally asked me out for drinks. I suggested a bar in my nearby village which was convenient for me. He’d never heard of it, so I defended my choice
“It’s a funky bar, unlike the rest of the crusty old pubs in the village. It’s really trendy, and crikey, they certainly know how to make a decent cocktail,” I raved.
I couldn’t establish if he didn’t like the sound of it, or if he just didn’t know where it was so I continued to sell it to him, “actually, the bar is part of a little boutique hotel on the canal, it’s really easy-breezy, perfect for Sunday evening drinks.”
If truth be told, I just couldn’t have been arsed to go all the way into town for a date, I selfishly wanted somewhere convenient for me.

And so the deal was done, I had a date, a date at eight in the funky bar on the canal.

The rest of my week was spent planning the ultimate outfit. Jeans, to show my casual side, seen as he’d already seen me all glammed up for work. A crisp white blouse, classy, smart, shows off my tan nicely. A linen blazer, smart yet understated. Nothing slutty, booby, or leggy. But of course, to add a dash of panache, character and purrrrr, I completed the look with my beloved pointy toed stiletto leopardskin shoes. The ensemble was paraded in front of my flat-mate and her girlie crew. A unanimous thumbs up was the official verdict from the girls as I skipped to my awaiting taxi. The flutter-bys were tickling my tummy, gosh, did that mean I was nervous? I suppose that’s the effect dishy athletic men have on me!

Devoid of his sports-gear he’d aged twenty years in a week, he actually looked like an old style librarian, how disappointing, but even worse; he smelt like one too. He smelt of old people, moth balls and lacked the lustre of that brawny, effervescent, brazen sportsman who I’d first met. But ever the optimist/hopeful romantic (or should I say ‘hopeless’) I soldiered on.
Our first drink was awkward, I quickly established that he had zero personality, but I remained pleasant. I scrambled for ideas to end the date, trying to figure out if it was polite to make a dash for the exit after one drink or should I stay for a second, just so as not to totally crush his ego. I decided that it’d be more civil to leave after an hour, so I set the stop-watch timer in my phone!

But as I stood up to make my way to the bar, he leaned in and asked
“Will I book it now, or will they still be available later?”
I laughed back, “don’t worry, there’s always taxi’s in this neighbourhood, you’ll be fine.”
Then I did a double take as the penny dropped and he confirmed my suspicions
“No, I meant the room, will they still have a room later or should we book it now?”
My shrieking response reverberated around the bar, “WHAT?”
It impacted like a backhand shot, slamming a verbal slap to his cheek.
He was nonplus for a moment, then arrogantly said “well for fucks sakes, you told me we were meeting in a hotel, what else was I supposed to think you were up for?”

“Mr Tennis Coach, Kiss My Ace”!

Since when did a non-romantic, non-seductive, and to be totally honest, incredibly boring thirty minute intro to a first date equate to an automatic springboard to the bedroom?

Obviously ‘love’ means nothing to a tennis player!

The Leopardskin Shoes returned home after thirty minutes of ‘dating’ to the utter bemusement of my flat-mate. I proudly held my hand aloft, middle finger standing to attention, “from now on, this is the only digit I’m ever giving to a stranger who asks for my number!”

© Copyright Leopardskin Shoes Diaries 2010

The Widower

2010-09-23T01:33:00.006+01:00

Seen as I have developed a healthy addiction (surely that’s an oxymoron?) to finding the man of my dreams (unlike the poxy-morons I seem to attract), I like to think that I can keep an open mind when it comes to a new potential love interest, but I once discovered that there are some limits to my tolerance……………

Internet dating! My rules are simple, no flings, no married men and no kids! The reason is clear; because there’s another woman in all of those equations!

But then I stumbled upon a new species that I had never previously considered.......the widower! As I ventured into this un-chartered territory I began to take notes.
“hmmmmm”, I pondered as I poured over his online-profile.
I then proceeded to dissect his introductory email, scrutinising every word to see if he was a match.
“No ex-wife lurking in the background, perfect! This guy has two young kids too, wow, that would save me from stretch marks and nursing bra’s! Woohoo, I’d have a ready made family!”

It sounded ideal, but had I now entered the M&S Man-Hall for single girls, where I could select a guy from the shelf, vacuum packed with a rich creamy sauce filling, and a side serving of kids? A ready-made family from the not-so-frozen-section? A fuzzy feeling came over me as I imagined hearing the ping of the microwave that had just magically zapped my dream to life. I felt the embracing warmth of that yearned for and longed awaited family meal. To keep things moist, there was also a house wine to induce a dizzying intoxication, it was a full bodied vintage, a lavishly restored period red-brick in a salubrious suburb. This boastful menu was mouth-watering to a girl starved of affection and of somewhere to call home. His email was marketed better than the M&S dine for two meal deals. I was sold!

It left me salivating, but I decided to cautiously investigate! If I ravenously gorged on this feast, no doubt there’d be a nasty bout of indigestion to ruin the after dinner fun. Instead I opted to digest one bite at a time. What I needed to establish was how freshly widowed he was. I tend not to eat raw meat, nor did I want to have to salt him and leave him to cure! Basically I didn’t fancy being a therapist to a possibly grief stricken father. My idea of a session on the couch would be far from the counselling kind!
“And how did she die?” I wondered. All of this was crucial information that needed to be delicately extracted through a volley of emails.

We began “chatting” online and I soon learnt that his poor wife had suffered the tragic fate of a horrendous brain haemorrhage a year and a half earlier. I expressed my sympathies and enquired as to how his young children were coping with their loss. He said they were little troupers and we exchanged photos of ourselves.
“Wow, you’re beautiful, and your hair is curly like my sons”. Though he didn’t finish that sentence, I squirmed at the thoughts of him imagining me slotting in as the new mammy so quickly! Yikes! I had to remind myself to keep an open mind and to stop presuming the worst! But shouldn’t we just be at the breadsticks stage of this meal, not skipping to dessert?

A few mails later I found myself reaching for the Motilium, my tummy was starting to feel a little unsettled. I decided to probe a little deeper. My (wobbly) gut instinct was telling me that something just didn’t quite add up! I sussed that although he had said that she was struck ill and year and half earlier, he didn’t say exactly when she had passed away, perhaps it was only recently??

I wasn’t quite ready for his reply.

“Ok” he confessed, “you’re obviously wise beyond your years. She hasn’t quite died yet”.

I nearly fell off my stool as I pushed my laptop away from me, I realised that this Family Meal Deal was more than I bargained for!

His mail continued to explain that although she was still alive, he had accepted she would die when she first fell ill and so he had mourned her passing at that point. Amazingly she had survived a year and a half but he explained that she was beyond recognition. He told of how he spent his days lifting her out of bed, carrying her down to the sofa and then back up to bed again that evening.

I was beyond shocked that he had the cheek to do this, but even more so that he thought it was perfectly acceptable and excusable!

My reply was rather scathing, and I didn’t hold back in reminding him that he took vows to love his wife in sickness and in health, and not up until the point where he would grow tired of looking after her! My instructions were clear; rather than leering and ogling women on the internet, he should instead devote his energies to caring for his wife in her last days.

He wrote back and apologised. His excuse was that it was over twenty years since he had dated and the reason he was online was to see if he was still a catch!

Through gritted teeth I wished him well and sent him on his way. I felt powerless to unleash a full scathe; after-all, he was dealing with an imminent and unequivocal rap on the door from the sheriff of gloom, looking to repossess his spouse and serve him a writ of sorrow. As shocked and duped as I felt, I realised that my search for love was much simpler than I had previously thought when compared to that of others.

About two months later I received an email from him saying that his wife had just died, (the previous day) and would I like to go for lunch that week once the funeral was over and done with?

Needless to say I declined!
By this point I had become much more appreciative of my single serving ready-meals, and dining alone in my dingy flat.

© Copyright Leopardskin Shoes Diaries 2010

A Bloody Good Opportunity Up in Smoke!!

2010-08-19T02:01:00.004+01:00

Having been out of work for a few weeks after quitting my role as the ‘Patsy-Side-Kick to the Schizophrenic-Diva-Designer’ who used to introduce me to clients as his “assistant who’s a vegetarian, but a man-eater”,(with dramatic emphasis on the cannibalistic aspect) I decided it was time to get myself a new job, one that was professional, calm and chaos-free! I swallowed my pride and sent my c.v. to the arch nemesis of my previous whip cracker.......gulp!
The brave move worked; “Get your ass in here for an interview tomorrow” was the not so friendly bark down the telephone.
With a really naff victory-dance around the living room, I chanted “Yay me, I’m gonna walk this, I always walk through any interview without breaking a sweat, I can smell the pay cheque already”.

Glammed up and ready to woo, I parked across the road from the premises. My rusty unreliable two seater convertible, with its leaky roof and mushroom populated soggy floor, was now like a boxers changing room before the big fight as I psyched myself up to impress. Torrential rains chose to chaperone my expedition and so I sat in my car for a few minutes waiting for Noah to sail by. A smugness came over me when I realised I had been organised that morning and remembered to pack a brolly. That cockiness was quickly blown away as I locked up my jalopy. My umbrella blew inside out when a mini-cyclone whirled past me and just like my-stubborn-self it refused to be bent back into shape and remained inverted. I wrestled with the tempestuous fucker as I walked to the ticket machine but the gales were out to get me, and so I relinquished my brolly to momma-nature.
“OUCH, you Prick.......ed my skin!” I yelled as I snared my index finger in the mechanism, unable to fold down the broken and bent brolly, instead I shoved its warped remnants under my arm to be salvaged later. I flung open the door of the premises as a gust of wind shoved me over the threshold of this office without aplomb, distinctly lacking the grace of Miss Poppins’ perfectly parachuted grand entrance. Amidst the maelstrom of papers swirling mid-air and my once coiffed bouffant now masking my face, I stuck my hand out to greet the interviewer, but quickly withdrew it as I noticed the blood gush from the shredded skin.
“Hi I’m.........in need of a plaster”, I squirmed as I inspected the inch long gash which was becoming quickly submerged beneath the deluge of haemoglobin goo!
Peering down from her elevated sense of self, the interviewer threw her eyes skyward. I sensed her disgust as she surveyed the drowned rat at her feet, dishevelled and wounded, threatening to stain her plush cream carpet. Clapping her hands she summoned her disinterested minions to scurry to her commands. Scrunching her face and holding her hand as far in front of her as she could, she flicked her fingers as though to shoo away the vision before her. She yelled “clean this up immediately”, before turning on her vertiginous heels and stomping off to her office. Popping her head out from her glass box a few minutes later she did a finger dance which bade me to follow her, though only on condition I was overhauled by the Oompa-Loompa like figures who tended to her every whim, though instead of singing as they went about their chores, they groaned and muttered a lot less rhythmically than their slightly less ochre-hued Wonka counterparts.

Pushing back the soaked hair that was embedded on my face I tried small talk, hoping to laugh off my calamity, though this was unfortunately interjected with nerve riddled snorts. You see, I wasn’t fluent in snobbery so my words and humour were lost on the Oompa. The language barrier was soon the least of my worries as I became distracted by a strange singe-ing smell. It had a peculiar hum to it, uncharacteristic for this high class office. As the Oompa scurried off to tend to another barking command, I turned to where I had left my belongings, “Holy Shit”!!! There was smoke billowing from my handbag! Like Michael Jackson, I patted it with my one gloved hand, whilst holding the bloodied one high in the air to restrict the flow of goo! As I pushed the bag over I saw that I had placed it on the desk of the uni-lingual Oompa who must have been trying to mask her halitosis with a scented candle. “Ooops!”

Remembering the quotes from Paolo Coehlo’s Alchemist book, I was reminded to read the signs and omens that life presents us with and to act upon them;
“I think I’ll get me coat” I muttered as I crawled out the door before swimming back to my four wheeled fungus factory and drove straight to the local dole office.

© Copyright Leopardskin Shoes Diaries 2010

To shave or not to shave, that is the question!

2010-07-21T22:50:00.013+01:00

Hairy legs??! Damn, mine are not long enough for a waxing, but in one more week my topiarist/beautician would have enough weeds to whack and sculpt my lady bits to perfection, but right now I'm not quite there!
“Oooh, you’re at the in-betweener stage love”, I can hear her say if I dared to call to her salon, sending me packing with a scolding.

So what do I do? A hot date is on the agenda tonight, it's mid summer and I can't hide my dreadlocked limbs. A girlie dress for a flirtatious evening has been resurrected and dusted off, AND if I can hold my breath for the whole evening, I may even manage to not bust the strained zipper! Woohoo!
The ‘First-Date-Shaven-Legs-Dilemma’ (FDSLD) has me befuddled! If I shave ‘em and he’s hot, would I be tempted? Do I trust myself to exert restraint? Do I wear a boring old pair of jeans and keep my Jungle-Jane-Pins under wraps, thus guaranteeing that I won’t let him sit within 2 feet of me?.......................

.......Alas, the wardrobe has won this battle, I blame the weather! Defuzzing has been endured. Reassuringly (yet more worryingly) I’ve just discovered that I have the Homer Simpson Stubble Syndrome (HSSS), you know the one where the stubble reappears two seconds after you replace the cap on the can of shaving foam!
"Doh"!!!
Aesthetically I think I can get away with a 6 o’clock shadow on my pins this evening, and it feels good to know that I wouldn’t dare let any wandering hands near my grade 6 belt-sander legs. Although I did read on this date’s profile that he works in construction, so perhaps those manly callused fists need a softening sanding! Now that’s what I call Extreme Exfoliation!

I can picture it now, he’s down the pub tomorrow night looking smug
“So Jim, I see the date went well! Get that dirty grin off your face”. Then Jim proudly holds his hands aloft for inspection, “Yes lads, as you can see, these silky smooth palms have explored legs eleven, her angle-grinder tore strips off my roughened digits”, before beating his chest and roaring “Who’s the Man? Who’s the Man?”

Why do guys need souvenirs of their conquests?

So that’s certainly resolved my First-Date-Shaven-Legs-Dilemma, tonight will be the 3 s’s; Skirt, Stubble and Sex-free!! Thank god for the Homer-Simpson-Stubble-Syndrome, it instilled some discipline on me..........

..............After an afternoon of the pruning and preening, Big Jim calls to confirm the plans. It’s a blind internet date. His profile ticked all of my boxes, and I wondered if he could tick my box! I felt a sharp sting as the angel on my shoulder gave me a clip round the ear. The devil on the other side was also giving me a bollocking for not being clever enough to have home-waxed for a smoother finish!!! I can’t win!!
But before we could confirm tonights rendez-vous Jim informs me that he’s running late as he had to pick up his daughter from summer-camp…….?????
(que the sound effect of a vinyl record scratching to a halt)
“WHAT? You have a kid? Perhaps I overlooked that on your profile?”
“Ah no love, I didn’t lie about it, I just never ticked the section to say if I did/didn’t have kids, cas some people are funny about that”
“erm, by ‘funny’ do you mean like ME for example who has no interest in dating someone with a ready made family/baggage?”
“well I didn’t lie to you”
“True, but the web designers wouldn’t have added that question if it wasn’t important! Good Day Sir!”

You know what? Throughout that phone call, I actually wasn’t disappointed that the date had fallen through, nor that my hopes of meeting Mr Right tonight were dashed, I was actually devastated that I had bothered to shave my fecking legs for no good reason, thus knocking my waxing routine right off kilter! Darn it, dating in my thirties is so much harder than my youthful, less hormonal, silky smooth twenties!

That’s it, no more skirts on first dates, It’s jeans from now on!

© Copyright Leopardskin Shoes Diaries 2010