type setting

Like most humans, when it comes to the art of men and attraction I have a 'type'. My usual type means I get to indulge in abdominal muscles of steel, pecs you can crush walnuts with and someone who can pass the jam jar off the top shelf because I am never tall enough to reach.

However, instead of crushing walnuts, affairs usually end with me wanting to crush skulls. This is my curse.

I became so tired of this blasted curse, and of men I loved either dying, becoming gay or walking off with some silicon enhanced bint called Bara two years ago, that I decided never to bother again.

As previously mentioned in another blog, a few weeks ago I decided to throw caution to the wind and give having a 'boyfriend' shot. And by the way there is a mostly naked man taking in washing from the balcony of the apartments opposite me right now (not mine), but that's another matter.

Anyhoo, I met this chap. Absolutely not my type. For one he has a beard. I HATE facial hair. Two, he is slightly diminutive, wearing heels puts me on the same level. He hates sports. He hates roughing it, he isn't much of a traveller.

I went on a date with him, absolutely expecting the worst and never expecting to see him again.... 4 dates later after sitting up till 4am laughing my ass off, I find myself still going on dates with him.

In less than half an hour Jenn Green, my best friend from Canada will arrive. Tomorrow we will go to Capadocia, a place with beautiful phallic rock formations where said chap is filming a sort of Turkish Sopranos type series in which he is one of the lead characters.

Already he has arranged a great hotel for jenn and I to stay in. Vegetarian picnics for me, a guided tour of the area for us complete with driver for when he is working, a driver from the airport and evening entertainments. I have to confess to being quietly impressed.

On wednesday all of his friends took me out, while he was away, to a private concert of some Turkish latino singer on an island in the middle of the Bospherous.

Usually when a guy arranges anything for me it is an interflora delivery to say how sorry he is for some hideous fuck up he has committed.

Who knows how this will turn out, but you can be sure that there will probably be some hilarious 'my man turned out to be a satanist/child murderer/ wacko/woman going through a post transexual operation' posts to come.

I am too old to be too excited about relationships, but I imagine the tragi-comic ending will make for a few good stories down the pub one day. I will keep you informed.