Just why has it become de rigeur to denounce certain attentive behaviour as stalking, and equate justified feelings of anger at betrayal with an unreasonable desire to boil small defenseless mammals?

I think I have gone into sufficient detail in explaining my own brush with temporary insanity, and subsequent loopy behaviour (albeit without ever experiencing a strong urge to cook something not already dead in the fridge).

However, I dare any female to deny they wouldn't like to experience a certain degree of stalking in their lives.
They used to call it romance. Wooing. Courtship. Expressing an interest.

Just what is so worrying about someone who calls you every day, even when they don't tell you they will? Makes a nice change from the guy who keeps telling you he'll call, but then he always runs out of battery/credit/things to say before he gets a chance to dial your digits.

Just who would object to receiving a large, unexpected bouquet of flowers, especially on Valentine's day? Don't most girls complain they have to drop hints the size of nuclear devices on February 13th and the week of their birthday, only to get fobbed off with a sad and wilting example of their local cornershop's excuse for botanic specimen?
Or, in the usual case, nothing with leaves and petals on at all?

Why should it be a crime to find out someone's address who has let you pay for their dinner, and send them a nice card? (In the case of Mr Red, I would have appreciated something slightly less cryptic, as it took me nearly 2 months to work out who it was from, so it can always backfire if you don't sign your name. I suspected everyone from Tall Boy to KB to an ex in Birmingham as the sender, but got nowhere- until I got a magnifying glass and read the front of the card!)

Seriously, girls are more than happy to go home with the stranger who has made creepy eyes at them across the bar all night long and got them drunk, yet they often accuse a nice man showing a reasonable amount of healthy interest as behaving like a stalker.

A stalker is someone who lavishes unwanted attention on someone unwilling and uncomfortable with receiving it, not a guy who woos and pursues a girl who may just be a bit coy.
The difference is that a girl who enjoys receiving flowers, cards and phone calls will usually thank him for them and reward him by spending more time with him, not tell him to fuck off and rip up the items in front of him and throw the bits in his face. If she does that, she ain't interested, pal, and no amount of gifts from Fleurop, Hallmark or Tiffany's will change that.

Isn't it ironic that these days, courtship often involves little more than a few pints (or glasses of bubbly), rather than a drawn-out process of dinners, dates, daffodils and dangly jewels?

The German boy rings every day even if I can only pick up around 50% of his calls: a far cry from Country Boy's big promises of stalking and wooing me, buying me cashmere socks and inviting me for country weekends before booking the Abbey for our nuptials - followed by a total absence of action.

I am also enjoying the fact that Salsa Boy has been so brilliant on the flowers and gifts-from-abroad front, even if he is more than slightly asexual which is still irritating the hell out of me- yet I still haven't managed to break if off with him yet.
Break what off, though, since NOTHING has happened!
He even brought me a nice bar of chocolate called "PASSION" from his recent holiday, aware of my love of passion fruit cocktails. BUT he didn't suggest I join him, despite having the chalet to himself with just one friend for their last weekend. However, as we aren't in a relationship/having sex, I can't say I could reasonably expect him asking me on a holiday.
Thinking back to KB last year though, this would definitely have been on the cards, whilst my "whatever"ship with Salsa seems to operate on a whole different time zone, if not planet. Cashmere even asked me to join him on his skiing trip during our first date, but, then again, it didn't happen in the end.

And here's what I like about Salsa, despite his inability to smell nice or wear anything but brown: He is a nice, honest, stable, attentive man who remembers what he knows about me and expresses his affection for me in gestures such as gifts and conversations, not meaningless flirting and casual sex.
He actually got embarrassed when I joked about the present he mentioned he'd brought me: "It's nothing big", he warned me. "Oh", I replied, "small but hideously expensive?", which made him blush and laugh in a self-conscious way. It turned out to be the chocolate. I wonder if this is likely to become one of those stories men tell each other about women wanting commitment too soon?

And here we have the other big reason apart from the lack of actual passion between us, a total sense-of-humour-incompatibility. I wonder how many relationships fail on that basis. The ones that didn't but should have failed can easily be observed in pubs and popular holiday spots, maybe in your own parents.
So there is no point in dragging it out.

My problem is that I find it incredibly hard to have any kind of in-depth conversation with him, whereby I could bring up the fact that I don't see us working out in an honest conversation.

An interesting example of his difficulty in asserting himself was the story he told me about his stay with an uncle abroad:
In order to get into town, he had to get a lift every morning with his uncle, who went to church every day at ten. Not wanting to appear rude, Salsa Boy joined the uncle at the church, without fail, every day before taking off into town for the day.
Immediately, I didn't get it. "Why couldn't you just thank him for the lift, and make a quick getaway in front of the church?" I asked him, based on the way I communicate with my own family. No, that didn't seem to be an option for him, since he saw the time in church as an activity he could share with his uncle during his stay.
After a week, the priest approached him: "I can see your faith is very important to you, my son", he said. "I feel that you may have a vocation for the priesthood! Why don't you give me your parish priest's address and I can write to him in order for him to support you on your journey?"

"WHAT!?!" I guaffawed so loudly, the milk in every yummy mummy's breasts must have curdled, who had been enjoying their lunch in this little Kensington cafe.

"Well", Salsa Boy continued, "I said: 'that is very kind, father, but there is a shortage of priests in England and I don't know his name, they come and go. Last time it was an African man', and I gave him some made-up church's address in Tooting".

LOL! I could barely stay on my chair, I laughed so hard. "Don't you think it's worse lying to a priest than not going to church at all!?" I wanted to know.

Seriously, I don't want to be around once his mum moves in with him at the end of the month and drags him out to church every Sunday- I wonder if he can use the line with the African priest again to explain his amnesia of the actual priest's name.

As an afterthought, maybe he should join the priesthood after all.

Interviewer: "So, why do you want to work here?"

Me: "I don't know, you pay money and I need a job? To be honest, I don't exactly have time to do in-depth research on your last decade's sales figures and Google every single senior employee whilst I am WORKING at another company!"

"Have you ever had a challenging boss before, with a difficult personality?"

-"Of course, he was an arsehole who treated everyone like crap, but I developed Stockholm syndrome and bought a crystal ball to read his mind, so I learned to cope!"

"With your language skills, why don't you work abroad!?"

-"I am not sure, but with your boobs, maybe you should work in PORN!"

"So, what about your ring, are you getting married soon?"

-thinking: Wrong hand, Einstein!- "I am so sorry nobody you don't sleep with has ever given you diamonds before!"

"How do you prioritise, and manage to multi-task demands from different people?"

-"Depending on my mood, I have two coping strategies- either deal with the nastiest person first, so you get into the least trouble. Or, deal with the nicest person's request first, because I like them and don't give a shit if the horrible one gets hinself into a frenzy; to be honest it makes me laugh!"

"How are you with booking international travel?"

-"Totally clueless, every time I want to go abroad, I throw myself under a train and wait to be re-incarnated in a different country!"

"You seem like a really enthusiastic person with a lot of energy, but how would you cope if it was a really quiet time, and there wasn't much happening?"

-"I've never had much of a problem keeping myself occupied with blogging, facebook, calling my friends, watching clips on YouTube or getting a good snooze on the office couch!"

"What about your previous career, would you not want to pursue that anymore?"

-"Having come to the realization that most people who work in offices probably have some kind of alternative dream they decided not to pursue for the sake of their mortgage, relationships and sanity, what I WANT isn't as relevant as what I need to get paid in order to survive!"

"Where do you see yourself in five years' time?"

-"In your boss' position. No, make that married with two kids and a dog, living in the country with a handsome, successful husband, writing books."

"We are interviewing a few more people but we also have a temp in that position now who would very much like the job..."

-"So WHY do you waste my time and yours, time we both have to take out of our working day!? At least you get paid whilst you talk to me, and I DON'T!!"

Interviewer: "So, you are applying as a..." proceeds to read my CV for the next fifteen minutes whilst I sit there stirring my tea.

Me: grab the teaspoon and stab them repeatedly, mechanically, manically.

Interviewer, clutching her bleeding throat: "Do you have any questions for us?"

Me: "Yes, could someone please show me the accounts department as there is a vacancy in my life for a tall, mischievous man with sparkling green eyes, whose figures ain't the only thing that's hard..."

I am about to take the first step towards true commitment to the German Boy (G- a visit to the sexual health clinic, to get a check-up.

Putting my head in the sand following the "accidental" loss of the condom during one October encounter with Fencing Boy no longer seems a viable strategy for long-term peace of mind, so it's about time.

Although Tall Boy's reliability with condom use could reassure me of the state of his sexual health, the question whether I was on the Pill didn't.
A girl's got to wonder who else's pregnancy-proof pussy escapes penetration only under the cover of plastic, and then you've got to think who else has had unprotected access to that pussy, and so on...

Plus there is the small matter of a persistent lump just to the inside of my thigh, which no longer seems to be just an ingrown hair (which it is, according to my doctor), so I tentatively wonder if this is the beginning of another invasion of the dormant wart virus.

"I've never had that kind of check-up", GB told me in his usual amused voice, "none of my exes ever have, either. But they've never had anything, I know that".

Pardon me, how exactly would anyone know what they do or don't have if they've never been checked?

So I suggested strongly that he enquires with his doctor about getting booked in before he attempts to come near me again without a raincoat.
If he is astounded at my previously never experienced skill of putting condoms on with my mouth, he goes floppy and doesn't come, is that my problem?

He mentioned thinking of getting the HPV vaccine. I laughed. "Do you honestly think you don't have that yet if 80% of the sexually active adult population do?", I asked him.
"In any case, if your test proves don't have it I strongly recommend you get the jab, as I know that I have it already".
And I told him the story of the man on holiday who'd become infertile as a result of his treatment for anal cancer, also linked to HPV. An increase of mouth cancer in people fond of condom-less blowjobs has also recently been reported in the media, which despite its scary implications for a radiant smile I can't exactly see suddenly increasing people's taste for rubber and spermicide.

GB kept his usual cheerful disposition throughout this exchange, so I guess he appreciated my honesty.
He was equally unfazed when I confessed my continued involvement with Salsa Boy, although I made it clear that we hadn't done anything besides kissing. very occasionally.

I am glad I can talk to him like that. I am beginning to feel that he's my equal in many ways, we see eye to eye on lots of issues from Cosmic Ordering to fridge purchases and quantum physics, and I never get tired of hearing his voice on the phone and talking to him.

I told him of my mad birthday outing to the races two years ago, which climaxed in being driven down the Kings Road in an open double-decker bus, the front adorned by four buck-naked boys who drank beer and champagne out of my pink stilettos.
He told me of his latest car purchase and the theory behind buying a new car rather than a second hand one. Dull as it sounds, I was fascinated and we chatted some more.
I realised suddenly that it was 0:45 again and high time to hit the sheets.

I am travelling to see him the day after tomorrow, and he will have to pass another hurdle: meeting members of my extended family.

Last night once again proved how badly suited Tall Boy and I are as friends.

We met at the cinema, I got the tickets this time because he was late, having worked like an ox since his latest promotion, but he bought us popcorn and a drink to share.

We sat in one of those double love seats, and feeling and smelling him next to me was wonderful.
We shared the popcorn and had a little banter, I know he didn't have a clue what the film was about but he had been there at my suggestion nonetheless, like a shot.

Barely ten minutes into the movie, his hand found mine and my whole body began to tingle into life.
Without the arm rest between us there was no good way to sit without touching, his hand rested on my thigh and my hand on top of his, then my hand stroked his leg and his hand grasped it, I could feel the hairs on the back of his hands and his large, smooth nails as he stroked me and I stroked him.

Such an innocent gesture, yet not so innocent at all. Whilst Salsa Boy's hands feel lifeless and reluctant, drip-feeding molecules of his insecurity right into my heart, Tall Boy's hands are alive with passion, they feel like they are mine, yet not, but should be.
Familiar and newly exciting, all at once.

Still, I was shy and polite, I didn't slide my hand into his jeans although I could feel the hardness of an erection stiffening his magnificent cock just beyond the reach of my fingers and heard his breath speed up, but I held back.

I love him, and I want to be his friend, or his wife, not the infuriating half-breed I seem to have stayed for the past year.

Our one-year anniversary of our first night together is coming up in exactly a month's time, and nothing is clearer, nothing resolved and I am not satisfied.

After the film neither of us suggested a drink, but on the way to the tube station he mentioned the drunken, horny and despearate texts I had sent him a couple of times in recent weeks. He wore the biggest grin and seemed to expect to be in for a night of passionate abandon.

I am not sure what happened, in idiotic "preparation" I had put on new and more seductive underwear, cleared my bed of clothes and magazines, wore his favourite perfume and wanted him so badly, but I couldn't go through with it.

When I was drunk and getting carried away by the music at a Hoxton club a few weeks earlier, the thought of Tall Boy turning up and taking me loudly in the disabled toilet had really appealed, but now I didn't feel like taking him home to my bed after all.

I felt like talking to him over cocktails in a dark bar, or fast-forwarding to being in an uncomplicated relationship with him to enjoy a night of cuddling up on the sofa, flirting, him sitting on my feet to keep them warm, me massaging his hands... but not this, yet another night next to him hiding my tears after our orgasm, wishing he'd come inside me, willing him to love me.

On the platform, still holding my hand he bent his head as if to kiss me, so close I inhaled his breath and could feel his stubble on my lips but I pulled back. "We are really bad at being friends", I told him, once again, "you can barely keep your hands off me".

He smiled, too, and didn't deny it, yet he was obviously on his way home because he hadn't suggested a drink. Or he was really sure about what would happen and that I would succumb to his charms, despite my continued restraint all summer, and since our last tryst past Novemer. Or he just really didn't want to talk to me, and didn't really care what happened.

"Where do you plan to get off?", I asked him when he followed me onto the train, drinking in his eyes. He opened his mouth to show me his teeth and asked if there was any popcorn stuck in them. "Why, do you want me to lick it our?", I asked, loud enough for the whole carriage to hear. We laughed. I love laughing with him, and offending people. He bent down to my ear and said: "I don't have to go home, you know...". "Yes, you do", I replied, pushing him out onto the platform when the train stopped. He leant in and kissed me warmly on the cheek so I could feel his familiar stubble, and didn't let go of my arm until the door shut on us.

... was great!

The German boy came and stayed at mine, paid for everything, fucked me under the shower, brought me a DVD, was up for meeting my friends and having a laugh, we chatted and flirted, and he kept looking at me like a love-sick puppy dog with some grinning virus.

He wouldn't stop kissing me, even in public, until I shoved him away- but really it was lovely having that kind of attention, adoration and affection after awkward and reluctant Salsa Boy.

Unfortunately, he also got up and made my bed creak all night long, waking me up about five times (just how small IS his bladder?), insisted on walking around the flat naked until I reminded him to put a robe on for my lodgers' sanity's sake, and left a condom wrapper in the bath.

I had removed the condom which he'd flung into a corner of the bath tub, and asked him to please be considerate and throw these items away, but he was rather nonchalant about it. The next day I discovered that my flatmate had found the foil wrapper and put it neatly into the soap dish for me to remove. How embarrassing!

The main thing that bothered me was all this faux and, I felt, premature intimacy combined with his seriously pongy armpits as he got cozy in the evening, and first thing in the morning, which is where all that water play came in.
After my first hint, and the shower that followed, my poor nose was assaulted by an identical smell the very next morning. I wondered how to address it without making him think I just didn't want to sleep with him. "Do this", I instructed him, lifting my own arm and giving it a good sniff. He did, but instead of fainting briefly and trolling off to the shower like I'd expected him to, he didn't appear to notice anything unusual. Nonetheless he didn't object to me marching him to the shower and climbing in together.

Barely solved by soap and prolonged hot jets whilst he pounded me from behind, the problem of his smelly pits prevailed for most of the weekend and I asked my neighbour for advice.

"Make sure he shaves", she advised me, "that should take care of it".

Oh, and here was me thinking that by shaving my own armpits and toes I was doing enough for my country's international reputation!

This brings me on to the main thing men do wrong when trying to bed a woman. Basically, if you're not getting any action, this problem is easily addressed by a very simple, four-letter word: WASH!!!

And not just your body, although that should be a basic routine for anyone reaching puberty and beyond.
Nice Ex was as clean as they come, the thoughtfully washed his pits and willy every night before coming to lie next to me, and I never found any reason to hold my breath whilst in his arms, or any excuses not to suck his beautiful penis.
The only area that remained a no-go zone was his chest: I licked it, only to find my tongue coated by a rankness that is impossible to explain in someone who lives in a house with running water. I told him a few times, because I loved licking his chest and nipples and would have loved to have done it more, but I learned not to. His chest wasn't smelly, but the taste was nonetheless inexplicably disgusting, so I steered clear.

The Violent Ex had a similar issue with his armpits, which left the top of the duvet smelly and sported a hairstyle not unlike tiny blonde dreadlock. This would have made anyone with half a nose break up with him right there and then, but my nineteen-year-old patient self was far too loved up to really find offence. I think I made a few half-hearted attempts to scrub him, but it would never have crossed my mind to follow him into the shower wielding a razor. I had barely begun shaving my own pits and legs at that time, having faffed about with depilatory creams and nail scissors for a few years.

As for the German boy though, his hairs' days are numbered!

I feel like a diva for saying this, but the issue is serious enough for me to consider never seeing him again if it won't improve. Heed this, lads: here is a tall, handsome, intelligent, caring, interesting, wealthy and very generous guy who is running the risk of getting dumped over something as trivial as an offensive smell... Well, make this an overwhelming cloud of pong, and think of the difficulties in having sex without breathing, and you will get my drift- and as I said, it's not due to him not washing, it must have just taken up residence there quite unnoticed.

Salsa Boy doesn't smell of daisies either. I discovered he was wearing the same shirt two salsa lessons in a row, and I asked him (quite cheekily, I admit, but I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't thought it needed addressing) whether he'd washed the shirt since the previous week. He admitted that he hadn't. "But I don't wear it next to my skin", he added, "you only have to wash things you wear on your skin, this is fine", he insisted.

My look said it all. "So", I enquired, peeling the sticky collar from his neck, "you don't think you are sweating into it through the other shirt you have on?", referring to the long-sleeved t-shirt he was unbelievably not too hot to wear underneath, "you must be boiling!".

He didn't seem to think so, but let me take off the button-down shirt which improved the situation slightly.
Still, I have noticed on almost every occasion that he tends to smell like a brick: basic, brown, and somewhat stale.
He takes his jacket off and an aroma like an Oxfam shop hits me, and I could only once detect a hint of aftershave on him, which I complimented him on immediately.
He didn't appear to take the hint.
Even worse, on our last dinner date he mentioned that his shirt was "freshly laundered, just for you". Just for me? What a moron, who'd want to wear a stinky shirt to a date? If this is the state of his wardrobe, no woman would even want to consider the horrors that may lie beneath!
That date last Friday, the day before German boy arrived, was supposed to clear the air and give me some sort of explanation for his shyness, but he never picked up that particular thread of conversation. So I left it. I will need to address it when he returns to the UK, and give him the whole "I don't think we quite click" speech.
I can only hope he didn't buy me something hideously expensive on holiday...

Dolphinboy nearly came down tonight, instead he was almost back in Scotland again by the time we spoke.

Boring. I think I will need to tell him at some stage just how much I was hoping he would study in London 3 years ago...then he didn't, and I have only seen him about 3x times since then.

Anyhoo.

I invited Salsa Boy to this party instead tonight, and, surprise, Mr Married was there. Being unable to stand this situation for long, we left after some free canapees and the arrival of yet another Russian ex model in furs, to go to the New York guy's party instead (he was the guy whose face I snogged off in Movida last year, only to realise I didn't fancy him enough to go home with him in the end).

Great flat, I almost regretted not being his whore for one night to wake up in these luxury surroundings...
Also so much champagne we swiftly hid our cheap bottles of wine in the bottom of the fridge.

A guy in a dinner jacket poured my glass, I admired his outfit and thoughtfulness until I realised he worked there... argh! A paid washer-upper-champagne-pourer, how decadent!

Salsaboy kept his distance, letting me shmooze and network, flirt, drink and make new friends whilst he stared into space.

He had some chats too, I suppose, and some canapees and more drink, but the physical distance between us seemed to suggest to people we weren't actually together- to the extent that another guy offered me his jacket when he realised I was cold on the terrace.

He then saw me kiss Salsa on the cheek (well a girl's gotta claim her territory! Or pronounce the fact she isn't as sad and single as some of the candidates...) and suggested I meet him in the hallway in 10 minutes.

One thing let to aother,a kiss on the cheek on the stairs led to a grope in the lift, a kiss on the roof led to him going down on me whilst I sat on the banister, legs akimbo and skirt round my thighs, wind in my hair and his fingers in my pussy whilst he licked me.

The wind was making the neighbour's door bang, and we sat on the stairs at the top of the house, his corkscrew dick in my hand, my mouth, I sat astride him, wet and horny and took him into myself, he then pulled out and into my mouth again but at the first taste of his cum I let him soil his thigh and the stairs, squirting sperm into my hair and onto his crisp shirt.

Very jewish, we got dressed again immediately, he took my number (but I altered the last digit) we kissed an re-joined the party.

Mad.