... 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...