This week High50‘s midlife dating columnist hopes her Muddy Farmer will finally make a move on her, and realizes she might have to take matters into her own hands
So, Muddy Farmer and I have known each other for three months, and been seeing each other every week for two. My nether regions are neat and tidy at all times just in case. But my horny-handed son of the soil does not seem horny in any other respect.
We meet up at my favorite local pub. Low beams, lovely food, classic and cosy. It is his birthday and I have bought him a photography book with a hare on the front cover. He loves hares. He has, unexpectedly, bought me a hare keyring. Gifts coming out of the blue creates a warm glow.
The lunch is delicious, the atmosphere romantic and we leave at sunset. OK, so I smack my head on a low beam and a bump the size of an egg is developing, but everything feels right for piling back to my fluffy White Company covered bed.
Then bloody hell … a chaste kiss on the cheek and a rather awkward hug. The only thing swelling seems to be that lump on my forehead.
Is He Shy Or Just Not Pushy?
Next day I’m at my cousin’s, and she reassures me that no man would be giving me presents if he didn’t want to get into my knickers. Harsh, fair and very encouraging.
Investigating what is normal in my new weird world of dating, I ask a male friend who dates a lot of women online. He claims that quite a lot of women make their sexual intentions clear in the first correspondence.
A few have propositioned him on the first date. One, who he didn’t fancy at all, lunged at him in the car park as he beat a hasty retreat. Goodness, I haven’t been giving my farmer much encouragement by comparison, then.
Upping the ante, I send him a flirty text and invite myself to his house a couple of days later. Shaking in my boots, I rock up. A bottle of wine and two hours later, not so much as holding hands.
This is too much and I crack. “Are you extremely shy?” I blurt. “No. I’m just not pushy,” he says.
“Well, give me a proper kiss, then!” I demand. And we kiss. Nice. Strange. Tongues. Like teenage kissing. He tells me he wasn’t sure I “wanted to go in that direction”. Clearly, I really am crap at sending the right signals.
I reassure him. No invitation to bed is forthcoming, so it’s time to drive 50 miles all the way home. As I leave, he produces a hidden bunch of mistletoe. He kisses me again. I am an idiot. I had ruined his romantic plans to kiss me in his own time and in his own sweet and non-pushy way.
A Date For First-Time Sex
We agree he’ll come down to mine next weekend. I tell him how terrified I am about sleeping with someone. Not only someone new, but prior to this, my husband and I hadn’t had sex for six years. (Well, my husband had, but that’s a different story.) Everything might have healed up!
Nevertheless, I trust that Muddy Farmer is going to be good with frightened animals. “Bring horse tranquilizers and Viagra,” I suggest and he answers: “Why would I need Viagra?” OK, then!
I am on pins all week… will everything work? Will I have forgotten how? Friends say that having sex again is just like riding a bike. Try as I might, I draw no comfort from this graceless metaphor. I haven’t ridden a bloody bike for ages either.
Sighs Of Relief
Saturday, and I get a text. “On my way. Hope you have your tranquilizers handy.” We are definitely on, then.
Dutch courage at the local pub. Walk home. Upstairs. Kissing. Clothes off. Nice lean bod … all that castrating of bullocks keeps him fit. Then he makes a very bold and unusual first intimate move. It is very sexy. I think, “Oh. You’re going to be good at this.”
And he is. My nether regions seem to go with the flow. Sighs of relief rather than ecstasy but I don’t think he could tell the difference. Well, it is like riding a bike. Instincts take over and you do know what to do.
However, instincts about letting men know you want to take them to bed seem to be a different kettle of fish. The more gentlemanly they are, the harder it is, it seems. So you pays your money and you takes your choice.
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