Category: internet dating

Click. Alt. Delete.

I got a text from BB today. Remember him?

I don’t really either.

But he’d clearly been reading my posts about dating and who pays and today he sent me a message.

BB: Are we ever going to have dinner again?

Violet: Nope.

BB: Is it because of the dick pics?

Violet: Yip.

Oh, he said. Thank goodness. I thought it might be because I didn’t pay.



Dating across the colour line

I’d ticked the box that said White. Caucasian, actually.  I hadn’t give it a seconds thought, until my girlfriends yelled at me. “Come on Violet, its 2014, get with the country girl”.

Sheepishly, I’d changed my dating profile. Marked the black box.

Happy, ready, can’t wait to meet men of all size, shape and colour.

Immediatley I received a mail.

“Hi Violet. This is Thabo, you seem lovely. Join me, Saturday, grab a bite?”

I’d spat out my cappuccino and choked on my muffin. A message within minutes. From a much younger black man. He looked nice, his profile was interesting.  But he was black. And young.  And possibly well hung.

I stammered, I stuttered, I said okay, then I said No, then I said okay, then I thought I better be clear before I got fired from the dating site.

“Thabo, I’m unsure, I’ve never been out with someone like you. I’m white, I’m complicated, I’m newly divorced, I dammit, I’m just complicated, it’s not you, it’s not about colour, it’s just…”

He seemed mildly amused. “I understand,” he’d said, signing out. “Call me if you change your mind”.

 That was it. 

My friends were horrified. The more I tried to get them to understand where I was coming from, different culture, language, values, the deeper the hole I dug for myself. For the sake of friendship, I went on the date.

I got hold of Thabo, told him that I was taking a long hard look at myself and prejudice, and said “Yes. If you still want to, let’s hang out”. 

I over-thought this date so much, Thabo made it clear to me that it was just a date, not a marriage proposal. I started wondering if the complications that I spoke about were perhaps brought upon by myself.

 We went out. I changed clothes a hundred times, couldn’t decide on shoes, and found it even harder to choose underwear.

What panties do you wear when you lunch with a Black man – g string, briefs, nothing?

I had so much to learn.

We had lunch and it was surprisingly fabulous. Of course we had a few differences. He supported Pirates. I support Man U. He drove a convertible, I like station wagons. He lived in Soweto. I’m a northern suburbs gal. 

But he drank French Champagne.  And so did I.

 The conversation was good and he was incredibly sexy. I found myself moving closer to him, wanting to put my hand on his exceptionally strong, muscular leg. I was sure he felt the same way.

Until my mothers bridge friends walked in. They looked at me. Looked away. And looked again.

“You look remarkably like Sarah’s daughter” the one said.

“You can’t be” said the other.

“Let me introduce you, Thabo.”  I now felt completely confident with my new found younger did I mention, black, boyfriend.

“This is Hilda, and Sylvia, this one’s Betty…”.

They shook hands gingerly. And as they walked away, I could already hear Hilda phoning her friend. “You’ll never believe…”.

 Who cares. I was completely smitten. I laughed telling Thabo about my choice of shoes, underwear, and panic at finding the right restaurant. I didn’t really notice him looking at me with one raised black eyebrow.

 I was a little surprised when he didn’t tear my clothes off after dessert. He pecked me on the cheek, even when it was clear I was ready for a full on snog. 

He left, muttering words like too old, too white, and too sexy. He also used the word ‘ingrained’, and I think he was saying that prejudice is ingrained in all of us, whether we think so or not. I may have imagined the ‘too sexy.’

I never heard from him again. But I did hear from my mother.


“Yes Mom.”

“I believe you’ve been out with a man.”

“Yes Mom.”

“And I heard from my friends…”

“Yes, Mom.”

“He isn’t Jewish, how could you, such shame…”

My relationship with my mother may never be the same again.  But at least I redeemed myself with my friends.

I should've.

Tantric Sex

I have a friend – she’s fifty, single, sexy and extremely rich. She lives on lettuce leaves, uses botox, whitens her teeth, has perfect hair, a private gym instructor, wears heels, and fucks men for money. 

She gives great blow jobs, and in return, she makes sure that her ‘men’ give her everything that she could possibly want.  

She’s a high class hooker and I am highly bloody jealous. I would kill to have the kind of money she has.

But I would not be very good at sex work.

 My sexual encounters are generally disastrous. If I give someone a massage, I find myself allergic to the oil. I look pathetic tottering about in heels and my stockings are always laddered. I’m scared of injections so wouldn’t botox, too lazy to brush my hair, and I’ve never given a decent blow job in my life.

 In fact, my last sexual encounter landed up with the guy losing his tooth while opening a condom and crawling around the floor, naked, desperately looking for it.

Sex work was not an option for me to make extra money. 

But sex writing was. And so I applied to write for a new raunchy magazine – ‘Tantric Touch’. 

I got the job!

Violet Online was soon going to be called Tantric Violet.

 My first assignment: Sensual Sanctuaries in the City. Thinking of the dresses I could buy with my first paycheck, I plunged myself into internet research. 

God I had fun. Amazing sites for Tantric Sex.  Amazing pictures of Tantric Sex. Amazingly, I wanted to have Tantric Sex.  But then I remembered that this was work and I was on a deadline. So getting serious, I googled a little more, finding the mysterious sounding ‘’Bhoga Sexual Sanctuary’.

Bhoga means ‘Sexual enjoyment’. I was on the right path.  

In the name of research, I booked myself a  Sexual Energy Massage with Tantric Master Floating Eagle. 
Floating Eagle was charming, tall, toned and definitely naked under his loose orange robe.  He handed me my own robe and said “Don’t be shy. Take it all off”.

We sat opposite one another on our yoga mats, legs in lotus position, hands in prayer position.
He chanted about honoring my mind, body and spirit, and told me the only thing expected of me was to ‘surrender into bliss.’ That didn’t sound so difficult. I can do bliss quite easily. 

I disrobed, pretending it was completely natural to be naked in front of an orange robed floating eagle. The room was quiet, apart from his chants and tantric breathing. I focused for all it was worth on the Bliss yet to come. I kept my eyes firmly closed and avoided glancing down at his floating eagle, which I have to say, seemed set to soar at any minute.

Floating Eagle’s breathing got louder and louder.  Pleasurable sounds. Intense. Animalistic. Sex sounds. I started making sounds too.

 Mine started softly but slowly, coming from the bottom of my Yoni, up through my sensual feminine waters, and out through my mouth, where they became huge full blooded hysterical guffaws. My sounds were not sounds of sexual pleasure.

Floating Eagle was not amused. He stared at me while I dissolved into fits of laughter that only ended when I stooped to pick up my clothes from the pavement outside the Sanctuary.

 I dressed in the car, pulled up my laddered stockings, then called my Tantric Touch Boss.

“Don’t bother coming back. If you want to work for us, you need to put your full heart and Yoni into the stories”. 

I wish I had put my whole Yoni into that story. Even with all the intense research I did, I never got paid  never had a Tantric Massage.

I never learned how to give a decent blow job. 

And I still don’t have any money.

tantric sex

Cyber Sex

It’s as hard quitting scrabble as it is quitting heroin. I went back to playing and met Apoorva. From India. 

His profile pic was of his white underpants. Our game went like this: 

I’m here for sex, he says. Do you cyber?

It’s hot, the kids are playing monopoly, I’m lazing around in my underwear, and feel a slight tingle between my legs.

Me:  Sure. You start.

Apoorva: Pretend we’re in a hotel room, in Italy, getting ready to go out.

Me: K. I’m pulling a black dress over my head, putting on a pair of high heeled shoes, ready to leave.

Apoorva: You look really hot.  We’re walking along cobbled stoned streets, heading to the restaurant, hand in hand.  You’re not wearing any underwear.

Me: God, I’m feeling a little horny already.

Apoorva: I guide you to the table. We sit.  Order. Your dress rides up your legs, I can see your thighs. I look you in the eye, and ask you to sit closer to me. Come. Sit closer.

Me: God. Okay. Shit, this is nice. I’m going to take off my underwear.

Apoorva: Cool. Our food arrives. You drop your fork and lean over to get it. Your ass is almost in my face. I grab it under the table.

Me: What about the other people in the restaurant? I don’t want them to see my ass.

Apoorva: They watch. I like them watching.

Me: K. Um. Can we move from the table. Let’s run up to a hotel room. Get on to the be

Apoorva: You have a great ass. I feel it while you’re under the table, it’s big, firm, I like that. You stay under the table, turn around, your mouth…

Me: Wait. Shit. No. I can’t have cyber sex under a table. Please, let’s leave the restaurant.

Apoorva: I want you to blow me under the table.

Me: No. It feels too rough. I prefer it to be romantic. No.

Apoorva: Okay. We’re leaving. We’re running quickly along a dark alley, towards our room. We can’t wait. I push you against a wall…

Me: No Apoorva. Wait. I don’t want to have sex with you outdoors. Let’s get to the hotel.

Apoorva: Jesus, woman, this is just cybersex, stop being so difficult.

Me: I’m not being difficult, I mean, I’m trying not to be, but i like to be wined and dined, have some romance, not so clinical you know. Let’s leave the alley. Or at least, choose a street that’s romantic, beautiful lamps posts, the ocean nearby. Maybe we can run, through this street, arm in arm, to the hotel, romantic.

Apoorva: Fine. We’re back at the hotel. Drink a glass of wine for God’s sake, then take off your clothes, lie back, open your legs.

Me: Slow down. Kiss me first, hard, on the lips, hard. My dress is falling off my shoulder, kiss my shoulder too…

Apoorva: Kiss kiss. Can we move on to fucking yet?

Me: No. I need foreplay. Come on. Run your lips over my shoulder. Gently drop my dress to the floor. Admire my French hand stitched underwear. Tell me I’m beautiful. Pick up a bottle of oil. Rub it on me, slowly, beautifully, gently…

The chat light on my laptop has gone.

He disappears. 

I go play monopoly with the kids…

Here are some things you should know about cyber sex:

Everyone is doing it.

It can be fun.

It should only be done when teenage kids are out the house.

And their friends.
-It should be kept to the chat box only.

Film is not pretty.
-And if you call it cybersex, you are over the age of 50.

Should we all have cyber sex?

At least once.
-Okay, daily.

What should we do if our children start having cyber sex?
  Phone their father.

cyber sex

Internet Dating

I’d been on my own for months and was lonely. I needed new conversation and new experiences. I was also horny and Internet Dating seemed to be the way to go.  I created a profile, called myself ‘Violet’, and within days my inbox was full. 

So many lonely people out there. 

I chatted to a guy who seemed ideal.  A Pilot.

 A good friend, had warned me, in very strong language, to never go near pilots.

‘DO NOT GO NEAR PILOTS’, he said. ‘They’re all cunts and it will not end well’.

I should’ve listened.

Profile Name: Airbus Driver

Why should you get to know Airbus Driver?

I live on the edge and would love a partner to be edgy with me. Adventure. Challenges. It’s all the name of the game.

He describes his ideal match thus: Someone daring and risky, with good legs and a great heart.

General Information: Divorced. Whisky drinker. Bike rider. Airplane flyer.  Love the Rolling Stones.

Looking for:  Excitement.

The Pilot sent me a mail saying he liked my dating profile, thought I sounded interesting, and suggested a drink.

I said okay, we met, drinks turned to dinner, and hey, the night was fun. Easy conversation, stimulating, exciting. He had loads of flying stories for me, I had loads of deranged housewife stories for him.  He was good looking in that rugged pilot kind of way and found me attractive, I liked his smell.

He held my hand and kissed me goodnight. And when I drove home, my panties were wet.

I knew this was the man I was finally, thank you God, going to have sex with.

And so I went to stock up.  On contraception.

How does one buy condoms?


Even when the salesman at Clicks showed me where they were, I couldn’t see them.  And when I did, I giggled out loud.

So many different brands.  All shapes. Sizes.  Colours. Textures.

Ribbed.  Flavoured.  Edible. Very different to 30 years ago.

When I asked the salesman to help me make a choice, he giggled.

‘That would be up to you, Maám’ he said with a smile.

‘But what’s better? Ribbed or plain? Chocolate or Vanilla?’ Small, medium or large?

I was persistent.

 He blushed, and left me to make the choice on my own. 

I eventually left with a very heavy packet and R 2000 worth of condoms. Nobody could call me irresponsible.

As arranged, I drove to the Astor Hotel, for our liaison.  I was nervous.  He’d told me he manscaped.  

I waited.

And waited.  

And waited..

And wondered how long I should wait for.

 He never turned up. And I have never felt more humiliated in all my life.

When I got home after sobbing all the way in the car I chatted to the friend who told me to stay away from pilots. I never had the courage to tell him I’d been stood up. I just told him I’d chickened out.

He repeated – ‘Stay away from pilots, Violet.  They’re a bunch of cunts’.


Single and drinking.

My husband had moved out, my dating life was a disaster, I had no money, and as all newly single people do, I began to drink.

 I had never been a big drinker before, but I started having a whisky (or two) every night.  

It felt good. Me: a woman, on my own, strong, independent, age 50 drinking single malt.

Whisky does things to you that nothing else can. It warms the chest. It makes you feel okay for dumping someone. It increases your libido. 

It makes everything glow. And glisten. I liked it, a lot.

I drank too much.

I drank too much when I thought about what I had done to my ex-husband.

 I drank too much when I thought about that fat ex-friend who had been so nasty to me.

 I drank far too much when I thought about the lover that I really wanted that I knew I would never have.

 And then I drank so much, I noticed I had put on 4 kilos.

And so I stopped. I did not want to be FAT.  

I could be anything. I could be a terrible mother, a dumper of husbands, a home wrecker, a cyber-sexer, a whore. I could even be an alcoholic.

 But I could not be fat. 

I loved my whisky. It had made me feel good.  

I thought about options. 

Cocaine could work, but it’s far too expensive.

 Bath Salts apparently brilliant, but I didn’t really want to eat someone’s face.

 Meditation. Boring.



Of course.

So instead of drinking, I masturbated. It was a hellova lot cheaper. Great exercise. Good cardio.

 And I never woke up with a headache.

Advice to newly single people

The first year sucks, no matter who has done the leaving. 

Drink, definitely, but not too much.

 Date, definitely, but not too much.

Do not drink and date at the same time.

Do not get fat. Never get fat.

 Try therapy.

 Only buy single malt. 


 And above all, keep your sense of humour.


The date with Rob

We agree to meet at Chez Julien, for drinks, before committing to the ‘let’s do it for real’ deed. 

I set off for the restaurant. I’ve lost complete confidence in this. I know he’s going to be 75, hairy, oily and sweaty. But I’ve borrowed a very sexy dress, spent all my kid’s school money on stilettos,  and am wearing  dark glasses. Just in case.

And then I see him. He is EXACTLY like his profile pic, except he’s wearing clothes. Gorgeous. Young. Strong. 

I stepped towards him. Our eyes meet.

‘A bottle of Veuve Clicquot’ he snapped his fingers at the waiter. ‘Orange Label’.


You’re even more beautiful in real life’, he said, as he handed me a small parcel, wrapped in black tissue with a pink ribbon. Lingerie. See through. And very very small.

I sat, stunned and speechless. I knew that if I stood up, I would fall right down again. He was perfect.

‘You can’t tell me I’m beautiful’ I gurgled at him, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. ‘It’s one of my rules’.

‘Sure’ he smiled. He was eating me alive with his eyes. Dark brown, smoldering eyes.

‘No more gifts. Ever’, I whispered, as I admired his gift.

‘No problem’ he said. ‘First, let me clasp this pretty little diamond necklace round your neck’.

I snapped my fingers at the Waiter. ‘Pen and paper. Please’.

The Waiter duly obliged.

‘I have more rules’, I spluttered.

‘No pretty little diamond necklaces.’

‘I think that may fall under the ‘no gifts’ category’.

His eyes twinkled.

‘Right.’ My pen hovered above the paper. When it came to rules, my mind went blank. I couldn’t think of any.

 His hand grasped mine. And that was me. Gone. Finished. Out of control. 

I dropped the pen. The cork popped. I jumped. He gave me his best crooked smile.

‘No crooked smiles’ I said, as I tried to write feverishly. But my hand was in his.

 ‘I think we should go straight to the room’, he whispered, tossing a heap of R 200 notes on the table and not waiting for change.

He gently guided me up the spiral staircase, his hand perfectly positioned at the small of my back.

 Click of a keycard. Lights dim. I look around, trying, but failing to control my breathing. 

The penthouse suite. An enormous bed. Velvet. Brocade. Rose petals. A bubble bath ready waiting.

 Feeling faint, I leaned against the wall, my sexy dress riding up my thighs.  He began to kiss me.  I tried to respond, but my body was shaking so much, I think he feared for my health. 

‘You need to relax a little’, he purred, guiding me towards the bed.

His strong hands unzipped my dress and slid it from my shoulders. 

‘Your skin’, he said, ‘So soft. Milky. Translucent’.

Let’s take a pause here. I know these are not great lines. But I was in no condition to judge his romantic prose.

I merely nodded in agreement.

 Running his fingers through my hair and over my back, he reached into the bedside drawer.

‘What are you looking for?’ I asked, nervously imagining whips, chains and rubber truncheons.

‘Sweet almond and vanilla,’ he replied. ‘Luxurious Persian massage oil’.

That sounded okay. I could do that. I relaxed and lay back.

Drops of warm, deliciously scented oil dripped onto my back. He started rubbing. Strong, sensual strokes, starting with my neck, moving to my shoulders, my back. I squirmed, desperately wanted to roll over and wrap my legs around him.

‘Don’t move’ he instructed. ‘Wait’.  And his hands moved lower and lower. His magic fingers transporting me to the back of beyond.

A momentary hiatus. And then . . . NOTHING.

I waited expectantly. My body craving his touch. He slowly got up from the bed and moved away. Okay. So this is part of the experience, I figure. He drives me wild with desire, and then tortures me as I wait for more. It all made weird wanton sense.

‘More’, I moan softly. ‘Don’t stop.’

But stop he has!

I turn around slowly, sleepily. ’What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘Carry on. I’m loving it.’

He flashes me his million dollar smile. I can’t help myself. I make a mental note to get the number of his orthodontist. 

He leans into me.

‘Ever had an allergic reaction to oil before?’ he asks gently.

 My brain starts to freeze up.

‘I’m not big on luxurious Persian Almond oils’, I ventured. I start to feel a definite itch coming from my lower back.

‘You may want to go take a look’ he suggests, kindly.

I leap up and propel myself into the bathroom. I stand in front of the mirror and gaze at my reflection in abject horror.

 Hives. Welts. Everywhere.

I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I touch my arm and new red splotches begin to appear. My skin is crimson, and my face is swelling up, beyond recognition.
I’m turning into the Elephant Man!

I collapse in a naked pile on the floor, sobbing silently, scratching wildly.

 He appears at the door, a large fluffy white robe in his arms.  ‘Put this over you’, he says. ‘You’ll feel better’.

‘I’m sure they’ll go away soon’, I stammer, tears streaming down my face. ‘Maybe, we can carry on’.

‘Probably not’, he says perfectly reasonably. His voice is kind and soothing. ‘Don’t worry. These things happen.’

This assessment doesn’t cheer me up at all. He slips the robe over my shoulders, while simultaneously cracking open another bottle.

 He reaches for two fresh glasses. I reach directly for the bottle.

 He watches me, vaguely amused, as I tip the bottle back and gulp down the contents like a desperate hobo, his R 2000 champagne splashing down my chin.

‘You may want to slow down’, he says. 

I look at him. He’s perfect. I smile weakly and close my eyes, just for a minute, the enormity of the evenings’ events slowly sinking in.

When I wake up, there’s sunlight streaming through the windows. It’s morning. 

He’s gone.  And I’ve fucked up my life.