1. Diary of a myspace date

    I have never been on a date with someone I've met through the Internet before, so agreeing to go on a date with a guy I met through myspace seemed reckless and thrilling, which is exactly why I agreed to it. I don't want to name the guy I went out a date with last Wednesday, mainly because it turned out to be a bit of a disaster and I don't want to embarrass him that much, so I'll refer to him only as 'Mr Myspace.'

    Because it was a first for me, I thought you guys would enjoy a blow-by-blow diary account of my first ever myspace date; to revel in all my embarrassment, the cheesy one-liners I had to endure and how I wanted to dig a massive hole in the ladies toilets and bury myself there forever. So, here it is; an account of my date in all its glory. Enjoy!

    Diary of a myspace date: Wednesday 13 December, 2007

    13.47: Late lunch

    Work is pretty mental today and I have to finish an important document for my boss, so I can only take a short, albeit late lunch. I have to go to Boots to get some Original Source mint shaving foam to make sure my pussy looks neat for tonight, and I guess I should buy some condoms too. Just incase….

    Just got back from Boots: the queue was massive and some old woman was whining about not being able to use more than one money-off voucher at the same time, so I grabbed a honey and mustard chicken pasta while I was there to save time.

    17.00: Finish work

    Finished a bit later than usual so I have even less time to get home and change. Traffic is mental and there are no taxis around. I'll have to walk…Fuck!

    17.39: Finally get home

    Just realized that I've left the Original Source shaving foam in the office. Bollocks! I've got less than two hours to get ready and be at the restaurant so there's not time to go back out again. This is turning into a right disaster.

    18.17: Time to scrub up

    I've panicked and made the giant mistake of thinking hair conditioner would work instead of shaving foam. It worked a treat on my legs, but my pussy looks like it's broken out in chicken pox. Whatever happens tonight, it's gonna have to be with the lights off. At least my hair looks good – thank god I had my colour reapplied yesterday.

    18.51: Where's my strapless bra?!

    My hair and make-up is done – I've gone for a smoky, sultry look – and my pussy has finally started to calm down. The red spots have turned into little pink bumps, which are looking less angry as each minute passes. Can't find my bloody strapless bra, though, and I need it to wear underneath this satin bustier.

    18.56: Found the bra!

    Found my strapless bra in the tumble dryer. I'm finally dressed and, miraculously, I'm looking good. I'm wearing my tightest dark-blue Moto jeans and a slinky black bustier with a gorgeous drop diamond solitaire necklace. Underneath I'm wearing tiny mesh black pants, more out of necessity than desire. My skin desperately needs to breathe down there.

    19.17: One for the road

    I'm on my second glass of Rioja while waiting for the taxi to show up. I've got to be at the restaurant in 13 mins, but it shouldn't matter it if I'm a bit late. After all, that's what girls do best, eh?

    19.38: No turning back now!

    I'm nearly 10 minutes late but Mr Myspace doesn't seem worried. He's smiling at me from the restaurant bar and looks a lot cuter than his profile picture gives him credit for. He's quite tall, broadly built and with dark hair and eyes. If I was to guess just by looking at his tight ass in those perfectly fitted jeans, he's got a sporty body and hopefully a generous sized penis. Why am I so nervous?

    20.14: Tonight's menu

    Mr Myspace chose this restaurant and I have to say that I'm not impressed. It's basically a steak house, populated mainly by groups of guys ripping through T-bones with their teeth and fingers. The wine menu is shit – the local Spar shop could serve up a better selection of dish water than this -– so I have to do something I never do on a first date: order a beer. To top it all off, the beer comes in big pitchers. Where the fuck am I? Some back alley American saloon bar?

    There's a choice of steak, chicken or pork on the menu, and any of the featured dishes would require an army of toothpicks to get the mountain of carcass from between my teeth. Surely My Myspace can't find this sexy? I order chicken, he goes for a 12-ounce steak.

    20.19: Silence is painful

    Apart from barking the words 'steak' and 'beer,' Mr Myspace doesn't seem that much of a conversationalist, apart from reeling out a stack of cheesy one-liners ("Either I'm dead and rigormortis is setting in, or you've got my cock rock-hard baby"). He doesn't want to talk about work, his family, friends or what he does on the weekend. Instead he's more interested in staring freely at my tits while letting me prattle on about the most inane shit I have ever spouted. The topic of my website comes up and suddenly Mr Myspace springs to life. He wants to know everything: what positions I like, what turns me on, have I ever done it with an animal – no, you fucking weirdo! – and if I like giving blowjobs.

    For some reason he seems obsessed with two things: firstly, whether my tits are real or fake and, secondly, that I must give great head. A knackered waitress shuffles over to our table with two bottles of ketchup, some cutlery, a stained bunch of napkins and the obligatory toothpicks. Sexy, eh?

    20.47: Bon appetite!

    Mr Myspace has sensed that I'm not having the best time, so he's decided to cheer me up by giving me a demonstration of what he can do with his big, thick tongue. As he proceeds to snog the back of my wrist the next table over start jeering. Mr Myspace, feeling somewhat bolstered by the rednecks on the next table, kisses me full on the lips. While it may have been a shitty date up until now, his juicy, pouty lips have got me all hot and horny. I listen to him waffle on about his amazing oral technique, all the while starring at those big lips and watching that thick powerful tongue of his dance away behind his teeth. I hope he's as good as he says he is.

    Our food is brought over and it seems as though Mr Myspace hasn't had a chance to eat today, because even before I pick up my fork he'd ripped off a chunk of his steak and slathered it in sweet BBQ sauce before swallowing it whole like a snake. It takes him a mere nine minutes to clear his plate of a 12-ounce steak, chips, onion rings and a side salad. Disgusting. Speed doesn't impress me, unless it's a setting on my vibrator.

    21.02: Patience is a virtue

    Mr Myspace is getting restless. Either that or he's still hungry because he's now started on my meal and is literally sucking the remaining meat off the chicken bones left on my plate. I have to say, those grease-strewn lips aren't looking so tasty right now. I've lost count of how many beers I've had; all I know is that I need more.

    By the time he's finished scooping up every last bit of food on my plate, Mr Myspace seems a bit more satiated and is looking to satisfy another type of appetite. I feel his big, heavy hand traveling up the inside of my thigh underneath the table, which should be an exciting turn-on but all I can think is, 'I hope he hasn't got chicken grease all over his hands…'

    21.19: Emergency exit

    Screw the desert course. I need to make my excuses and leave. I've just spent over 10 minutes being devoured alive by Mr Myspace's inexpert mouth; my bottom lip is practically swollen and I've got a bad case of razor rash over the right-hand side of my neck and on my chin. If that's the kind of damage he could do to my mouth, there's no way I'm letting him loose on my tiny pussy, especially when it's in a delicate state. Trouble is, Mr Myspace is brandishing a massive erection underneath his jeans. It looks like a one of those giant Smarties tubes you get in your stocking at Christmas – both unbelievably thick and long. Forget Mr Myspace, this is Mr Superbig. There's no way that mammoth cock is going anywhere near my mouth or pussy tonight. I need to get out of here!

    21.25: The Great Escape

    I've been in the ladies toilets for a few minutes and Mr Myspace has already tried following me in, apparently thinking that a shag in the toilets was on the cards. Bloody hell, this guy is relentless. I'm so desperate to get away from him right now that I'm contemplating digging a hole in the floor with my nail file. But this isn't the Great Escape (not that they dug their way out with nail files), so there's only one way to put a stop to this…

    21.35: On my way home

    Phew! I'm in a taxi on my way home with a giant bar of Galaxy that I bought from the Spar shop just down from the road. Mr Myspace was a little too full on, even for me, so I told him a simple lie to curb his enthusiasm: that I was having my period. I've never seen a guy move so fast to get my coat as when I said I needed to go buy some tampons immediately.

    00.34: Private message from Mr Myspace

    Mr Myspace has just sent me a message that reads: "When you're done surfing the crimson wave, we should hook up and you can show me how hard you can suck." Er, how about never, you giant loser!

    One more message was sitting in my inbox when I got home. It was from another myspace user who was wondering if we could meet up for a drink. You'd have thought that Mr Myspace was enough to put me off dating myspace folk for life, but he hasn't. I'm meeting this new person on Thursday, and hopefully she will be a lot better than Mr Myspace, but I'll have to let you know!

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