28 dates on 28 different dating sites. What could go wrong?

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28 Dates Later by Willard Foxton: Part Twenty, The [REDACTED] and the Second Painful Injury

In which Willard reopens old wounds.

New Statesman
The world of BDSM [Photograph: Getty Images]

I suppose at this point it's worth warning you that this blog post is the one that contains the most adult content thus far - if you're easily offended by amusing sleazy sex stories, please don't read beyond this point. Just watch this video of a kitten fighting an electric toothbrush and go about your business. 

If you're still here, best get yourself a cup of tea.

Back? Good. So, anyway, where were we? Date 20? 

It seemed inevitable that sooner or later, I was going to end up doing some sort of dating site that was centred around some sort of crazed fetish. I mean, you kept sending me links to things like Fetlife ("For kinksters, by kinksters"),  Splosh dating (for people who like pouring ooze on each other) or Furrymate (for people who are turned on by anthropomorphic animals). On one hand, it did seem they might provide excellent blog material; on the other hand, I was never going to be able to have a lasting relationship with someone who wanted me to pour buckets of chocolate sauce on them while dressed as a leopard.

However, despite my decision not to go on those sites, it seems, if Willard will not go to the perverts, the perverts will come to Willard. On regular dating sites, I get sent some mind meltingly strange requests and emails. One woman on OKCupid, who was married, sent me an email with a  5 point list of things she wanted to do me; normally, at this point I'd gloss over exactly what was on her depravity shopping list, but... (LAST CHANCE TO ESCAPE TO KITTEN VIDEO BEFORE SLEAZE AND HORROR) ...since I've given you enough chances to look away, it can basically be added up to her husband pissing on me while she choked me, while I was locked in a cage in their sex dungeon.

That message ended in the most English way imaginable - the last line was "Do let me know if that sounds like your cup of tea", as though she'd just offered me church raffle tickets or something. 

I politely declined, as, well, frankly, urine soaked homoerotic strangulation is not something I'm really down with, no matter how charming and bijou a cage I'm offered. I mean, I'm sorry, I find degradation a bit, well, degrading. The strangest bit of that whole business was after I politely declined her offer, she added me on Linkedin. The "How do you know Ms.X?" box firmly in the "other" category, there.

Of course, at least that lady was open and upfront about her particular kinks, which is a much better way to be. I'd much rather that came up in the initial email than it suddenly being sprung on you mid-way through any sort of physical act of love. Which, just for the record, secret kinksters, is not cool. Probably worth at least discussing it first. That said, there just seems to be a certain open minded type of online dater who just assumes their date will be cool with anything.

A female friend recently told me about a chap she met online, who she really liked, who on the third date she invited back to her place. They get inside, start having a bit of a pash, and before they've even taken their clothes off entirely, the man produces a huge strap-on cock from his smart leather satchel, and asks our dumbfounded girl to fuck him with it. Yes, he'd brought it with him, "just in case" - obviously a boy scout. Be prepared and all that. Needless to say, our heroine called a halt to proceedings, and bundled him out the door, woggle and all.

Now, before I cut to the chase, and tell you nothing about Date 20, it's important to step back a few years, to provide a bit of context. About eight years ago, as a young, budding freelance journalist, I had one of my first ever assignments - interviewing a slightly shady property developer. 

The editor of the god-awful magazine I was writing for - one of those glossies that gets pushed through your door with two fawning profiles, a recipe for treacle tarts and two hundred adverts for 6 bedroom mansions - mentioned that this developer, as well as carrying a prominent aristocratic title (always a bad sign) was widely rumoured to have murdered his wife by pushing her out of a helicopter into the sea.

Not that anyone could prove anything, but there was a helicopter flight and a remarkably convenient spousal disappearance. So, I was sent to interview this bloke, and the editor mentioned that under no circumstances should I mention the rumours that he was a murderer. Just ask about the new houses, and the miraculous recovery from his 1980s "drug hell". But mostly about the houses. And accept chopper joyrides only at my own risk. 45 minutes tops, then out. Easy. If only I had listened.

So, understandably nervous, I drove to this chap's country pile, and while there, interviewed the developer/murderer, avoided being murdered, and struck up a conversation with his remarkably attractive niece, who was visiting her uncle for the weekend. She and I got to chatting, then went to lunch. Lunch turned into drinks, drinks turned into dinner, dinner ended up as sex in her murderous uncle's house.

So, this girl - a very proper, prim english girl, well brought up and so on - was quite into horse riding. On this occasion, she was on top, and she was riding me remarkably vigorously, giving me a fair idea of what winning the Grand National must be like, if you're a horse. At this point, it may be worth asking you if you know what a frenulum is? No? Also known as a banjo string? No? Well, suffice to say, it's the bit of skin that holds the skin around a man's penis to the rest of the penis.

Suffice to say, it's not a thing you want to rip or tear. 

Incidentally, I can almost literally feel the sympathetic pain of every man wincing as he's reading this. Bet you fuckers wish you'd watched that kitten video now, eh? Well, anyway, the pain you're imagining - it was at least that bad, if not worse. I immediately screamed for the girl to "Get off, Get Off! GET OFFF!!" and plunged my hands down to free my bleeding member. She, unaware of what had happened, looked terrified and said "what's wrong? What's wrong?!" before she caught sight of the gushing fountain of blood and immediately passed out into a dead faint.

So, she's unconscious, I'm bleeding everywhere. Everywhere. Agonised, I crawled up the bed, and looked for something to staunch the flow of blood; the only thing to hand was a box of tissues on the bedside table. Of course, being quite a prim and proper household, it was one of those prim boxes of tissues where you can only pull one dainty tissue out at a time. So, instead of being able to instantly create a makeshift bandage from a wodge of kleenex mansize, it was more of a matter of pull, pull, pull,pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull - bandage.

By this point, she was coming to, and she covered her eyes, not looking at me..."Oh god, what happened, I can't stand the sight of blood, sorry, I just passed right out, sorry sorry sorry Sorry!" I just begged her call an ambulance, as I literally thought I was dying. She grabbed a dressing gown, got up, and opened the door to go downstairs to use the phone, turned back round to say something (probably "Will you be ok?" or "Sorry!"), and caught sight of the blood leeching through the makeshift tissue bandage. I maintain, if they'd had proper tissues in that house, it never would have happened.

She instantly felt woozy again, started to collapse, and, gentleman that I am, I ran to catch her, dropping the bandage as I went. At the point I caught her, her murderous uncle came to the door to investigate the commotion, only to find me naked, covered in blood, holding his semi naked niece. His eyes met mine, and I blurted out "I can explain EVERYTHING."

He actually reacted better than I expected - in that he didn't instantly bundle me into his helicopter to commit another rotary-winged slaying. That's mostly because she came to, explained, we got an ambulance. Needless to say, we didn't have much of a relationship after that, and ever since, my penis, while now healed, has always been quite, well, fragile.

So that's the context of Date 20. I have a fragile penis. There are ladies with unusual tastes in the world. Now, sooner or later I knew I was going to go on a date where something interesting happened, but the lady in question didn't give me permission to write it up in full. So I figure it's probably ok to tell you, dear reader, what happened, without going into any specifics of who the person was, what site she was from, or anything that could possibly link her to this blog.

Suffice to say, after a very pleasant evening, we adjourned to my house. Without warning, this girl liked her foreplay very, very rough indeed, which I not at all comfortable with in the first place, even without factoring in my ahem, Achilles heel, if you'll forgive the term. After having to say, "No, sorry, I don't want to do that" a few times, she started giving me a handjob with the sort of gusto normally reserved for a Ukranian farmhand changing gears on the ancient soviet tractor on his collective farm. A request to be more gentle produced the sort of action normally required to change the gears in an elderly Citroen 2CV while driving it up a Provencal hill.

Needless to say, under this treatment, I'm sorry to say my penis broke. Not in the kind of disastrous fountain of blood of 8 years ago, not in some kind of nightmarish ice-lolly-snapped in the packet scenario, just a lot of pain, a little bit of blood, a bit of spooning and saying it was ok,  "My penis is very fragile, it's not your fault", a discussion about how we probably weren't suited anyway, and then a doctor's visit for me in the morning. Followed by quite a few emails to get this compromise so I can share what happened with you lovely people.

Anyway, so there you go. There was a 20th date, and I ended up getting injured, again. Ouch. It's tough, this dating lark. Now, I'm not sure whether to look on this as "my average is one injury worthy of showing off to the doctor every ten dates", or "I can usually go around eighteen dates between agonising injuries", but with only eight dates left to go, let's hope it's the latter,eh?