I met her in Martin Place as part of my boot camp with Paul and Zac.
She was dreamy and I had seen her a number of times while walking up Pitt St. I front stopped her and had the sun in my face; her eyes were brown and bright; her face a little ruddy; and her tan likely the product of a day’s tanning at a local beach.
The stack was silly – dreamy walk, tan, etc. I picked her as Northern European, called her Polish, and then she told me she was Dutch. My heart dropped – Dutch girls were beautiful but their energy is drab and direct. I contained myself, stacked further about my work, and then closed strong and got her number.
We arranged a date for the next Thursday and met at the Glenmore Hotel in Sydney. Great rooftop bar but crowded with Christmas parties. She turned up in a red jumpsuit, surprised me by covering my eyes…and when I opened them I inadvertently redirected my eyes to her breasts. Poor start.
She was a drinker, a smoker and a vegan. One of them was a vice in my opinion. Good open, about an hour on the rooftop, and she mentioned a liking for Billie Holliday. I moved venue after about 45 min, my voice croaky after sharing (socially) five menthol cigarettes.
We ended up at Cafe Lounge in Surry Hills. She and I shared hamburgers and I spiked with the usual questions about telling me a secret, sexual escapade, etc. She had unusual eyes, the kind that would follow you around when you moved your head, like holes in the eyes of a painting portrait scanning you as you strolled around a gallery.
Dutch females are direct – too direct and have it as part of their strong identity – and this in my opinion skews sexual polarity to a point where a man really has to dominate to achieve some kind of sexual tension; or let her do the work. A Dutch man I met near Amsterdam confided that he never went back to Dutch women after his Dutch girl at the time just stopped having sex with him mid-coitus – later that week he met a Brazilian and never went back.
I had shared a sexual adventure story with her to see if she would offer the same – she did. A nameless French guy (“I can’t remember now – it’s in the past”) she fucked in some rose bushes while her colleagues looked on. Incredulously, she said to me that if she ever fell in love with someone she would tell them 100% the truth about her past, including stories like these, because she valued the truth. I admonished her and said no guy investing in a girl ever wanted to hear a story of his girl being railed like that. She demanded to know: “why? It’s the truth.” I knew the date was done at this point.
There was a jazz band playing and I got up to sing. A few cigarettes, some awkward moments, and a few smashed shot glasses. We wrapped up and she suddenly panicked about missing her bus so I gave her a warm hug and said goodbye.
I reached out to her later if she wanted to see me and she said she was too busy before her trip to Melbourne. (Despite her directness, most women don’t seem to be able to overtly reject a guy and so let them fade away – men ought to do the same.) So I called out the elephant in the room and said I knew she wasn’t attracted to me and wished her well, with the warning that she should never tell a guy she loves that she was smashed by some nameless French guy in a rose bush while colleagues looked on…