Jock My Dating Life 

The Tale of the 11 Hour First Date

6-minute read

So … yeah, I went on a date with Jock.

The date ended up being 11 hours long.

I had so much fun with him I didn’t realise where the time had gone, and neither did he.

Peeps, I’m in SERIOUS trouble.

Our date was cute, cheap, and very cheerful. We chose the arcades and some seaside fun, making plans to eat ice cream and paddle on the beach and frolic in the sunshine. He tried to win me a toy at the arcades, on the grabber machines, but he failed just as I predicted he would. I couldn’t just walk away, though. Instead, I put a couple of quid in, gave it a bash myself, and won my own damn cuddly toy. It’ll always remind me of him and that great first date, whether he calls me again afterwards or not.

And who needs a man to win you a stuffed bear, anyway?

Clearly on some sort of lucky roll, I also won a couple of other toys, all of which I donated to Jock to give to his step-daughter. Because … yeah, there’s a step-daughter. That’s all I really know about her at the moment.

We grabbed some food and drank cups of tea, shot toy guns and raced fast bikes and cars, and there was plenty of banter and healthy competition. The games generally meant us taking turns, giving me time to check him out and really analyse him.

He’s older looking than the photos show, but I wouldn’t exactly say that it was a disadvantage. The little sprinkling of grey hairs is just enough for me to call him a silver fox and honestly, I’m just a-okay with that.

He’s shorter than he told me he was, but don’t all men lie about their height on dating apps? He’s stocky and gruff-looking so it really works for me, with a rounded little belly that I can’t wait to rest my head on. He’s a hairy guy too. I have the biggest thing for hairy guys. I don’t like my men bald. I like something to grab. The hairier the better.

Do I think he’s good-looking? Yes. I could have taken him or left him at the beginning of the date, but by the end of it, I was sold. I couldn’t think about anything except kissing him for the last three or four hours or so, and I kept looking at him, daring myself to do it.

Just do it, kiss him, just fucking do it. Grab his shirt, pull him towards you, and just do it.

I didn’t do it. Instead, I focused on what he was talking about, but I don’t actually think I took any of it in. I was trying to pay attention – really trying – but it was a pointless exercise. I kept nodding and agreeing to stuff that I’m pretty sure I should’ve said no to, and there were a lot of blank stares. I think I might have made a bit of a tit out of myself … I wouldn’t blame him for never calling me again.

He has the most beautiful voice. Soulful and Scottish and absolutely wonderful. Every time he opened his mouth his words would dance and whisper in my head, making me smile in the same way that My Mr. Grey’s accent used to. Jock reminds me of another boy from my dating history too: The Fireman. They’ve got the same kind of look about them except Jock is obviously a bit older: stocky, firm, even the walk and stance was similar. (And The Fireman was *dynamite* in bed, so I’m hoping this comparison bodes well for the future!)

At the end of the date, I suggested we stop in a pub close to where I live. Bestie was there doing something else so I thought I’d get their awkward interruption out the way nice and early. Not that Bestie dictates my dating life or anything, but we all know that his opinion means a lot to me. He tends to get fuckboy vibes pretty early on whereas it takes me a few weeks/months/years/never happens. He didn’t get fuckboy vibes, though. He just kinda nodded and said, “yeah, he’s alright,” and that was the end of it. Normally he has *a lot* to say about the men I choose to date, so the fact that he had nothing to say was just downright weird.

It could have been one of the best first dates of my life. In fact, it had the potential to be THE best first date of my life. Do you want to know why it wasn’t? Because it felt like all of the sexual chemistry was one-sided … my side. I genuinely thought he might’ve friend-zoned me. He didn’t attempt to hold my hand, or kiss me, or put his arm around me. Nothing. We walked a bit, talked a bit, and laughed an awful lot. There was a point at which we even danced. We were messing around, obviously, but still, we danced.

But as he pulled the car up around the corner from my house (because I didn’t want to give him an exact address yet in case he was an axe murderer), it happened.

The kiss.

Our first kiss.

I’d just grabbed my bag and got ready to pull the handle and open the door and I think he saw his last opportunity and then just took it. He reached out for me and leaned in towards me. Nervous and trying to be sassy and actually coming across as a bit of a dick, I didn’t let him have the amazing kiss he’d obviously just attempted. I don’t know why I did it but I offered him my cheek. After all those hours spent dreaming about kissing him, I OFFERED HIM MY FUCKING CHEEK. What is wrong with me?

As he planted a soft kiss on my cheek, I realised this would be my last chance to get the actual, proper first kiss in there. If I didn’t, he’d leave the date thinking I wasn’t interested. (I gave him my fucking cheek, oh-my-fucking-god, why?!) So, right at the last minute, rather than pulling away from him, I turned into him.

And we kissed.

Yes, yes, we kissed.


Earlier in the date, he’d joked around with me, telling me he was the world’s best kisser — so of course I didn’t hold high hopes for him. Men who say that to me are usually the WORST kissers EVER, so I went in with low expectations and hoped I’d be pleasantly surprised. And I really, really was pleasantly surprised. Soft, just the right amount of pressure, not too much tongue, a decent amount of saliva …

It was so good I smiled right in the middle of it, people.

I really like this guy, people.


I can imagine him being really good in bed. You can’t kiss like that if you don’t have the bed-action to back it up, surely? The way his tongue moved around my lips and mouth gave me a sneak peek at just what it could do to my clit if we ever made it that far. And his hands … as he gently cupped my cheek and kissed me I couldn’t help but wonder about how his hands would feel as they gripped my body. I predict he’s going to be a hot and very passionate lover. And from what I can make out – and I haven’t really had a decent look and/or grope yet – I’m fairly certain there’s going to be no complaints about what he’s packin’ between his legs.

Exactly 45 minutes after he’d driven off and left me waving at him, he text me.

“I had the best night!”

We talked for a little more, our conversation getting naughtier and naughtier the longer it went on.

“Can we book a second date really soon?” he asked me, and I vaguely agreed. I don’t want to look too keen, do I? Or maybe I do? I mean, I AM keen. Very keen. I already want to fuck him, but I’ve made a promise to myself: we’re not having sex until the fourth date. I made One Ball wait three dates before letting him into my bed and look how that turned out.

Can I actually wait three more dates, though? I want to be this classy girl with all this will power – and to him, I probably look that way right now – but that’s not what I’m feeling inside. I want to jump his bones something crazy.

“Maybe we should go camping for a date soon? You said you enjoyed outdoor stuff, right? Camping, a fire, some beers, music … what do you think?” I asked him.

“Yeah, why the fuck not?!” he replied.

First-time sex in a tent … is that weird??

(Here’s hopin’ he’s not an actual axe murderer!)





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