For an introduction to this “dirty thirty” series of blog posts for my new book Below The Belt, go here.
Egyptian Princess – January 2013, London
The weekend bootcamp started ominously with heavy rain, thunder and lightning. Our backup plan was to meet the students at Marble Arch and jump straight on the Central Line heading west to Shepherd’s Bush to conduct most of the daygame in the giant Westfield Mall.
On the subway there myself and the other instructors would chat to the students to find out about their backgrounds and put them at ease before jumping infield. Two stops down from Marble Arch at Queensway a glamorous looking girl boarded our carriage and sat almost opposite us. She clearly wasn’t English; high heels, fresh makeup and lots of visible gold jewellery. I guessed Persian or Lebanese by her exotic features, mid to late twenties.
Myself and the students were still soggy from the rainy meeting, our clothes soaked and our hair dripping. I was sitting in the middle of two students talking animatedly about the plan for the day and that’s when I first clocked the first Indicator Of Interest (IOI) from the Queensway girl – a quick look over from her with her large cat-like eyes, something more than just an inquisitive glance.
A minute or so later the student next to me noticed she’d done it again in my direction. “Is that an IOI?” he muttered. A magical effect of teaching students infield is that the coach is infused with extra mojo, spurred on by his keen students and their desire to see a demo. Rather than answering his question I stood up, crossed the carriage and put out my hand out to introduce myself to Miss Queensway. I can’t remember exactly what I said but it was something about her exotic look and her cat-like eyes.
Approaches on the subway are tricky because both you and the girl are trapped, so you’ve got to be extra calibrated to any Indicators Of Disinterest (IODs) and back off. Her IOIs made the open easier, and sure enough she hooked pretty quickly, telling me she was from Egypt on a “shopping trip to London” and asking me what I was doing that day.
By now we were past Notting Hill Gate, only one stop away from our destination. Everything needed to be sped up as I wasn’t sure where she was getting off. I sat down next to her and tried to get her phone number. She said she didn’t have a phone that was working. I went for my Plan B – Facebook. She said she didn’t have a profile. It was a very sexual set that felt pretty on so I persisted, asking her what she was doing later. She said she was going shopping in the mall then heading back later that day to her hotel (the Hilton) in Queensway.
Perhaps because I knew my students were watching, I tried a Hail Mary move of telling her I’d show up in the reception of the Hilton at 8pm and we’d go for a drink. She smiled back with twinkling eyes and verbally agreed before the carriage doors opened and she vanished into the crowd. As we got out of the metro I explained to the students what a long shot it was going to be, but I was still happy they’d seen the flirting in action.
The bootcamp finished for the day back in the Marble Arch daygame house around 7pm. I told the other housemates about the mystery Egyptian girl and debated whether I should go to her hotel. I was tired and very tempted just to crash out. But one thing pushed me forwards to have a shower, get dressed and board the metro again – I hadn’t got an Egyptian flag in my notch collection.
In my ripped jeans, leather jacket and scruffy boots I looked out of place sitting in the swanky reception of the Hilton Queensway. I’ve never gone to a date being less sure the girl’s going to turn up – no phone number, no way of messaging her, just a brief metro promise.
8pm came and went. 8.10, then 8.15….I gave myself another five minutes before I’d be on my way, tail between my legs. Just as I was about to head back home there she was, marching into the hotel carrying armfuls of shopping bags, straight from the mall. She looked just as shocked as I did that we’d made the reunion happen and ushered me to follow her into the lift before reception staff noticed me with her.
As soon as I got into the lift I was filled with doubt. Was she a hooker, hustling me for money? Was she going to take me to her room and drug me for body parts?! The conversation was so awkward and stilted because of the bizarreness of the situation. We made chit-chat about her shopping and London life as we moved from the lift to her room. She was so nonchalant about me going to her room, yet nervous about anyone seeing us.
In the room she went straight into the bathroom to have a shower and change into some of the new clothes she’d bought. I was left sitting on the bed and conversing with her through the bathroom door that was slightly ajar. My usual dating and seduction model had gone out the window. Was she waiting for me to go into the bathroom and nail her immediately? Did she think I was her gay best friend and we’d just go out for a friendly drink? Was she calling someone to come and kill me?
I learnt a few key things during her bathroom session – she was Egyptian, married, and her rich husband was away on business so she’d come to London to use his credit card in high end shops. She said she wasn’t religious but her husband was.
Almost an hour later she emerged in almost all white, like a glamorous mummy from a tomb but covered in gold accessories. It felt so weird just escalating out of nowhere and she was clearly dressed up to do something, so I suggested a “beer in a real English place” in a classic pub opposite the hotel (which I’ve heard has subsequently become derelict).
In the pub we sat in an alcove and I felt on comfortable ground, running the usual date model of verbal then physical spikes. It was funny seeing such a glitzy girl in a proper London pub drinking local ale. I was reminded of Eddie Murphy in Coming To America, trying to blend in. She said she liked the low key atmosphere after her “bubble” life in Egypt and her shopping sprees abroad.
I don’t remember much of the date, just the awkward bit where we walked out of the pub, crossed the road and I tried to keep cool as I strolled once more into the reception with her, knowing that if she invited me into the lift once more then it was game over.
Fast forward eight hours and I woke up in her giant double bed covered in scratches and with big love bites on my neck. She lay next to me still sleeping, equally covered with the marks of a wild night. There were towels all over the bed from where she’d gushed when she’d orgasmed (way more fluid than normal squirting) and it took me a while to gather up all my clothes that were scattered around the room in bizarre places.
I left her sleeping as I let myself out, took the elevator back down and rode the subway home to clean myself up and get ready for the second day of the bootcamp, battered and bruised. It had been a wild night with a married millionaire Muslim woman – had I gamed her or had she gamed me? 😉