From Russia with Love (Bomb): My Dating Disaster with a Narcissist - Part 1

Dating in One's Middle Years # 9 What do a blonde bombshell, an ’80s-style mixtape moment, an FSB hit, and a naive idiot sleepwalking toward disaster have in common? Read on!

The Love Bomber - looks just like her photo!

Every Story Has To Start Somewhere …

You know those classic old films that start so smoothly - lulling you into a sense of security, where nothing could possibly go wrong? So does this story.

It begins with a fetching blonde in her 40s, living in London. She had that Slavic bone structure - you know the one - model looks. Effortlessly glamorous and gliding through life, as if perpetually lit by soft focus.

But it wasn’t just her looks.

She had this knack for pulling you into her orbit - sharp, funny, intriguing. The kind of woman who makes you momentarily forget all your well-rehearsed cynicism about the “Munted Shitshow” that is online dating in your middle years.

And then came the music

For the first time since my teenage years, someone sent me a track to listen to. The band had a complex, unpronounceable name I won’t pretend to remember. But it wasn’t really about the song.

The whole thing felt like a time machine, flinging me back to the days when relationships began with awkward mixtapes and overanalysed lyrics.

Back then, every cassette track was a declaration of something or other!

Include too much of The Smiths, and you’d be pegged as a tragic manic depressive.

Add more than one upbeat Bronski Beat track, and it was assumed you were gay.

The stakes always felt sky-high.

Her sending me music felt like a deliberate callback to those simpler, more earnest teenage days of courtship, and I’ll admit - it was delightfully charming.

That said, there was one odd note in our conversations.

Twice, she asked me if I was a “serious man.”

I had no idea what this meant.

Was I being auditioned for the starring role in some Jane Austen-inspired romance?

A brooding, rain-soaked Mr Darcy, perhaps?

Or maybe a dependable Colonel Brandon - steady, considerate, quietly heroic.

Either way, I wasn’t sure what she was after, but I’m British and unfailingly polite, so I answered “yes” both times and hoped for the best.

---

Killed by the FSB

A week or so passed and we agreed we’d like to meet in person.

I drove up to London, both nervous and quietly optimistic. She’d told me she was staying in a Knightsbridge apartment owned by her employer. Swanky, I thought. I imagined sleek, minimalist interiors and sweeping city views.

When I arrived, the flat was nice enough, but something caught my attention: the faint presence of a child. I didn’t see her daughter, but I spotted the tip of a head peeking over the far side of a bed. There was an awkward moment where I debated whether to acknowledge this, but she seemed unbothered, so I followed suit.

After a few minutes of pleasantries, we headed out for a walk in Battersea Park.

It was a warm day, and the conversation flowed easily, ranging from the mundane to the personal. I started thinking I might have actually found someone with depth.

Then, halfway through, I asked, innocently enough, “What brought you to the UK? And had you been divorced for long?”

She turned to me, calm as you like, and said, “No, I’m not divorced. I’m widowed. My husband was killed by the FSB.”

That caught my attention.

My immediate thought was: What the fuck, hell does one do to earn assassination by the Russian state?

Then I remembered - they’re homicidal maniacs, operating like some demented mafia hit squad. Had I stumbled into a tragic story of wrongful death? Or was I inadvertently courting the widow of a Bond villain?

Of course, I kept these thoughts to myself. One does not like to call a woman a liar - especially not on a first date.

Instead, I nodded solemnly and muttered, “That sounds... difficult.”

---

The Naked Truth

When we returned to her flat, her daughter was gone. I asked, but she said she’d gone to a friend’s house.

I told her how much I’d enjoyed our time together and asked if I could use the loo before starting the two-hour drive home. She waved me toward the bathroom.

Simple enough, right?

But when I stepped out a few minutes later, something unexpected awaited me.

She was standing at the bedroom door. Stark naked.

And let me clarify: this wasn’t subtle naked. There was no artful draping of a sheet or strategically placed houseplant. It was full-on, confident, unapologetic ‘Bumps and Bush’ on display nudity.

To her credit, she looked incredible.

She walked up to me, planted a rather forceful kiss on my lips, and started pulling me toward the bedroom.

Now, I know what you’re thinking - dream scenario, right?

Well, here’s the thing: I’d already decided I didn’t want a casual bunk-up on the first date. I actually liked her. I thought there might be something real here, and I didn’t want to muck it up by diving into bed too soon.

To ensure I wouldn’t be led astray, I’d, erm, taken matters into my own hands that morning.

Twice, actually…

Just to be safe!

As I soon discovered, this had left me with a rather unfortunate issue.

While my mind and body were mostly on board, a very specific part of me had absolutely no inclination to cooperate.

She noticed. With a raised brow and a hint of irritation, she asked, “Don’t you find me attractive?”

I considered making something up, but nothing believable came to mind. So I came clean (No pun intended).

“It’s not that,” I blurted. “It’s just... I, uh, had a couple of solo moments earlier. I didn’t want to... rush things.”

To her credit, she didn’t burst out laughing. Instead, there was a flicker of surprise, followed by what I can only describe as a very British sense of awkward amusement - like we’d both realised we were in the middle of a moment too absurd to address directly, so politeness would have to prevail.

“Well,” she said, with the kind of casual bluntness that only a Russian could deliver, “that’s... Unusual!”

Her directness hung in the air, stark and unapologetic, while I scrambled for some semblance of dignity.

Decades of British conditioning - public school in the 70s and 80s, stiff upper lips, and all that - had not prepared me for this.

In my world, awkward silences were filled with small talk or, at the very least, an apology for the weather.

Hers, it seemed, were filled with unvarnished truths, delivered with the precision of a sniper.

I got dressed as quickly as I could, muttered a few apologies that were probably more embarrassing than the situation itself, and made my exit.

The drive home passed without incident, and the next morning, I texted my best female friend, “P.”

I gave her a sanitised version of events - leaving out the personal precautions I’d taken to ensure my ardour didn’t run amok. (We’re great mates, but even the best of friends need to have limits when it comes to TMI.)

P’s response was blunt: “She sounds completely nuts. Run the other way.”

The logical and grown up part of my brain recognised this for what it was - sage advice from a good friend.

But, like a hapless teenager in every horror film ever made, I ignored it.

Instead, I blithely wandered toward the homicidal maniac clutching a 12-inch knife tucked into their waistband.

Shortly after this, my delightful Russian girlfriend and I began our daily calls.

At first, they were charming - a welcome addition to my otherwise unremarkable evenings.

She had a knack for making you feel needed, weaving anecdotes about her life into conversations that stretched well past midnight. I found myself looking forward to her calls, even if I occasionally wondered how she managed to have so much free time while raising a child.

But there was a rhythm to these calls, a peculiar insistence. I wasn’t just a person she was getting to know; I was her lifeline.

Having been raised by a woman who mastered the art of offering conditional love, I’ll admit - I liked feeling needed.

It felt good.

Still, there was a niggling doubt hovering just beneath the surface of conscious thought.

I pride myself on my wit, my sharp mind, and my finely tuned antenna for skulduggery. But when it comes to women I’m romantically entwined with, that antenna doesn’t just fail - it switches off entirely.

By the end of the first week, though, I couldn’t help but wonder: had my newly minted “serious man” status come with contractual obligations buried deep in the small print?

Little did I know, the fine print was about to be written in bold.

---

It All Seemed So Promising

I thought I’d walked away from this date with nothing more than a bizarre story and a few red flags to mull over. But this wasn’t the end - it was just the beginning.

There were late-night calls filled with tales so surreal they demanded belief. There was her visit - a whirlwind of intensity, charm, and an insatiable energy that left me questioning whether I’d stumbled into a romance or a fever dream.

She had a way of drawing you in, her gaze almost hypnotic, her stories so captivating you forgot how absurd they truly were.

By the time I realised just how deep this rabbit hole went, it was already too late.

Stay tuned for the next episode of From Russia with Love (Bomb): My Dating Disaster with a Narcissist Part 2. (of 6)

The strangest chapters are yet to come.

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Special thanks to

Francis F

for cajoling me into sharing this one - life’s been so busy I nearly didn’t bother!

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What’s Your Worst Online Dating Disaster?

Have you ever had a date so disastrous that you immediately wanted to delete every app on your phone?

Or maybe an encounter so awkward, it still makes you cringe?

Share your stories - or your hard-earned advice - in the comments!

Let’s swap tales from the frontlines of modern dating and see if anyone can top this James Bond-meets-Fleabag-style misadventure.

(If you’ve enjoyed this read, click the ❤️ button or drop a comment - it really helps keep me motivated to keep sharing my disasters!)