LITMIR.BIZ

       3

      Confident but cautious – that’s me to a T. Can you be truly confident if you’re cautious? Let’s not go there. I know what I mean. I’m confident when I’m in control. I’m confident and in control because I plan. Careful planning is where the caution comes in.

      The project has been up and running for three months. I’d chosen Canterbury for the main event. It’s a good-sized town, there’s easy access to the countryside and I could readily lose myself among the tourists. I’d rented a small flat and spent a week or so choosing my women. The first to take the bait wasn’t suitable: married and expecting a baby. How did I miss that? Sloppy work, but no problem. Statistically, it had to happen and, not long after, I got the perfect woman: single, unattached and living alone. She wanted the right things, things that made her vulnerable, and she made the right choice. She offered me access and now the incidentals are all in place; that’s stage 1 completed. Soon, I’ll complete stage 2 and she’ll be mine; we’ll be isolated together in her own home.

      When that happens, we’ll be at the crux of the project, stage 3, conversion; leading my chosen woman from her initial panic and horror to a position from where she’ll recognize my true worth. Obviously, successful conversion will depend on how I handle things once we’re alone together. The problem is, I’d no experience of that. Back in Gravesend, the stuck-up graduates at work had all turned me down. I was reduced to clubbing and copping off with the thin girl’s friend. Unfortunately, they were easy, did anything, anytime, anything to please. With them it was open access and willing isolation: no conversion required. The women I want are not like that.

      I’d known from the start that I’d need practice, the right experience; gaining that experience became a parallel part of the project. Confident but cautious, I took time to plan and prepare: a cheap phone, a couple of pay-as-you-go SIM cards and a dating app for which I created two fake profiles. To find the right practice woman, I’d need to meet several and check out promising candidates more than once. When it was over, if any of them complained to the police, I didn’t want to be tracked down. Public places have security cameras and my bleached hair is eye-catching. I bought several simple disguises, as many as possible from charity shops. Faded baseball caps and worn beanies were good; lightweight reversible hoodies and a reversible cotton bag were essential.

      My plan was to pick less attractive women from the dating app, reckoning that would maximize my hit rate. Location wasn’t important; any small town in Kent, apart from Canterbury, would do. By day, I worked on the main event – my chosen women. The evenings I put aside for my practice runs – nothing fancy, just well planned. I’d let the women choose where and when we met, as long as it was a large bar, in the centre of town, and at a busy time of day.

      Using my first fake profile, I went for Jackie from Rainham. She was immediately up for it. I asked where she’d like to meet and we settled on a pub near the station at six-thirty; a time when I knew there’d be plenty of commuters dropping in for a drink after work. I arrived a little late, bought a pint, checked where she was sitting and positioned myself to observe without being seen. After a few minutes I changed my hat and jacket in the Gents and returned to my pint. It was quite touching watching her angular face, expectant, then concerned, checking her phone for messages, and finally crestfallen.

      Eventually, she left the pub and I followed her home, taking great care to hang well back and to walk on the opposite pavement. She turned into a street lined with semi-detached bungalows and my heart sank. Sure enough, she lived with a couple of wrinklies, probably her parents. There was no way I’d have time to get rid of neighbours, let alone people in the same house. My practice woman had to live alone and in a spot with nobody close by.