On the form Little Nef described herself as an "ice box."  I will make her melt...
She prefers older guys. Perfect!  I'm at least a century older than her.
She likes Edward Scissorhands.  I too am the perfect incarnation of Romanticism.
She likes very long hair. Now that could be a problem. I'll have to go to a make-up place for a wig, or maybe I'll just cut off Varney's hair (no, he might struggle too much.)

She said she doesn't like tattoos.  I'll have to disguise my 'portwine stain'
(a kind of big purple mark that certain chronic vodka-drinkers get on their skin...)
She likes piercings.  Fine, I've got a hammer and some nine-inch nails. She likes chocolates.
There's a Belgian chocolate shop right next door to me.  She likes sweet talk and love. No problem, those are my specialities.

She'd like to meet my parents.  That's easy enough. I'll hire some actors. (My parents have been dead over 200 years.) She likes to be seduced on the dance floor. I'll start training immediately (watching Travolta videos.)
She likes sex. I'll get into serious training for that too. (God, this is going to be a hard one...)

Well, when the going gets hard, the hard get going...

Preparation:

Ah, Little Nef, Little Nef, my sweet Little Nef...
From something I saw in my crystal-ball (ever-helpful) I know she's going to be in London next, weekend.  That gives me five days to prepare everything. I start by trying to get rid of my portwine stain.  After an hour's rubbing with sandpaper and an emory board it's completely gone.  Instead I've got a huge bleeding wound. Hopefully it will scab over in the next five days.

Chocolates, chocolates...Into the shop I go.  I buy a 2 pound box, all soft cream centers.  I hope she likes milk chocolate.

Hammer, nails, action!...God, that hurts!  Some determined hammering and I look like that girl in
RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD3 (a little bit more masculine maybe.)

Okay, it's time to catch the plane for London. When I pass through the boarding gates alarm bells ring.  The piercings work!

An hour later I'm in London. I've got my chocolates (soft centers, just like me) and plenty of spare nails.  Everything's going to plan. Now I need wig (as I expected, Varney struggled too hard when he met me at the airport. Some people are so uncooperative...)  Next stop Charles H. Fox, the make-up specialist.  I've looked into my crystal ball and deduced that Little Nef is quite attracted by men who are a little bit feminine.  So I equip myself with a Margaret Thatcher-style wig. I'll dye it black before we meet.

The Plan:

My plan is simple.  My crystal-ball (ever-helpful) tells me that Little Nef is an art-lover.  Excellent.  I will be an art gallery owner.  I just need to find an empty store-front for my gallery. I scope one out. Next I need an accomplice.  I call Varney (he's cooled down by now.)  I tell him to forge himself some police ID. With his second-hand $20 printer, that shouldn't be a problem.

Varney pays a visit to the place I've chosen and tells the owner that Scotland Yard needs to borrow his store for the weekend to mount a sting operation (to catch a bigtime smuggler of illegal African antiques.)  Varney can be very persuasive when he opens his mouth (and reveals his fangs) and in no time the store has a new owner. Me.

Now I need some art to hang in my art gallery. Nothing for it but to go to a good art gallery with a good cutting tool.  I drop in on the Tate Gallery and cut out a few good canvases.  I walk out.  The alarm bells ring and a posse of security guards converges on me.  I have visions of spending the rest of my immortal life in prison....But no, it's a false alarm!  The alarm was set off by the nails hammered into my body.  I tell the guards I'm a good friend of Damien Hirst, Stewart Home  and Genesis P. Orridge.  They humbly apologise and I stroll out with my canvases under my arm.  Those nails really work!

Now I just have to find my beloved Little Nef.  After consulting my crystal ball again (ever-helpful), I hang about in front of the Royal Academy of Art. I'm all set for the grand seduction scene.
I have my piercings, my Margaret Thatcher wig (now dyed a gothy blue-black) and my box of chocolates in hand. Damn, I forgot the  visiting cards for the art gallery...

Midday comes and goes and no Little Nef. 2 o'clock and no Little Nef. 4 o'clock and still no Little Nef. The Academy closes in another hour.  Plus by now I'm starving. Never mind, I'll eat the chocolates. They're delicious.  Then, at that moment, I see a terrific-looking gothic girl approaching, as if in slow motion.  I recognise her from her photo - it's her!  My mouth open, a chocolate melting on my tongue, I watch her approach.  She notices me staring.  After a moment's hesitation she comes towards me.  I can't believe it.  There's obviously something about me that attracts her. Her full, well-rounded body heaves with barely suppressed emotion...A century seems to pass.  I can't take my eyes off her eyes in which I detect the growing brightness of burning desire. Finally she speaks.  "Give me some chocolates, and take my soul," she says in a voice full of sensual promise. Then, noticing the leaping happiness in my eyes she hastily adds, "That last bit is just a figure of speech."

Her burning desire is nothing more than lust for my Belgian chocolates! As I hold out the box to her, leaves start to drop from the trees and perform a swirling dance that puts me in mind of the first days of autumn.  Little Nef's full sensual lips slowly open to receive the first chocolate as if it was the sacred host. Her teeth, I see, are as white and shiny as toilet enamel.  They bite down hard on the chocolate.

Then, as she savours the intensely sensuous flavor and texture of melting chocolate creams, Little Nef looks at me and for the first she smiles. At this sign of approval, calm invades my soul like a ray of sunlight which delicately caresses my heart, warming it, overwhelming it...

"My name's Little Nef," she says.  I nod vaguely, look at her in silence for a long time.
"And who are you?" she asks finally, with a trace of impatience.  "Oh, I'm sorry," I reply, snapping out of my lovesick reverie, "I am called Froggy."

"Froggy? What a silly name! I've never heard anything so ridiculous! Are you French?"
I almost nod, but instead I catch myself in time and answer her in a ridculous German accent worthy of Erich Von Stroheim: "Vell, you see, I am ein artist vrom Chermany. I tchust opened ein new art gallery close from here..." As I speak, I casually screw a monocle into my eye, Fritz Lang 
fashion. Her magnified beauty fills my vision.
 

"You're an artist? Really? We don't get many real artists in Lancashire," says Little Nef.  "Up there they think film posters are art! Really. I was going to go to the Academy to see the Monet exhibition, but it's nearly closing time, I'll never get in now."

"I vill be verry pleased to show you mein, sveet fraulen Little Nef!"

And so I take her, still happily chewing chocolates, round to 'my' gallery.
I usher her inside and---Oh, my God! I see Varney threw away the modern art masterpieces
I carefully chose and replaced the canvases with his collection of horrible Frankenstein movie posters!

Little Nef pulls a face. "I'm not sure this is really art," she says sceptically, and turns disappointed, accusing eyes on me. I hang my head in shame. There's nothing for it now but to spill the haricots and come clean.  With wild gestures, I reveal all to her.  Now Little Nef knows I am an 'imposter' who arranged all this just for her seduction. Never mind, I still had a great time with her even if it was just for a few snatched moments.

"Do you want the last chocolate?" I ask her, pulling a nail out from my palm.
"And here, have this too," I insist, handing her Varney's favouriteKarloff poster. "You know, one just like this sold for $300,000 at auction in New York," I reveal.

Little Nef takes the last chocolate, and the poster, and looks up at me with eyes wide and glowing with gratitude.

"Would you like to dance?" I ask her.