‘I love a good sock’, yes, all these details about a man are important. If you’ve been single as long as I have, you have time to develop irrational hatreds towards the most irrelevant of nitpicks. The long, towelling kind with a large tight elastication simply horrifies me, but a loose, good quality sheer pair are quite the ticket.
My body is no longer a temple – well perhaps a temple of doom. This year’s summer run is completely explosive and incongruous. Trying to take stock now, I’m not sure who’s real and who’s not, what I’ve actually got on my plate, and what’s stuck in a virtual pantry somewhere.
At Lovebox festival I performed my MJ dance, then gave myself permission to drink whatever, and however much, I wanted. Lord knows how I am here to tell the tale, but the fact it’s nearly a week later is an indication of the recovery period.
My memory flashes from jumping up and down on stage, to having a nasty rope burn administered to my arm in the north v south tug of war (binliners, washing up liquid, you get the picture).
An old flame of mine turned up for our yearly festival meet, and the tequilas were flying. A 23 year old collared me and asked me out (off his head, but luscious all the same). By the time the headline act came on (my mate was singing for Groove Armada), pieces of my brain were scattered far and wide not only over the fields of Hackney but possibly the Universe, but my God was I enjoying myself. Well yes, I was, and luckily the audience didn’t have to endure my harmonies for at the river, which three of us were supposed to do on stage.
After a terribly strange, magnificent and inappropriate embrace with the ex, I zig-zagged my way to the front of the crowd, and to my surprise was confronted with none other than The Hairy Angel – no not her, see previous blog! He had a lovely young bird with him, which made me feel quite indecent indeed, and she humoured me by asking me to sing the harmony for at the river (was meant to sing on stage but it was pulled), to her. It was then I realised that the power of speech, or singing in this case, was nowhere near my vocal chords.
The show ended, and my mate came out, got mobbed, and dragged me back stage to an array of vodka, chocolate and chicken sandwiches. Then Shoreditch House (four in a toilet, couldn’t name them), then back to hers, where I proceeded one of my infamous lectures to the younger man on life, love and everything. There were smiles and laughter and I woke up flat on my back in the middle of the floor.
What fun!
When I got home, the ecstatic 23 year old from the festival began a series of unsophisticated but tantalising flirtations via the medium of facebook.
It was decided we would meet under the burnt-out pier for frolicks in a few weeks time. Then he either lost interest, died of a drug overdose, or realised I was old enough to be his godmother, and all went quiet on the northern front.
Out with the young, in with the old. The pleasant but ineffectual internet date was still asking for my acquaintance, so I told him I was busy and arranged a date with a curious South African instead.
Yum.
With a rebel yell I cry MORE MORE MORE!
I am getting so rubbish at morning-after anxiety, last night whilst in his throes I actually dreamed of animosity between us yet to happen. The thing is, I deserve these feelings. The date was good, drunken, and towards the end I decided he didn’t like me but couldn’t figure out why. Then he asked for a snog. Then I gave him a snog. Then he said he’d send me filthy texts till we met later in the week, which should have sounded like a good plan.
I had pre-programmed the brain to go home, but the brain was not happy. The brain sent me staggering home with him. He was beautiful, especially when his mouth was shut, and not bad when it was open, and I loved the way he came. The personality bit we can work on.
So today has been a downhill struggle, accompanied by accumulative booze-blues and paranoid womanoid texting. I asked him if I’d blown it by acting like a slut, and he replied that there was nothing to blow. Not technically true, but what am I like? The thing is, I hate that waiting period. Waiting for someone to possibly not text. So now I know I may see him next week. Or I may not. All’s fair in internet dating and war, especially when one party has the patience of a teenager on speed.
Thursday will see an old friend who I shedaddled with at Christmas arriving for a long weekend. That is going to be a strange story – I have reservations, I mean, we’re not that good mates, and if we screw for that long I shall not only lose the power of my legs, but may drag my fragile heart into another palaver.
Then there’s the man who keeps telling me to go to his for adult fun. And the one who keeps offering me a ‘massage’. I’m telling ya kids, it never rains, but I could do with a proper storm……………
16/07/2009
140709 It never rains..............
So…………………finally another instalment.
What happens when you’ve got at least three paths in front of you and you don’t know which one to follow?
For ages I procrastinated, rightly, over the best course of action for the weekend. Is it a leaving do, a hedonistic party, a haircut and headache, Sunday dinner and a gig and some choreography, or is it djing at a club night, going VIP to a digital festival, a carnival and then some shopping?
Dear readers, it is………………the latter! Oh how we love the latter!
Hungry for it, I prowled around like a wildcat looking for mischief on the Friday………..near but a nada. Cycling home wobbly-legged and bruised-kneed from a Michael-Jackson-off, at least I’d been in the night air.
So the digital festival. I arrive alone, but immediately spot an ex moodily loitering in a doorway. I pick up my pass to the festival and settle down to some plastic-enhanced red wines in the rain.
Hiding in the gardens and smoking the good stuff with old mates, I get back to the venue and there is another ex, alone at the bar. She pounces - he’s on a stag do but has lost the other lame-legged beasts and chooses to prance about with me (the stag is also an ex). Propping myself up at the bar in my designer tracksuit bottoms, socks and high heels, another ex comes and stands next to us. Night of the exes indeed, but all good.
At one point, raving away to squarepusher I wonder if I’ve lost it all………what happens if my luck is up?
No, dancing on a table to Billy Jean I realise I’ve scored. I get extremely confused as I’m sure I ordered another option from the menu earlier, but accept my fate and drag him home. We play guitar, drink vodka and dribble about, then share a fluid and intense sexual experience in my bed – which, this time, has yet to be christened.
Too light, he departs at 9am, and I am left feeling satisfied and just, I won’t ponder over this one…
Well by the end of the day I had decided I was in love, and that maybe we should do something about it. A stranger had come up to us in the pub, declaring:
‘I’ve seen it before you two. Sort it out!’ Excellent stuff, and there’s a song in there somewhere.
Deciding that the 09 summer run may finally have begun, I cruise the interweb for new recruits, changing my profile to ‘brighton’, reasoning there must be a lot less men, therefore a lot more chance of hand-picking the best.
£25 down, and I’ve secured a date with one who looks promising. Problem is, I’ve secured near-on a bouteille de vin rouge as well.
So today I was rough as old rope, and returning to work I become more and more engrumped, and arrive home drenched, exhausted, and expecting to call it off.
But no, like a true soldier I keep the date.
He’s nice, and I’ve decided I want the real deal, so gotta keep my mind open….
The song so far begins, ‘internet date, big mistake’. But I think he likes me.
During the modest sups of booze I get a text saying I’ll be singing with groove armada on Sunday. Result. Things are looking up – oh, he’s still here?
Pop by Somerfield for an egg sandwich on my way home, and whilst retrieving my demon of a bike, two decidedly dodgy drug-fiends get out of a 4 by 4.
‘ooooooo shame you’ve got your bike, I’d have given you a lift home’, says the more stoned, rougher looking one. The boggle-eyed teenager just gawps at me.
She’s still got it, by jove, she’s still got it xx
What happens when you’ve got at least three paths in front of you and you don’t know which one to follow?
For ages I procrastinated, rightly, over the best course of action for the weekend. Is it a leaving do, a hedonistic party, a haircut and headache, Sunday dinner and a gig and some choreography, or is it djing at a club night, going VIP to a digital festival, a carnival and then some shopping?
Dear readers, it is………………the latter! Oh how we love the latter!
Hungry for it, I prowled around like a wildcat looking for mischief on the Friday………..near but a nada. Cycling home wobbly-legged and bruised-kneed from a Michael-Jackson-off, at least I’d been in the night air.
So the digital festival. I arrive alone, but immediately spot an ex moodily loitering in a doorway. I pick up my pass to the festival and settle down to some plastic-enhanced red wines in the rain.
Hiding in the gardens and smoking the good stuff with old mates, I get back to the venue and there is another ex, alone at the bar. She pounces - he’s on a stag do but has lost the other lame-legged beasts and chooses to prance about with me (the stag is also an ex). Propping myself up at the bar in my designer tracksuit bottoms, socks and high heels, another ex comes and stands next to us. Night of the exes indeed, but all good.
At one point, raving away to squarepusher I wonder if I’ve lost it all………what happens if my luck is up?
No, dancing on a table to Billy Jean I realise I’ve scored. I get extremely confused as I’m sure I ordered another option from the menu earlier, but accept my fate and drag him home. We play guitar, drink vodka and dribble about, then share a fluid and intense sexual experience in my bed – which, this time, has yet to be christened.
Too light, he departs at 9am, and I am left feeling satisfied and just, I won’t ponder over this one…
Well by the end of the day I had decided I was in love, and that maybe we should do something about it. A stranger had come up to us in the pub, declaring:
‘I’ve seen it before you two. Sort it out!’ Excellent stuff, and there’s a song in there somewhere.
Deciding that the 09 summer run may finally have begun, I cruise the interweb for new recruits, changing my profile to ‘brighton’, reasoning there must be a lot less men, therefore a lot more chance of hand-picking the best.
£25 down, and I’ve secured a date with one who looks promising. Problem is, I’ve secured near-on a bouteille de vin rouge as well.
So today I was rough as old rope, and returning to work I become more and more engrumped, and arrive home drenched, exhausted, and expecting to call it off.
But no, like a true soldier I keep the date.
He’s nice, and I’ve decided I want the real deal, so gotta keep my mind open….
The song so far begins, ‘internet date, big mistake’. But I think he likes me.
During the modest sups of booze I get a text saying I’ll be singing with groove armada on Sunday. Result. Things are looking up – oh, he’s still here?
Pop by Somerfield for an egg sandwich on my way home, and whilst retrieving my demon of a bike, two decidedly dodgy drug-fiends get out of a 4 by 4.
‘ooooooo shame you’ve got your bike, I’d have given you a lift home’, says the more stoned, rougher looking one. The boggle-eyed teenager just gawps at me.
She’s still got it, by jove, she’s still got it xx
05/07/2009
040609 The time I got meself on the telly
So………..getting used to the quiet seaside life again.
Tonight I went kickboxing. I decided not to stress too much about technique and that, and I was right, piece of piss!
However, I hadn’t counted on seeing all the other girls rising above my modest orange belt status. Fine. Apart from the opening comment:
‘God, haven’t seen you for ages! Oh, apart from on the telly talking about sex’.
Yes, dear readers, alas this is true. The moral of the story is don’t be flattered by two vitamin-deficient lanky TV gimps stopping you in Soho, especially when they point out the reason they want you is because you are sober.
Lanky 1: ‘We’re just filming for a Virgin One programme – no one will see it.’
Moi: ‘What’s it about?’
Lanky 2: ‘Sex’.
Moi: ‘Oh. Aven’t ad it for ages. No point in asking me really’.
Well, they did ask me, and like the fool I am I answered. Mainly ‘no comment’ style American lawyer answers, but every now and again letting something slip. Like:
‘I love sex and I’d like a lot more of it’.
Which happened to make it into the opening credits of Sex Maniac and Proud. Which happens to be shown at pub-down time nearly every freakin week from then till kingdom come.
Every now and again I’ll be out on the town, or picking hair out of the plughole, or despairing over the price of apples, and a flood of texts will come in.
Ha ha, you love sex and you’d like a lot more of it.
I’ve just seen you on the telly talking about sex!
You’re on the sex maniac show!
And other such imaginative articulations.
Only moved to London a few months before and already had managed to crack the late night free sex shows.
Mother would be proud.
Adios, I’m off to rearrange my hairballs in order of colour, age and texture. Don’t go watching Virgin One now, will you?
Tonight I went kickboxing. I decided not to stress too much about technique and that, and I was right, piece of piss!
However, I hadn’t counted on seeing all the other girls rising above my modest orange belt status. Fine. Apart from the opening comment:
‘God, haven’t seen you for ages! Oh, apart from on the telly talking about sex’.
Yes, dear readers, alas this is true. The moral of the story is don’t be flattered by two vitamin-deficient lanky TV gimps stopping you in Soho, especially when they point out the reason they want you is because you are sober.
Lanky 1: ‘We’re just filming for a Virgin One programme – no one will see it.’
Moi: ‘What’s it about?’
Lanky 2: ‘Sex’.
Moi: ‘Oh. Aven’t ad it for ages. No point in asking me really’.
Well, they did ask me, and like the fool I am I answered. Mainly ‘no comment’ style American lawyer answers, but every now and again letting something slip. Like:
‘I love sex and I’d like a lot more of it’.
Which happened to make it into the opening credits of Sex Maniac and Proud. Which happens to be shown at pub-down time nearly every freakin week from then till kingdom come.
Every now and again I’ll be out on the town, or picking hair out of the plughole, or despairing over the price of apples, and a flood of texts will come in.
Ha ha, you love sex and you’d like a lot more of it.
I’ve just seen you on the telly talking about sex!
You’re on the sex maniac show!
And other such imaginative articulations.
Only moved to London a few months before and already had managed to crack the late night free sex shows.
Mother would be proud.
Adios, I’m off to rearrange my hairballs in order of colour, age and texture. Don’t go watching Virgin One now, will you?
310509 The Hairy Angel
Place: friend’s flat, brick lane, London
Time: early morning, as in Britney/Sean Paul
Costume: thai yuppie/birthday suit
‘I ate too many crisps. And fucked the hairy angel.’
The exact text I sent my former leader. Erm, that came out wrong. The cool pop star I know, last seen drinking cider on the floor of my friend’s studio in brick lane at 6am this morning.
‘Ha! Knew you would! Good reports I hope!’
She’d do right to exclaim. Good reports?
‘Well, feel like a bitch as didn’t really like him just needed servicing.’
I can be charming at times, y’know.
I’m beyond help, I really bloody am. There’s everyone else, procrastinating over do I don’t I’s, and my rule is – if he gets in yer bed there’s trouble, but don’t say no. Oh, fucking perfect that is. Although, as my friend agrees, isn’t it fun having sex with people you don’t care about? (shut your eyes).
Didn’t even notice the bugger, just vaguely remember thinking he was a bit normal and boring. Not when he jumps out at me from the bathroom door. Physically repelled, we laid down together. Apparently, he had a feeling this would happen. Yes, how bloody predictable. Apparently, he reckoned we could have done that all day too. Oh just leave will you?
How many hints? I washed up, said my friend was coming back soon, tidied up, locked the back door and more or less put a gun to his head, but still it took hours for him to come up with the amazing concept that he should go.
Last week’s dream that I was heavily humping Declan Donnelly didn’t help – I knew it was time for a pre-summer-spurt hump, and it may as well be with a willing candidate.
Aren’t I heartless?
Not as heartless as when I realised I was rolling my eyes at his moves – whilst he was enpassioning himself t’wards me. Not as heartless as when his dirty talk made me laugh inside, then I realised I had to answer. Not as heartless as when he quite obviously let one off whilst still inside me.
His voice did sound exactly like the beatboxer Shlomo though, which you’d have thought would add sex appeal, but unfortunately he is also a rich boy from the suburbs. Where?
At least he had a good old go at it. He reports back I have a lot of stamina. That’s easy when you’re not bothering to move much though, isn’t it? Had to restrain myself from answering back,
‘Got to get it where you can’.
You’ve got to though, haven’t you? Anyway, one positive but absurd thing came out of it. Here’s a clue:
I’ve been smoking weed, and fancy something sweet
I open up my fridge, and all there is is meat
And then I jizzed, in my pants
Youtube it. Go on! X
Time: early morning, as in Britney/Sean Paul
Costume: thai yuppie/birthday suit
‘I ate too many crisps. And fucked the hairy angel.’
The exact text I sent my former leader. Erm, that came out wrong. The cool pop star I know, last seen drinking cider on the floor of my friend’s studio in brick lane at 6am this morning.
‘Ha! Knew you would! Good reports I hope!’
She’d do right to exclaim. Good reports?
‘Well, feel like a bitch as didn’t really like him just needed servicing.’
I can be charming at times, y’know.
I’m beyond help, I really bloody am. There’s everyone else, procrastinating over do I don’t I’s, and my rule is – if he gets in yer bed there’s trouble, but don’t say no. Oh, fucking perfect that is. Although, as my friend agrees, isn’t it fun having sex with people you don’t care about? (shut your eyes).
Didn’t even notice the bugger, just vaguely remember thinking he was a bit normal and boring. Not when he jumps out at me from the bathroom door. Physically repelled, we laid down together. Apparently, he had a feeling this would happen. Yes, how bloody predictable. Apparently, he reckoned we could have done that all day too. Oh just leave will you?
How many hints? I washed up, said my friend was coming back soon, tidied up, locked the back door and more or less put a gun to his head, but still it took hours for him to come up with the amazing concept that he should go.
Last week’s dream that I was heavily humping Declan Donnelly didn’t help – I knew it was time for a pre-summer-spurt hump, and it may as well be with a willing candidate.
Aren’t I heartless?
Not as heartless as when I realised I was rolling my eyes at his moves – whilst he was enpassioning himself t’wards me. Not as heartless as when his dirty talk made me laugh inside, then I realised I had to answer. Not as heartless as when he quite obviously let one off whilst still inside me.
His voice did sound exactly like the beatboxer Shlomo though, which you’d have thought would add sex appeal, but unfortunately he is also a rich boy from the suburbs. Where?
At least he had a good old go at it. He reports back I have a lot of stamina. That’s easy when you’re not bothering to move much though, isn’t it? Had to restrain myself from answering back,
‘Got to get it where you can’.
You’ve got to though, haven’t you? Anyway, one positive but absurd thing came out of it. Here’s a clue:
I’ve been smoking weed, and fancy something sweet
I open up my fridge, and all there is is meat
And then I jizzed, in my pants
Youtube it. Go on! X
020609 Don't Fish on the Beach
Place: beach, hove
Time: late avo
Costume: gay wifebeater meets faded hippy
Today I saw a friend that I’ve been experiencing a bit of no-see paranoia with. As in, I shouldn’t have been eating chocolate and smoking weed with another friend when I was meant to be in a comedy performance with her. Yes, my estranged wife.
Anyway, turns out she’s broken her no-bonk rule made in India and got her self into a right old mess.
We did some witchery, I gagged, proclaimed and hilared, (new word), over it, then we made witch stone sculptures to determine the outcome of the scenario.
We chose the pebbles carefully and decided we had two phallic symbols, an over-sized clitoris and an absolute mess. Yes.
We then drew one out for me – a stone with a hole in it and a little one that snugly fitted in perfectly. Just as she said I was a prick tease, (stone half in), it jumped and landed in the hole – yeah, that’s a Godiva prick tease.
Anyhoo. We honked it out and she went off to entertain the foreign students whilst I crashed a beefy barbecue with people with far too many manners.
Scared by the apparent civility of it, I escaped and popped to see the friend before I would wobble home on my bicyclette.
There’s a man there eating fish. Big mistake. We’d made the plan of honesty, though it sounded ridiculous:
‘I’ve gone out with a lot of people before, and I know if it will work or how it will end. I can see how this will end.’
And what is this grandiose reason? That he’s a meat-eater. No really, not even about the cock. And what is this poor sod doing with her and the dishevelled barbecue?
Eating fish, that’s what.
I told her she was creating an absolute mess, and entering into a new soap-opera existence, (switch the telly on, honestly girl). And as soon as I’m out of sight there he appears.
‘I don’t think he’s the kind of person to get hurt’, she tells me.
‘Well then’, I ask her, ‘what does he think’s going on?’
She didn’t know. And it’s been over a week and we all know how intense that can be.
It turns out in hindsight they were having the little chattie there and then. Ridiculous and dramatic. My favourite moment of it all is that apparently he won’t use johnnies, so she won’t fuck him. And when I commented that the serotonin-inducing sun had got me and there was no need for mushrooms, they separated slightly (drama), and he said for her benefit,
‘Life’s too short’.
Oh for god’s sake. Yeah, life’s too short, especially if you don’t wear condoms.
I ask you.
Time: late avo
Costume: gay wifebeater meets faded hippy
Today I saw a friend that I’ve been experiencing a bit of no-see paranoia with. As in, I shouldn’t have been eating chocolate and smoking weed with another friend when I was meant to be in a comedy performance with her. Yes, my estranged wife.
Anyway, turns out she’s broken her no-bonk rule made in India and got her self into a right old mess.
We did some witchery, I gagged, proclaimed and hilared, (new word), over it, then we made witch stone sculptures to determine the outcome of the scenario.
We chose the pebbles carefully and decided we had two phallic symbols, an over-sized clitoris and an absolute mess. Yes.
We then drew one out for me – a stone with a hole in it and a little one that snugly fitted in perfectly. Just as she said I was a prick tease, (stone half in), it jumped and landed in the hole – yeah, that’s a Godiva prick tease.
Anyhoo. We honked it out and she went off to entertain the foreign students whilst I crashed a beefy barbecue with people with far too many manners.
Scared by the apparent civility of it, I escaped and popped to see the friend before I would wobble home on my bicyclette.
There’s a man there eating fish. Big mistake. We’d made the plan of honesty, though it sounded ridiculous:
‘I’ve gone out with a lot of people before, and I know if it will work or how it will end. I can see how this will end.’
And what is this grandiose reason? That he’s a meat-eater. No really, not even about the cock. And what is this poor sod doing with her and the dishevelled barbecue?
Eating fish, that’s what.
I told her she was creating an absolute mess, and entering into a new soap-opera existence, (switch the telly on, honestly girl). And as soon as I’m out of sight there he appears.
‘I don’t think he’s the kind of person to get hurt’, she tells me.
‘Well then’, I ask her, ‘what does he think’s going on?’
She didn’t know. And it’s been over a week and we all know how intense that can be.
It turns out in hindsight they were having the little chattie there and then. Ridiculous and dramatic. My favourite moment of it all is that apparently he won’t use johnnies, so she won’t fuck him. And when I commented that the serotonin-inducing sun had got me and there was no need for mushrooms, they separated slightly (drama), and he said for her benefit,
‘Life’s too short’.
Oh for god’s sake. Yeah, life’s too short, especially if you don’t wear condoms.
I ask you.
011108 Not so manic now
Oh dear. It’s happened again. Did I make it happen? Did it happen to me? Is it coincidence?
Internet dating. Twice been asked my opinion of it in recent times, once by a near-virgin introvert and once by a sexy giant who’s lost her mojo.
My take? Good for collecting and deleting men as a hobby, but rarely good in practice. Let’s face it, how many times have you been to a party, gone in for the kill, (my particular choice of phrase), and then their voice has been a mutation of Mickey Mouse, or their jaw wobbles from side to side when they speak? ‘!!!’ I hear you think, well that’s what happens to me.
So a few weird pics on someone’s profile is not going to give you a true ‘picture’ of what they’re like. Tip – always look at all of their photos. Scrutinise them. I have so nearly added people to my favourites in an impatient moment, (every moment), and then looked at the extras and OH MY GOD IT’S THE CHIN AGAIN. Etc. Imagine then meeting up with them, realising after one second that they obviously come from a mutant gene pool? And all of this after obtaining a gooey, special, private feeling from the fact you may have met the love of your life over t’internet.
What a waste of time. What a let down.
The other point especially relevant to me with internet dating is that it’s fantastic for people who have trouble meeting people. Everyone knows my cavewoman methods of gaining my prey, I ain’t exactly shy now. So when I waltz in with a pervy smirk on my face they think two things:
1. Oh my god I’m terrified.
2. Hang on, I haven’t had sex for fourteen years and she seems easy.
I do it to myself, I do.
Let me talk you through the three internet dates I’ve ever been on:
1. strange jumpy guy, bit of a beer gut, told me he genuinely wanted to make friends by internet dating. shifty fucker. got off with him in a bus stop, legs wrapped around his waist. he ran off.
2. builder. meaty. scary. got off our heads, carried me home on his head. asked me if I ever just felt like hitting someone, and could he hit me? oh dear.
3. about to move to london. guy messages me. looks a bit indie. meet at the clocktower. he is so thin I could knock him over by breathing. kissed him for six minutes next to the cornish pasty shop just to get him to go away......
And actually, I realised today that I haven’t been on an internet date for over two years. I have had some pretty abrupt experiences leading to instant karma, orchestrated by myself and using more traditional, but unusual techniques of acquisition.
Like the time I gave out my calling card.
Like the time I huffed and panted at the gym instructor.
Like the time I cold-texted my friend’s brother.
We live and learn, you get what you ask for.
But for my latest near-conquest.
I was going to start with his name, which happens to start with Z. Unusual, and slightly mad seeing as that’s me too. And his surname. That starts with S. me too! Now normally I would be fairly enamoured with this sort of co-incidence, but unfortunately I had a near-miss for three weeks last year with a guy with almost exactly the same name as me. Substitute the first letter of my name but keep the others the same. Keep the surname. Add a double barrel which phonetically matches my father’s first name and which he gave to us should we need a double barrel. What could go wrong?
But that’s a different story. On with this one.
If you’ve read ‘August 2008’, you’ll be familiar with the pitiful start of our ‘relationship’. He basically must have searched for ‘mentally ill’, and my nonchalant profile appeared with ‘open-minded (but not mentally ill). I think the Barthes-educated amongst us may recognise a binary opposite here, but for him – no.
It just so happens that by random internet networking beauty I was being projected onto Trafalgar Square as part of some cutting-edge, ground-breaking art project. Think the bloke was Dutch. I have a limited edition print of it (ripped already), as a momentous celebration of my emerging high-art identity (yeah right).
So this guy’s an artist, and I have no date with which to search for my ukelele-playing portrait in one of the most known landmarks of the world. Sad, but true.
Frig it, my flatmate was on a New York jaunt and I pretended to take the ‘seize the day’ approach and accept a date with this mad man, who would obviously worship the halogen-lit ground I was projected on.
Well, had he been obviously mad I may have been interested, (they generally expire before we do), but this guy just seemed bleak.
We wandered around the Square haplessly looking for traces of my moo-mooed body to no avail, gave up and went for a drink in a non-descript but acceptable bar. Tragic.
The conversation didn’t so much flow as jumped from consciousness to consciousness, but I was waiting to be adored. Come on. Surely, if you accept a date from someone you can’t even be arsed with on a PC screen, you expect a little worship? No?
No. Awkward strangeness. Talk of his neighbour who shared my name, who he sexed with but it went tits up. Or down. I don’t know. He had some sort of imaginative brain. When I popped outside for a fag I decided to set him a task:
‘Imagine you had a parrot, what would you call him?’ Romantic it may not be, but something had to freakin happen.
I returned.
‘Graham Tude’.
Good answer. So we head out into the night, and I’m up for some kind of mid-week debauchery. It was that kind of slightly lonely week.
We cross to the square once more.
He suddenly takes on a very strange stance. Hunched up in his parka, he swings side to side, his hands in his pockets. I decide I have no cards left to play:
‘Aren’t we meant to kiss or something?’
Turns out he has been on three internet dates in two weeks, slept with all three, morning-after-pilled one, and is still stuck on his ex. Oh for God’s sake.
I knew this internet lark was a goner, but I think I’ve gone and done it till it’s dead. I stuck my eggs in his basket and still no result. Would you believe it?
Internet dating. Twice been asked my opinion of it in recent times, once by a near-virgin introvert and once by a sexy giant who’s lost her mojo.
My take? Good for collecting and deleting men as a hobby, but rarely good in practice. Let’s face it, how many times have you been to a party, gone in for the kill, (my particular choice of phrase), and then their voice has been a mutation of Mickey Mouse, or their jaw wobbles from side to side when they speak? ‘!!!’ I hear you think, well that’s what happens to me.
So a few weird pics on someone’s profile is not going to give you a true ‘picture’ of what they’re like. Tip – always look at all of their photos. Scrutinise them. I have so nearly added people to my favourites in an impatient moment, (every moment), and then looked at the extras and OH MY GOD IT’S THE CHIN AGAIN. Etc. Imagine then meeting up with them, realising after one second that they obviously come from a mutant gene pool? And all of this after obtaining a gooey, special, private feeling from the fact you may have met the love of your life over t’internet.
What a waste of time. What a let down.
The other point especially relevant to me with internet dating is that it’s fantastic for people who have trouble meeting people. Everyone knows my cavewoman methods of gaining my prey, I ain’t exactly shy now. So when I waltz in with a pervy smirk on my face they think two things:
1. Oh my god I’m terrified.
2. Hang on, I haven’t had sex for fourteen years and she seems easy.
I do it to myself, I do.
Let me talk you through the three internet dates I’ve ever been on:
1. strange jumpy guy, bit of a beer gut, told me he genuinely wanted to make friends by internet dating. shifty fucker. got off with him in a bus stop, legs wrapped around his waist. he ran off.
2. builder. meaty. scary. got off our heads, carried me home on his head. asked me if I ever just felt like hitting someone, and could he hit me? oh dear.
3. about to move to london. guy messages me. looks a bit indie. meet at the clocktower. he is so thin I could knock him over by breathing. kissed him for six minutes next to the cornish pasty shop just to get him to go away......
And actually, I realised today that I haven’t been on an internet date for over two years. I have had some pretty abrupt experiences leading to instant karma, orchestrated by myself and using more traditional, but unusual techniques of acquisition.
Like the time I gave out my calling card.
Like the time I huffed and panted at the gym instructor.
Like the time I cold-texted my friend’s brother.
We live and learn, you get what you ask for.
But for my latest near-conquest.
I was going to start with his name, which happens to start with Z. Unusual, and slightly mad seeing as that’s me too. And his surname. That starts with S. me too! Now normally I would be fairly enamoured with this sort of co-incidence, but unfortunately I had a near-miss for three weeks last year with a guy with almost exactly the same name as me. Substitute the first letter of my name but keep the others the same. Keep the surname. Add a double barrel which phonetically matches my father’s first name and which he gave to us should we need a double barrel. What could go wrong?
But that’s a different story. On with this one.
If you’ve read ‘August 2008’, you’ll be familiar with the pitiful start of our ‘relationship’. He basically must have searched for ‘mentally ill’, and my nonchalant profile appeared with ‘open-minded (but not mentally ill). I think the Barthes-educated amongst us may recognise a binary opposite here, but for him – no.
It just so happens that by random internet networking beauty I was being projected onto Trafalgar Square as part of some cutting-edge, ground-breaking art project. Think the bloke was Dutch. I have a limited edition print of it (ripped already), as a momentous celebration of my emerging high-art identity (yeah right).
So this guy’s an artist, and I have no date with which to search for my ukelele-playing portrait in one of the most known landmarks of the world. Sad, but true.
Frig it, my flatmate was on a New York jaunt and I pretended to take the ‘seize the day’ approach and accept a date with this mad man, who would obviously worship the halogen-lit ground I was projected on.
Well, had he been obviously mad I may have been interested, (they generally expire before we do), but this guy just seemed bleak.
We wandered around the Square haplessly looking for traces of my moo-mooed body to no avail, gave up and went for a drink in a non-descript but acceptable bar. Tragic.
The conversation didn’t so much flow as jumped from consciousness to consciousness, but I was waiting to be adored. Come on. Surely, if you accept a date from someone you can’t even be arsed with on a PC screen, you expect a little worship? No?
No. Awkward strangeness. Talk of his neighbour who shared my name, who he sexed with but it went tits up. Or down. I don’t know. He had some sort of imaginative brain. When I popped outside for a fag I decided to set him a task:
‘Imagine you had a parrot, what would you call him?’ Romantic it may not be, but something had to freakin happen.
I returned.
‘Graham Tude’.
Good answer. So we head out into the night, and I’m up for some kind of mid-week debauchery. It was that kind of slightly lonely week.
We cross to the square once more.
He suddenly takes on a very strange stance. Hunched up in his parka, he swings side to side, his hands in his pockets. I decide I have no cards left to play:
‘Aren’t we meant to kiss or something?’
Turns out he has been on three internet dates in two weeks, slept with all three, morning-after-pilled one, and is still stuck on his ex. Oh for God’s sake.
I knew this internet lark was a goner, but I think I’ve gone and done it till it’s dead. I stuck my eggs in his basket and still no result. Would you believe it?
281008 Menage a Quoi?
Place: Thin-people’s shop, Brighton and Chelsea
Time: That horrible non-time of shopping malls
Costume: Not rubber-clad trews, more likely rubber-souled shoes
So I decided that if I couldn’t wear her shoes I could at least try and squash into her trousers. The ex’s new bird. Well, apparently it’s been three years now……….
She is naturally thin, I am a dinosaur in disguise. I bump into her in the local (not mine, obviously, I ain’t local), and she’s wearing these beautiful shiny, sexy, powerful things, and I decide it must be the winning formula. I psychotically, sorry, politely, ask her where she may have purchased such a magnificent item (or is it items?), and she innocently tells me. Haha! I have your secret now you naïve sexy bitch!
But, like the old glass slipper years back, one woman’s secret is another woman’s cut-off toe. Or nose. Or whatever (NO, not that!!)
So I go to the shop in question.
So far the Chelsea and Brighton branches have not been able to service me. One woman, sensing my twisted desperation, offered me the trews off the model when they are finished with. I declined, sensing karma was about to come and bite me on the not-rubber clad bottom.
So I continued my quest, willing to accept my just dessert – if I looked fab then maybe I could win the man of her dreams, (not of my sordid fantasies). If I looked hideous then it would be a just reminder of my inferiority. And of my stalking skills. ‘Leave the poor girl alone’, my guru says.
‘Don’t compare yourself to her’, do I hear you exclaim?! ‘It’s great to have shape!’
Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. The end of this sorry tale is that I spent an hour after work on the demented DLR going to the wharf. Yes. The wharf. My friend does PR for the shopping centre, so I figured that would give me an element of power over the hideous, doctor who-inspired metropolis.
Nope. Dragging myself through mazes of burger-munching androids I desperately searched for the shop, which I swore was hiding, in question. There it was. And there were the trousers. In my size (took the size bigger for moral support).
F-ing hideous. Imagine an old-fashioned scuba-diver with kickboxers legs, wet and rubber clad, then a pair of tits on top. Not nice, not nice at all.
Humoured, my quest was complete. I must say, all that marching must have made my legs a bit skinnier?
Well, I am allowed to indulge in some bunny-boiling moments. One has to be reminded one should occasionally act like a straight female, not always a cackling gay gigolo.
Off to google all my ex-shags’s girlies. Ciaou!
Time: That horrible non-time of shopping malls
Costume: Not rubber-clad trews, more likely rubber-souled shoes
So I decided that if I couldn’t wear her shoes I could at least try and squash into her trousers. The ex’s new bird. Well, apparently it’s been three years now……….
She is naturally thin, I am a dinosaur in disguise. I bump into her in the local (not mine, obviously, I ain’t local), and she’s wearing these beautiful shiny, sexy, powerful things, and I decide it must be the winning formula. I psychotically, sorry, politely, ask her where she may have purchased such a magnificent item (or is it items?), and she innocently tells me. Haha! I have your secret now you naïve sexy bitch!
But, like the old glass slipper years back, one woman’s secret is another woman’s cut-off toe. Or nose. Or whatever (NO, not that!!)
So I go to the shop in question.
So far the Chelsea and Brighton branches have not been able to service me. One woman, sensing my twisted desperation, offered me the trews off the model when they are finished with. I declined, sensing karma was about to come and bite me on the not-rubber clad bottom.
So I continued my quest, willing to accept my just dessert – if I looked fab then maybe I could win the man of her dreams, (not of my sordid fantasies). If I looked hideous then it would be a just reminder of my inferiority. And of my stalking skills. ‘Leave the poor girl alone’, my guru says.
‘Don’t compare yourself to her’, do I hear you exclaim?! ‘It’s great to have shape!’
Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. The end of this sorry tale is that I spent an hour after work on the demented DLR going to the wharf. Yes. The wharf. My friend does PR for the shopping centre, so I figured that would give me an element of power over the hideous, doctor who-inspired metropolis.
Nope. Dragging myself through mazes of burger-munching androids I desperately searched for the shop, which I swore was hiding, in question. There it was. And there were the trousers. In my size (took the size bigger for moral support).
F-ing hideous. Imagine an old-fashioned scuba-diver with kickboxers legs, wet and rubber clad, then a pair of tits on top. Not nice, not nice at all.
Humoured, my quest was complete. I must say, all that marching must have made my legs a bit skinnier?
Well, I am allowed to indulge in some bunny-boiling moments. One has to be reminded one should occasionally act like a straight female, not always a cackling gay gigolo.
Off to google all my ex-shags’s girlies. Ciaou!
020908 Where's Me Lucky Charms?
Where?: Caffe Nero, London Bridge,
When?: a few days later…………
Caffe Nero is cool. Men are not cool. Free paper is good. Heartache is bad. Postmen can be nice. Train journeys can be slow. Writing soothes my soul. Cruising is good for you. I pretend coffee is good for me. Marks and Spencers is dull but necessary. Like raincoats. Patience is a virtue. Waiting drives me mad. Love is pain.
OH SHIT AM I A LITTLE BIT LONELY?! Who do you speak to when you’re low? Who in the world wants to know? Some people speak to me, though they are aware sympathy only comes with good reason and I don’t suffer fools, and if it’s empathy we’re talking about then we’re both fucked.
Do I write to my ‘higher self’? I like to write to an imagined audience, to keep a bit objective and hard. Being soft and emotional is okay if there’s someone to lean on, but I am a self-lubricating three-in-one.
And now everything’s gone wrong. Work is tormenting, I’ve run out of baccy, the wrong men are perving me up, I got dumped and a woman near to the end put all her trust in me for a painful hour on the telephone. I don’t do bad days, I do natural serotonin-filled wonderment. Maybe I need a shit, (as my old boss was asked to tell me if I threw a tantrum). PMT is certainly an agenda item.
I felt okay when I texted him last night (knowing there would be no response). I promised myself I’d call him. Then I texted him. Cop out. Indeed. Cold comfort for change.
Contented with a non-response I rested easy last night, waking up to a stormy day. Summer is over.
But then today I got a ‘just come out of a relationship, we can be friends’ thing. I call a shag a shag. Why did he enjoy me so much if he wasn’t prepared for a 30-something backlash? In anger and acidic stomach I deleted it straight out , then wished I’d read it twice.
My response was slightly bitter but witty. I knew if a bought 24 condoms the ship would not come in! then I reversed my mobil-for-one and asked him for a drink. Who do I turn to? Make use of men you’ve slept with. I have near to no straight male friends, using the excuse that sex gets in the way. Well, I might let it. He’s somewhere poncing about on an ad shoot so no go there, but a tidy enough chapter. I did mention to him that relationships end in death, and sex is better than friends. If I hadn’t scared him yet, hopefully I have now. We’ll see.
So I’m off to M and S for some predictable burrowing through heartless garments and so on. But there’s wine in the basement. And at least there’s no rat in my kitchen. But what am I gonna do?!
When?: a few days later…………
Caffe Nero is cool. Men are not cool. Free paper is good. Heartache is bad. Postmen can be nice. Train journeys can be slow. Writing soothes my soul. Cruising is good for you. I pretend coffee is good for me. Marks and Spencers is dull but necessary. Like raincoats. Patience is a virtue. Waiting drives me mad. Love is pain.
OH SHIT AM I A LITTLE BIT LONELY?! Who do you speak to when you’re low? Who in the world wants to know? Some people speak to me, though they are aware sympathy only comes with good reason and I don’t suffer fools, and if it’s empathy we’re talking about then we’re both fucked.
Do I write to my ‘higher self’? I like to write to an imagined audience, to keep a bit objective and hard. Being soft and emotional is okay if there’s someone to lean on, but I am a self-lubricating three-in-one.
And now everything’s gone wrong. Work is tormenting, I’ve run out of baccy, the wrong men are perving me up, I got dumped and a woman near to the end put all her trust in me for a painful hour on the telephone. I don’t do bad days, I do natural serotonin-filled wonderment. Maybe I need a shit, (as my old boss was asked to tell me if I threw a tantrum). PMT is certainly an agenda item.
I felt okay when I texted him last night (knowing there would be no response). I promised myself I’d call him. Then I texted him. Cop out. Indeed. Cold comfort for change.
Contented with a non-response I rested easy last night, waking up to a stormy day. Summer is over.
But then today I got a ‘just come out of a relationship, we can be friends’ thing. I call a shag a shag. Why did he enjoy me so much if he wasn’t prepared for a 30-something backlash? In anger and acidic stomach I deleted it straight out , then wished I’d read it twice.
My response was slightly bitter but witty. I knew if a bought 24 condoms the ship would not come in! then I reversed my mobil-for-one and asked him for a drink. Who do I turn to? Make use of men you’ve slept with. I have near to no straight male friends, using the excuse that sex gets in the way. Well, I might let it. He’s somewhere poncing about on an ad shoot so no go there, but a tidy enough chapter. I did mention to him that relationships end in death, and sex is better than friends. If I hadn’t scared him yet, hopefully I have now. We’ll see.
So I’m off to M and S for some predictable burrowing through heartless garments and so on. But there’s wine in the basement. And at least there’s no rat in my kitchen. But what am I gonna do?!
310808 Rules are made to be Broken
Basically there are men and there are women. Some men like men, and so on. It’s not that complicated. We are only animals. There are an infinite amount of creatures to shack up with. It makes me tired.
All the rules of your 20s just dry up and pale into significance when you hit thirty, or as I have just done, 31.
Speaking to a friend about it last night, she said she just has one rule; let them do the chasing. I see what she means. Generally a male desperado is accepted by the nurturing female, but a soon as a woman even hints at the possibility of being umbilical, the glorious alpha male retreats back into his predictable, but safe, cage.
The men in my life this year have sat on both sides of the push-me-pull-you sea-saw. It’s nice to be worshipped, but also invokes the impulse to ring their necks, or pick them up and wipe the floor with them. Power. Who wants it?
So, after my summer run abruptly ended, (although my mind had already sent enough signals to my control centre), by the death of my ex-boyfriend by hanging, I was prepared to cut the man-thing out of the equation for at least a while: or so I thought.
Put it in front of me and I will eat it.
Do I have a type? Do I have any powers of elimination at all? Does deleting all the ugly men from my soulmates profile count as some form of discretion and dignity, or show signs that there are some kind of selection powers?
Like the sweets in an Indian bakery, you just have to try them all, and at the grand age of 31 I’m still not full. Admittedly, themes come around again, but nothing wrong with a quick reminder. Learning lessons is important. The spunky Spaniard, who to quote myself, was ‘too good to be true’, was just an absolute hunk, god knows what his agenda is. He did booty-text me in the end, but there’s a profession for that kind of servicing.
Why, for example, did I give my number last night to a man who already annoyed the hell out of me with his inability to be straight down the line, real, honest? Do I really have to give myself the challenge of completely modifying or ignoring someone’s personality?
He said it was sarcasm, and that he’d try to be serious instead. I told him to be funny – it didn’t work. And why he couldn’t discreetly tap my digits into his phone I don’t know. The poor bridesmaid behind us was not best pleased. Well I tried, and feigning ignorance is bliss. Well that’s an overstatement, but it stops you getting caught out so much/knifed in the throat.
As I pause for a sip of my ‘decaf’ Americano, I have already cruised a young man with his book, though men of England, please stop wearing jeans that don’t show the contours of your arses. Ah, he’s sitting down, that’s better – the front contour is pleasing.
But then, you do meet people with so-called morals. My friend Rix, for example. Extremely virginal, but with a quiet allure, he claims that my vaguely brash statements are against his ‘moral fibre’. He has an allergic reaction to phrases as harmless as ‘a bit of the old heave-ho’, and suddenly becomes absorbed in an acidic under-the-breath muttering of disgust. I tried to hold his hand once. That is a different story.
But what is this over-reaction? Have I learnt anything? Yes, that he has a very odd relationship with his sexual identity. Not my problem. Move on.
So the latest escapade is a 28 year-old Irish lad. On my blithering way home from a gig my girls from the Heard had organised in a cute local, one of them foolishly pushed me towards a group of men, saying they had brought them for me. Mistakenly thinking I’d checked them out earlier, only to find they had my nightmare phobia of unattractive teeth, I marched up to the specimens in question and prised their lips apart for a full inspection.
What charm! Did the trick though. Or should I say, turned a trick. The problem is, shock horror, I think I might like him. You notice how many words I decided to include in that sentence. Am I being a womb-un and latching on to the first thing that comes along not brandishing a knife/hammer/chisel; because there’s a light on in his eyes must I yearn for him to power my generator?
Blame it on the booze blues, the cloudy weather, my vulnerable post-birthday-suicide-pre-menstrual array of emotions, or deal with it.
My body is tuned into my message alert frequency. I texted him from a wedding. Blame the circumstances. Nothing too embarrassing. Just a bit sentimental, what do you do when they act keen but don’t lay down on the floor begging to be stamped on? I do it to myself, I do, and that’s what really hurts. Thumb-happy, now I’m always waiting on his reply!
Well he did reply, but today. Which is okay. But I want more. I can only remember snippets of conversation. Selective drunken shag indicators. The worrying alarm bells all explained away. I am now putting it down to the jigsaw being somewhat unfinished! Bu yes, I am right in saying he couldn’t get his erm ‘hands’ in, oops, I mean off me. He said he wanted to be 100% for me, don’t even know what that means, but then, is there ever much sense in primal moanings? I think I remember us getting on well, even sharing a joke or two, and yes I think I like him. I need to attend patience school.
Charm eh? We’ll see who had the charm in the end! Nowadays I have little dignity, and even less shame. Still don’t take it up the arse but apart from that I’m pretty free and easy with how I feel. So basically I want him here, now, I want to study his relievingly fine Irish teeth, his lips, and see about the craic. My point is, the worst and most achingly torturous scenarios are those when you’re not sure whose shoe is on whose foot. Shoes are a good old analogy.
Why can’t I stalkbook him? Why?! Was it a high pitched Irish voice that asked me if I was okay in the sex-silence? Why hadn’t he seen the mighty boosh? Who the fuck is he anyway? I think I need the next instalment. He did comment that this would last for a while, and when my face contorted in an adverse reaction, he replied ‘weeks’.
Now there is a man after my own heart!
All the rules of your 20s just dry up and pale into significance when you hit thirty, or as I have just done, 31.
Speaking to a friend about it last night, she said she just has one rule; let them do the chasing. I see what she means. Generally a male desperado is accepted by the nurturing female, but a soon as a woman even hints at the possibility of being umbilical, the glorious alpha male retreats back into his predictable, but safe, cage.
The men in my life this year have sat on both sides of the push-me-pull-you sea-saw. It’s nice to be worshipped, but also invokes the impulse to ring their necks, or pick them up and wipe the floor with them. Power. Who wants it?
So, after my summer run abruptly ended, (although my mind had already sent enough signals to my control centre), by the death of my ex-boyfriend by hanging, I was prepared to cut the man-thing out of the equation for at least a while: or so I thought.
Put it in front of me and I will eat it.
Do I have a type? Do I have any powers of elimination at all? Does deleting all the ugly men from my soulmates profile count as some form of discretion and dignity, or show signs that there are some kind of selection powers?
Like the sweets in an Indian bakery, you just have to try them all, and at the grand age of 31 I’m still not full. Admittedly, themes come around again, but nothing wrong with a quick reminder. Learning lessons is important. The spunky Spaniard, who to quote myself, was ‘too good to be true’, was just an absolute hunk, god knows what his agenda is. He did booty-text me in the end, but there’s a profession for that kind of servicing.
Why, for example, did I give my number last night to a man who already annoyed the hell out of me with his inability to be straight down the line, real, honest? Do I really have to give myself the challenge of completely modifying or ignoring someone’s personality?
He said it was sarcasm, and that he’d try to be serious instead. I told him to be funny – it didn’t work. And why he couldn’t discreetly tap my digits into his phone I don’t know. The poor bridesmaid behind us was not best pleased. Well I tried, and feigning ignorance is bliss. Well that’s an overstatement, but it stops you getting caught out so much/knifed in the throat.
As I pause for a sip of my ‘decaf’ Americano, I have already cruised a young man with his book, though men of England, please stop wearing jeans that don’t show the contours of your arses. Ah, he’s sitting down, that’s better – the front contour is pleasing.
But then, you do meet people with so-called morals. My friend Rix, for example. Extremely virginal, but with a quiet allure, he claims that my vaguely brash statements are against his ‘moral fibre’. He has an allergic reaction to phrases as harmless as ‘a bit of the old heave-ho’, and suddenly becomes absorbed in an acidic under-the-breath muttering of disgust. I tried to hold his hand once. That is a different story.
But what is this over-reaction? Have I learnt anything? Yes, that he has a very odd relationship with his sexual identity. Not my problem. Move on.
So the latest escapade is a 28 year-old Irish lad. On my blithering way home from a gig my girls from the Heard had organised in a cute local, one of them foolishly pushed me towards a group of men, saying they had brought them for me. Mistakenly thinking I’d checked them out earlier, only to find they had my nightmare phobia of unattractive teeth, I marched up to the specimens in question and prised their lips apart for a full inspection.
What charm! Did the trick though. Or should I say, turned a trick. The problem is, shock horror, I think I might like him. You notice how many words I decided to include in that sentence. Am I being a womb-un and latching on to the first thing that comes along not brandishing a knife/hammer/chisel; because there’s a light on in his eyes must I yearn for him to power my generator?
Blame it on the booze blues, the cloudy weather, my vulnerable post-birthday-suicide-pre-menstrual array of emotions, or deal with it.
My body is tuned into my message alert frequency. I texted him from a wedding. Blame the circumstances. Nothing too embarrassing. Just a bit sentimental, what do you do when they act keen but don’t lay down on the floor begging to be stamped on? I do it to myself, I do, and that’s what really hurts. Thumb-happy, now I’m always waiting on his reply!
Well he did reply, but today. Which is okay. But I want more. I can only remember snippets of conversation. Selective drunken shag indicators. The worrying alarm bells all explained away. I am now putting it down to the jigsaw being somewhat unfinished! Bu yes, I am right in saying he couldn’t get his erm ‘hands’ in, oops, I mean off me. He said he wanted to be 100% for me, don’t even know what that means, but then, is there ever much sense in primal moanings? I think I remember us getting on well, even sharing a joke or two, and yes I think I like him. I need to attend patience school.
Charm eh? We’ll see who had the charm in the end! Nowadays I have little dignity, and even less shame. Still don’t take it up the arse but apart from that I’m pretty free and easy with how I feel. So basically I want him here, now, I want to study his relievingly fine Irish teeth, his lips, and see about the craic. My point is, the worst and most achingly torturous scenarios are those when you’re not sure whose shoe is on whose foot. Shoes are a good old analogy.
Why can’t I stalkbook him? Why?! Was it a high pitched Irish voice that asked me if I was okay in the sex-silence? Why hadn’t he seen the mighty boosh? Who the fuck is he anyway? I think I need the next instalment. He did comment that this would last for a while, and when my face contorted in an adverse reaction, he replied ‘weeks’.
Now there is a man after my own heart!
170808 Let the Games Commence
Every summer, (for the past two summers), I have experienced an epidemic which I have interimly named ‘Zoe’s summer run’.
It comprises of some kind of hideous chemical reaction caused in the universe by a fusion of excessive hormones and the time of year. I think. Or if not, some kind of odd decision that has erupted from the universe’s groin.
It starts with a period of abstinence that I claim as of my own making. What actually causes it is an ungiven, it has been blamed on ‘an intense period of creative fertility’, it has also been blamed on the fact ‘I am too busy to go out and meet people’. It’s okay. At the back of my mind I keep the old spinster’s cliché of ‘it’s when you least expect it to happen that it will’, and even put on my best Bridget Jones’s to go to the pub, but as the Beatles said, what do I see when I turn out the light? That reminds me, I must get the blinds fixed, I can see bloody everything.
So this year so far, let’s take stock. After an unfortunate but intense relationship at the end of last year with a Scottish manic, that ended up in fleeing Tunbridge wells at six in the morning after returning a giant hammer and chisel, I was left a little bit raw around my bones. So I put a hold on men.
But I went to India on a mini travel holiday. As we rickshawed our way to our windswept hut in Arambol I saw an advert for a restaurant called double Dutch. Don’t mind if I do, I commented to my petite yet dangerous partner in crime. And that we did. The two Dutch boys were ineffectual but fun. Mine had what only can be described as an unnatural obsession with a pink sari that he carried everywhere, adorning himself with it whenever possible. That’s what we like, a closet gay with an overactive gland. So after a mantra-singing stoned date we had our wicked way with each other. No harm done.
Returning to the UK I made do with scraps found at parties. The banker who left his shoes by the door even though we have slate tiling, the bouncer I took refuge in when another schizoid friend ransacked the bar, and then Mark.
Poor Mark. Just another example of how the theory that sex with friends doesn’t work. In this case, friends of friends. Also an example of why you shouldn’t listen to said friends.
At a drunken and dishevelled thirtieth birthday, T, whilst groping me with one hand and not his girlfriend with the other, (Mark texted him under the table to watch his behaviour), piped up with the opinion that me and Mark would have great sex together.
Bone to a dog. Carrot to a donkey. Rabbit to a greyhound. And she’s off…………..
Thought I had the deal sealed when we headed to the same tube station – but alas! He disappeared on another line the fool, so what would have been a good one-night stand became a date. Sigh.
Brilliant times, but when it came to the deed…………….slowness.
Never listen to a friend’s opinion.
As usual, I did a make-or-break weekend and visited the glamorous St Albans. A quarter of weed later, we nearly got the sex right (I had the painters in so had to be persuaded, yum!)
In the morning he offered me a coffee. Now as you may be able to discern from my ramblings, I am a bit fussy and judgmental. So coffee for me has a very large meaning. I don’t mind if it’s a mellow birds, as long as the man presents it as such. Mark kept going through options of how I like my coffee. The answer is never simple, but generally strong with a touch of milk. Off he loped.
Time elapsed. Coffee appeared. Oh and how! A strange froth-like substance bobbed on the top of the mug and I knew it was a pond for me to not submerge in. I took a sip. Strange, possibly hydrogenated in some way, presence of palm oil a definite. So I decided as I was hungover, I’d just leave it there. But no,
“Coffee alright is it?” he quirks
“erm, yeah!”
He looks at me suspiciously.
I get up and get on with playing the guitar. We get hungry. I rummage in the fridge, (one of my most favourite and rude past times). There’s some hummus. That’ll do, (a bit five years ago but y’know). Then I stumble across the horror of all horrors……………..a cupboard bursting with…………..tassimo sachets. So that’s what that toxic substance served to me in a cup was!
I sit down.
“That’s quite a good hummus isn’t it?”
Twice in one day. Food and drink faux pas. Cringing inside, I realise this suburban modern man, (divorcee), just hasn’t got the edge I was looking for. Sorry, and bye, this one should be easy to dispose of by email.
Phew, he’d gone, so let the summer games commence!
Had a dry spell, respectfully, (desperately), and then I went to Sweden.
Oh, the land of processed sausage, cheese and mosquitoes. Ended up on a remote island with cultish people living in scout huts. After a drum lesson, dj-ing and dancing I found myself under a tree with two men and a bottle of vodka. Completely bewildered, everyone disappeared for a naked sauna. Apart from me and a man. All of the men seemed to be called Anders. I am informed that this is also his name. Anders had a mental breakdown after the army. Anders is the equivalent of a Swedish chav. A Shav.
Mental and deviant? A cuddle evolves quickly into a sweaty bonk.
“Slower, slower”. Oh. That was that. I’d broken the seal and paved the way for the highwaymen of the night to see my beauty. Roxanne…………
Next I treated myself to a Spanish model and violinist, that I scooped by silently handing him my calling card (I had lost the power of speech due to vodka, his beauty and the amount of prostitutes in the club).
He came, he saw, he conquered. Only in a different order. Too good to be true………….certainly. You get what you ask for…………..
So to soften the, ahem, blow, I took a beefcake gym instructor from bow and let him pound me until I couldn’t breathe. Fearing for my life I was. Left him in my house and went to work to recover. Housemate locked him in.
I think he bought me a CD of Indian-American music. Yuch.
So, erm, I’m a bit overwhelmed by this excessive spillage. I’d better go and clean my…………………mouth out xx
It comprises of some kind of hideous chemical reaction caused in the universe by a fusion of excessive hormones and the time of year. I think. Or if not, some kind of odd decision that has erupted from the universe’s groin.
It starts with a period of abstinence that I claim as of my own making. What actually causes it is an ungiven, it has been blamed on ‘an intense period of creative fertility’, it has also been blamed on the fact ‘I am too busy to go out and meet people’. It’s okay. At the back of my mind I keep the old spinster’s cliché of ‘it’s when you least expect it to happen that it will’, and even put on my best Bridget Jones’s to go to the pub, but as the Beatles said, what do I see when I turn out the light? That reminds me, I must get the blinds fixed, I can see bloody everything.
So this year so far, let’s take stock. After an unfortunate but intense relationship at the end of last year with a Scottish manic, that ended up in fleeing Tunbridge wells at six in the morning after returning a giant hammer and chisel, I was left a little bit raw around my bones. So I put a hold on men.
But I went to India on a mini travel holiday. As we rickshawed our way to our windswept hut in Arambol I saw an advert for a restaurant called double Dutch. Don’t mind if I do, I commented to my petite yet dangerous partner in crime. And that we did. The two Dutch boys were ineffectual but fun. Mine had what only can be described as an unnatural obsession with a pink sari that he carried everywhere, adorning himself with it whenever possible. That’s what we like, a closet gay with an overactive gland. So after a mantra-singing stoned date we had our wicked way with each other. No harm done.
Returning to the UK I made do with scraps found at parties. The banker who left his shoes by the door even though we have slate tiling, the bouncer I took refuge in when another schizoid friend ransacked the bar, and then Mark.
Poor Mark. Just another example of how the theory that sex with friends doesn’t work. In this case, friends of friends. Also an example of why you shouldn’t listen to said friends.
At a drunken and dishevelled thirtieth birthday, T, whilst groping me with one hand and not his girlfriend with the other, (Mark texted him under the table to watch his behaviour), piped up with the opinion that me and Mark would have great sex together.
Bone to a dog. Carrot to a donkey. Rabbit to a greyhound. And she’s off…………..
Thought I had the deal sealed when we headed to the same tube station – but alas! He disappeared on another line the fool, so what would have been a good one-night stand became a date. Sigh.
Brilliant times, but when it came to the deed…………….slowness.
Never listen to a friend’s opinion.
As usual, I did a make-or-break weekend and visited the glamorous St Albans. A quarter of weed later, we nearly got the sex right (I had the painters in so had to be persuaded, yum!)
In the morning he offered me a coffee. Now as you may be able to discern from my ramblings, I am a bit fussy and judgmental. So coffee for me has a very large meaning. I don’t mind if it’s a mellow birds, as long as the man presents it as such. Mark kept going through options of how I like my coffee. The answer is never simple, but generally strong with a touch of milk. Off he loped.
Time elapsed. Coffee appeared. Oh and how! A strange froth-like substance bobbed on the top of the mug and I knew it was a pond for me to not submerge in. I took a sip. Strange, possibly hydrogenated in some way, presence of palm oil a definite. So I decided as I was hungover, I’d just leave it there. But no,
“Coffee alright is it?” he quirks
“erm, yeah!”
He looks at me suspiciously.
I get up and get on with playing the guitar. We get hungry. I rummage in the fridge, (one of my most favourite and rude past times). There’s some hummus. That’ll do, (a bit five years ago but y’know). Then I stumble across the horror of all horrors……………..a cupboard bursting with…………..tassimo sachets. So that’s what that toxic substance served to me in a cup was!
I sit down.
“That’s quite a good hummus isn’t it?”
Twice in one day. Food and drink faux pas. Cringing inside, I realise this suburban modern man, (divorcee), just hasn’t got the edge I was looking for. Sorry, and bye, this one should be easy to dispose of by email.
Phew, he’d gone, so let the summer games commence!
Had a dry spell, respectfully, (desperately), and then I went to Sweden.
Oh, the land of processed sausage, cheese and mosquitoes. Ended up on a remote island with cultish people living in scout huts. After a drum lesson, dj-ing and dancing I found myself under a tree with two men and a bottle of vodka. Completely bewildered, everyone disappeared for a naked sauna. Apart from me and a man. All of the men seemed to be called Anders. I am informed that this is also his name. Anders had a mental breakdown after the army. Anders is the equivalent of a Swedish chav. A Shav.
Mental and deviant? A cuddle evolves quickly into a sweaty bonk.
“Slower, slower”. Oh. That was that. I’d broken the seal and paved the way for the highwaymen of the night to see my beauty. Roxanne…………
Next I treated myself to a Spanish model and violinist, that I scooped by silently handing him my calling card (I had lost the power of speech due to vodka, his beauty and the amount of prostitutes in the club).
He came, he saw, he conquered. Only in a different order. Too good to be true………….certainly. You get what you ask for…………..
So to soften the, ahem, blow, I took a beefcake gym instructor from bow and let him pound me until I couldn’t breathe. Fearing for my life I was. Left him in my house and went to work to recover. Housemate locked him in.
I think he bought me a CD of Indian-American music. Yuch.
So, erm, I’m a bit overwhelmed by this excessive spillage. I’d better go and clean my…………………mouth out xx
August 2008 - the blog begins.............
So at the moment I am on a welcome break from men. Yes, my ‘lovelife’ has ground to a halt and I am enjoying taking a breather. Or so I thought. When recovering from a virus I was dabbling about on t’internet, as one does, and seem to have collected a new batch. All most unlikely, with ridiculous names, but enticing none the less.
Firstly, the bipolar that scared the bejesus out of me reappeared, saying he’d now been on a few dates that had come to nothing. That was meant to draw me in, the poor bastard. Not knowing I am an unrelenting man-killer, he continues to bear his soul to me daily. He claims he’s over his ex, like my ex claimed to be over his marriage by going for dinner with her and her new boyfriend. Hmmmmmmmm, there’s going for dinner, and there’s not searching your soul and GETTING OVER IT.
Turns out Zac Sandler (same initials, it’s the number 23 all over again), hasn’t had it since April. Is this a good or a bad thing one wonders? Eager, yes, mentally unbalanced and eager, no. He’s not even that fit. Bless him, he sent me pics of a slightly sagging physique. If it ain’t tip top, don’t promote it! It’s like me singling out the tiny patch of cellulite beneath my right buttock. Not appealing. However, he is endearing, ands everyone knows us phillies love a bit of the old endearment.
I am horny. No change there. But do I want to talk to someone before I fuck them? Not really.
I decided to interstalk him, and my results were quite fruitful.
1. facebook. Quite a few friends, not enough photos.
2. myspace. Pretty godawful music, amazing graphics (he is an illustrator)
3. youtube. Oh yes, the lady stoppeth not there! Well well well, came up trumps with Adam Buxton and Joe Cornish. Tick tick tick. Oh! Turns out he was number three of the comedy duo Adam and Joe. Ace. Video of him not so ace, becurtained hair. I put it down to the 90s.
He’s so sweet and worshipful though. I decided to ask him how big his cock is, it’s more informed than tossing a coin. Seven and three quarter inches, and quite thick too, apparently. ‘Just about fits into a toilet roll’, he tells me. Don’t ever write that when wooing girls, I tell him. Cock and toilet roll do not fall into the same imaginative category.
By the way, fuck starbucks (note no capital S). Finally feeling like a more-bedraggled Sarah Jessica Parker, lugging my overweight laptop to the high street in a bag donated by a povvo-sympathiser at work with far too plummy an accent considering the fact she can’t pronounce her Rs, I looked forward to apprehensively extracting my PC and connecting to some sort of ‘hotspot’.
Yeah baby, I’m coming up in this modern world! Or not. Turns out the provider charge 75p for every ten minutes! What a bunch of cunts! I must say, like London, I enjoy the anonymity of starbucks. Yes, it’s next to the training centre we use at work and near the HQ, but I am disguised in my new winter uniform, purchased yesterday in high street ken (yes, I know I’m a knob). It consists of a black stockinged body with a mohair aqua smock over the top. It’s a variant of my Japanese assassin look, but softer. I digress, I always digress.
So ZS is number one. But, unfortunately for him, not actually number one in the ranking. Dredging the river bed of my loins, I receive a surprise facebook message from Miguel. Yes. Miguel. I don’t think we’ve spoken about him.
I was fairly impressed with this conquest, though not with the aftermath. At my friend’s wedding, the amorousity started fairly well, when me and Jane-o the Australian timebomb befriended two brothers, both fairly suitable if one squinted one’s eyes, and blagged a space in their car for the day. Then, at the congratulations outside the wedding hall, I came smack bang face to face with Simon. His nose was more upturned than I remembered, and his attire distinctly forgettable. He was quite ‘nice’ to me, but I was scowling, and not just inside. This is the guy who is practically a virgin but after sticking various powders up his snufter nearby raped me in a loft at a party (you can’t rape the willing). Never heard from the bastard again. Oh insults and pride, my greatest enemies.
So I was thinking that the wedding may only be as good as the brothers we had enlisted. But no. Every now and then my gaze wandered to a table not so far away where a charismatic smiler mingled with style. Must be gay, I thought. I also ignored his receding hairline. He stood out from the crowd.
Getting more and more drunk as the afternoon wore off, I saved him in the snakey compartment of my brain for later. And………*pounce*.
‘Hello, I haven’t spoken to you yet, have I?’ Only clinched the bloody deal. Before I know it we are crouched behind the marquee smoking dope. He asks me for a kiss, I decide to save it for later. He makes me walk ahead so he can look at my legs. Yes yes, that’s what we like.
Meanwhile, Jane the timebomb was about to detonate. Goodness only knows where I’d been, but it was long enough for her to deludedly think she had also clinched the deal with the lovely, (though slightly naff), Miguel. Yes, I’d been filling him in on exactly how drunk and dangerous she becomes, and he had been saying he wanted to meet her. I said he wouldn’t have to try, and sure enough, as I approached he whispered, ‘you were right, she found me’.
Drooling on the table, my mind flashbacked to Thailand 04, when we had an unfortunate falling out over an Australian hunk who wouldn’t use protection, so as payback I told him he was ‘OK’ in bed (then I got my just dessert). I could tell her memory had gone, as she grinned and made strange wincing movements with her face at him. Petrified, he made a speedy exit, leaving me with the shipwreck.
‘I think I want to bone him, is that bad?’ She dribbles. This is the girl who is in a serious relationship but is still waiting for the one. After a few pina coladas, the any one.
So now what? I can’t tell her I’ve clinched the deal, we have only technically perved at each other and not actually exchanged bodily fluids yet. Yet.
I walk up to him. She’s no use to anyone so I let her ferment in her own drool. He tells me he wants to take me outside. I tell him we have to dance first. Time slipped backwards as he held me close and we danced, 1940s war-style, to an old crooners tune. When I raised my head from the comfort of his shoulder, I actually felt I had awoken from a dream. That’ll be the wine.
OH NO! I turn my head and Jane-O is scowling at me then walks off! Embarrassment after embarrassment! How does one handle this situation? It confirmed the Thai showdown. By hook or by crook I had won these men over, but to tell another alpha female this is certain death. But to lie is just awkward…………..
Anyhoo, the story doesn’t get much better than that. In all honesty I became less attracted to him, he seemed a bit wet, and by the time we had a proper pash outside a gypsy caravan, I deserted him and his almighty hard on as Jane was bulldozing through the wedding party causing havoc. Abandon ship.
I couldn’t be arsed to be annoyed with Jane, it just reminded me why I don’t travel with her. We are a hideous pulling package as it is, and it’s never a winning combo. There was also muchos entertainment the next day as we discovered her killer heels had been abandoned for a pair of size 12 men’s diesel trainers. Yes.
So that’s Miguel. I facebooked him all-too-soon after, (curiosity killed the cat again). I’ve got a whole graveyard of damaged pussies. Ah, just had to write that. Anyway, he half-heartedly replied after over a week and I took it on the chin.
BUT, it seems he had caught my man-flu in cyberspace and got in touch again! I like him. I want to snuggle up with him on a sofa (it’s October, I’m hibernating, I’m allowed to be girly and naff). He’s definitely a better option that the unstable Zac, but less willing. He says he owes me a drink. I’ll just have to sit pretty then rape when the opportunity arises.
Talking of rape, did I mention my ridiculous relationship with the 48 year old cokehead who wears women’s panties?............................
So the other options for me at the moment are just as random and varied. Flavour of the month is the Bromley-based Robert Peroni. Good name, in keeping with my European penchant. Clicked ‘yes’ on are you interested, the random yet surprisingly fruitful dating application on facebook.
And he has his top off. And he’s a tri-athlete. And he seems to have a brain. Though he writes lol. Which makes me sick. I actually exclaimed ‘phwoaaaaargh’ out loud when I clapped eyes on him.
Wrong. Bromley. Wrong. Top off. Right! We are just chatting at the moment but lordy, if ever there was a cookie in the jar I couldn’t resist………….
The other two are extremely tenuous. One is named Bremley, I met him at a networking event on a Saturday. I know, a Saturday! He does really interesting development work and is young and originally from India. He may well be gay. He reminds me of a few delusions of grandeur sufferers, but with focus. He writes about singing and dancing for the world. A bit ridiculous. But good for perv factor. He’s my friend on facebook and had invited me to various fundraisers (curiously enough, Magnus Agugu, friend of the late Jimmy, is also in his friends).
The other is an even more distant possibility. It’s Bruce Parry of tribe and Amazon fame. I remind myself slightly of the mad Rachel when she was convinced Mark Ronson wanted her to write to him, but nevertheless, I am ensnaring him on the interweb and intend to meet up with him. I love his work, his body’s a bit slidy but his mind’s good, he’s 39 and single and I need to get knocked up. O yay o yay.
By the way, what is the etiquette when you need a wee whilst being disabled by the presence of your laptop? My legs are crossed.
Better go, for everyone’s sake!xx
Firstly, the bipolar that scared the bejesus out of me reappeared, saying he’d now been on a few dates that had come to nothing. That was meant to draw me in, the poor bastard. Not knowing I am an unrelenting man-killer, he continues to bear his soul to me daily. He claims he’s over his ex, like my ex claimed to be over his marriage by going for dinner with her and her new boyfriend. Hmmmmmmmm, there’s going for dinner, and there’s not searching your soul and GETTING OVER IT.
Turns out Zac Sandler (same initials, it’s the number 23 all over again), hasn’t had it since April. Is this a good or a bad thing one wonders? Eager, yes, mentally unbalanced and eager, no. He’s not even that fit. Bless him, he sent me pics of a slightly sagging physique. If it ain’t tip top, don’t promote it! It’s like me singling out the tiny patch of cellulite beneath my right buttock. Not appealing. However, he is endearing, ands everyone knows us phillies love a bit of the old endearment.
I am horny. No change there. But do I want to talk to someone before I fuck them? Not really.
I decided to interstalk him, and my results were quite fruitful.
1. facebook. Quite a few friends, not enough photos.
2. myspace. Pretty godawful music, amazing graphics (he is an illustrator)
3. youtube. Oh yes, the lady stoppeth not there! Well well well, came up trumps with Adam Buxton and Joe Cornish. Tick tick tick. Oh! Turns out he was number three of the comedy duo Adam and Joe. Ace. Video of him not so ace, becurtained hair. I put it down to the 90s.
He’s so sweet and worshipful though. I decided to ask him how big his cock is, it’s more informed than tossing a coin. Seven and three quarter inches, and quite thick too, apparently. ‘Just about fits into a toilet roll’, he tells me. Don’t ever write that when wooing girls, I tell him. Cock and toilet roll do not fall into the same imaginative category.
By the way, fuck starbucks (note no capital S). Finally feeling like a more-bedraggled Sarah Jessica Parker, lugging my overweight laptop to the high street in a bag donated by a povvo-sympathiser at work with far too plummy an accent considering the fact she can’t pronounce her Rs, I looked forward to apprehensively extracting my PC and connecting to some sort of ‘hotspot’.
Yeah baby, I’m coming up in this modern world! Or not. Turns out the provider charge 75p for every ten minutes! What a bunch of cunts! I must say, like London, I enjoy the anonymity of starbucks. Yes, it’s next to the training centre we use at work and near the HQ, but I am disguised in my new winter uniform, purchased yesterday in high street ken (yes, I know I’m a knob). It consists of a black stockinged body with a mohair aqua smock over the top. It’s a variant of my Japanese assassin look, but softer. I digress, I always digress.
So ZS is number one. But, unfortunately for him, not actually number one in the ranking. Dredging the river bed of my loins, I receive a surprise facebook message from Miguel. Yes. Miguel. I don’t think we’ve spoken about him.
I was fairly impressed with this conquest, though not with the aftermath. At my friend’s wedding, the amorousity started fairly well, when me and Jane-o the Australian timebomb befriended two brothers, both fairly suitable if one squinted one’s eyes, and blagged a space in their car for the day. Then, at the congratulations outside the wedding hall, I came smack bang face to face with Simon. His nose was more upturned than I remembered, and his attire distinctly forgettable. He was quite ‘nice’ to me, but I was scowling, and not just inside. This is the guy who is practically a virgin but after sticking various powders up his snufter nearby raped me in a loft at a party (you can’t rape the willing). Never heard from the bastard again. Oh insults and pride, my greatest enemies.
So I was thinking that the wedding may only be as good as the brothers we had enlisted. But no. Every now and then my gaze wandered to a table not so far away where a charismatic smiler mingled with style. Must be gay, I thought. I also ignored his receding hairline. He stood out from the crowd.
Getting more and more drunk as the afternoon wore off, I saved him in the snakey compartment of my brain for later. And………*pounce*.
‘Hello, I haven’t spoken to you yet, have I?’ Only clinched the bloody deal. Before I know it we are crouched behind the marquee smoking dope. He asks me for a kiss, I decide to save it for later. He makes me walk ahead so he can look at my legs. Yes yes, that’s what we like.
Meanwhile, Jane the timebomb was about to detonate. Goodness only knows where I’d been, but it was long enough for her to deludedly think she had also clinched the deal with the lovely, (though slightly naff), Miguel. Yes, I’d been filling him in on exactly how drunk and dangerous she becomes, and he had been saying he wanted to meet her. I said he wouldn’t have to try, and sure enough, as I approached he whispered, ‘you were right, she found me’.
Drooling on the table, my mind flashbacked to Thailand 04, when we had an unfortunate falling out over an Australian hunk who wouldn’t use protection, so as payback I told him he was ‘OK’ in bed (then I got my just dessert). I could tell her memory had gone, as she grinned and made strange wincing movements with her face at him. Petrified, he made a speedy exit, leaving me with the shipwreck.
‘I think I want to bone him, is that bad?’ She dribbles. This is the girl who is in a serious relationship but is still waiting for the one. After a few pina coladas, the any one.
So now what? I can’t tell her I’ve clinched the deal, we have only technically perved at each other and not actually exchanged bodily fluids yet. Yet.
I walk up to him. She’s no use to anyone so I let her ferment in her own drool. He tells me he wants to take me outside. I tell him we have to dance first. Time slipped backwards as he held me close and we danced, 1940s war-style, to an old crooners tune. When I raised my head from the comfort of his shoulder, I actually felt I had awoken from a dream. That’ll be the wine.
OH NO! I turn my head and Jane-O is scowling at me then walks off! Embarrassment after embarrassment! How does one handle this situation? It confirmed the Thai showdown. By hook or by crook I had won these men over, but to tell another alpha female this is certain death. But to lie is just awkward…………..
Anyhoo, the story doesn’t get much better than that. In all honesty I became less attracted to him, he seemed a bit wet, and by the time we had a proper pash outside a gypsy caravan, I deserted him and his almighty hard on as Jane was bulldozing through the wedding party causing havoc. Abandon ship.
I couldn’t be arsed to be annoyed with Jane, it just reminded me why I don’t travel with her. We are a hideous pulling package as it is, and it’s never a winning combo. There was also muchos entertainment the next day as we discovered her killer heels had been abandoned for a pair of size 12 men’s diesel trainers. Yes.
So that’s Miguel. I facebooked him all-too-soon after, (curiosity killed the cat again). I’ve got a whole graveyard of damaged pussies. Ah, just had to write that. Anyway, he half-heartedly replied after over a week and I took it on the chin.
BUT, it seems he had caught my man-flu in cyberspace and got in touch again! I like him. I want to snuggle up with him on a sofa (it’s October, I’m hibernating, I’m allowed to be girly and naff). He’s definitely a better option that the unstable Zac, but less willing. He says he owes me a drink. I’ll just have to sit pretty then rape when the opportunity arises.
Talking of rape, did I mention my ridiculous relationship with the 48 year old cokehead who wears women’s panties?............................
So the other options for me at the moment are just as random and varied. Flavour of the month is the Bromley-based Robert Peroni. Good name, in keeping with my European penchant. Clicked ‘yes’ on are you interested, the random yet surprisingly fruitful dating application on facebook.
And he has his top off. And he’s a tri-athlete. And he seems to have a brain. Though he writes lol. Which makes me sick. I actually exclaimed ‘phwoaaaaargh’ out loud when I clapped eyes on him.
Wrong. Bromley. Wrong. Top off. Right! We are just chatting at the moment but lordy, if ever there was a cookie in the jar I couldn’t resist………….
The other two are extremely tenuous. One is named Bremley, I met him at a networking event on a Saturday. I know, a Saturday! He does really interesting development work and is young and originally from India. He may well be gay. He reminds me of a few delusions of grandeur sufferers, but with focus. He writes about singing and dancing for the world. A bit ridiculous. But good for perv factor. He’s my friend on facebook and had invited me to various fundraisers (curiously enough, Magnus Agugu, friend of the late Jimmy, is also in his friends).
The other is an even more distant possibility. It’s Bruce Parry of tribe and Amazon fame. I remind myself slightly of the mad Rachel when she was convinced Mark Ronson wanted her to write to him, but nevertheless, I am ensnaring him on the interweb and intend to meet up with him. I love his work, his body’s a bit slidy but his mind’s good, he’s 39 and single and I need to get knocked up. O yay o yay.
By the way, what is the etiquette when you need a wee whilst being disabled by the presence of your laptop? My legs are crossed.
Better go, for everyone’s sake!xx
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