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