“To learn a lesson you have already learned is to not have learned it properly in the fucking first place”
Godiva 09
I’m not waiting on a lover……………..have you seen my lover baby, standing in the shadows?
No? Me neither.
What was promising to be a spectacular summer run has dwindled into a plate not worth eating. Oh yay, oh yay, I bring tidings not of joy.
So I turn to witch craft. Love potion number 9. Stand by the full moonlight and brew your worst, repeat some Wiccan words and focus on the one you love. Be sure it is the object of your desires, be careful what you wish for.
Pondering on this googled wisdom, I was forced to ask myself, who is this one I love? Haven’t a clue!
Be careful what you wish for, Godiva.
So the choirboy came to stay…………for four freaking nights. And not an ounce, not an ounce I tell you, of a snifter of cock. This despite having visited the sacred place of his previously, his thinking he’d knocked me up, and a near reconciliation, doused by his flatulence and my principles.
A few nights jamming late into the night left me hopeful. I told you in the last instalment it would go one of two ways……..banging him until the almighty told me to stop, or taking a restraining order out on myself to stop punching him in the brain.
Well guess which one, dear readers? That lovely latter!
He decided on a wobbly seafront walk home after licking lesbians fingers and crowd surfing through the wettest, gayest pride yet, to talk to me about the lack of sex.
It transpires that before chrimble when we fucked, he hadn’t had it since he was twenty one. That’s six years. I couldn’t hear it.
‘No expectations’ I growled. ‘I knew it would go one way or the other’.
Oh just leave will you? No. He wouldn’t. He cramped me in every way possible, smothered my burning flames with a damp shammy leather, I feared my fist would make contact with his head against my instruction.
Never again.
So that’s the lesson I already knew. Had to play it out. Don’t understand where the hell his head was at, but if there’s cock in my house it gets far closer to my bed. And that’s that.
So I realised with the witchety grubs that what I wanted was a good banging. Maybe even the dreaded fuck buddy. So I gave a moonlit focus to that.
And it may have paid off. I called off the internet date. ‘Funky physicist’ he calls himself. My latest song is called physics, and the choir boy ruined that as well, by pointing out the desperately horny hilarity of
‘The residue remains in me’. ‘Yes’ I say, ‘but it’s about the big bang you see.’
‘Big bang’. Indeed.
Anyhoo, in the song it’s saying it’s chemistry, not physics, and I thought I’d better heed to my own words.
The internet gimp in question was a Londoner who’d got in touch and spoken about sex in his profile. Tick.
He was down in Brighton doing a thesis in a lab about photons. Well they sound cool!
They do!
He wanted to meet but didn’t have much time, so we set an hour on Wednesday, short and sweet.
But dragging myself off the tennis court I felt done in, and couldn’t face resurrecting my tired old (birthday soon) body to the peace statue, where I’d set to meet him.
So I called it off in a text, saying it would be better when we both had the time, and he replied with a quip about buying me a great present, but Primark would take it back, light weight.
Very charming mr fucking physicist. The reason these creatures are on interweb dating is because they CAN’T SCORE GRLS IN REAL LIFE. Whereas, give me a room of men and I’ll have swept the floor in twenty minutes. Although obviously, I am having some kind of temporarily glitch………
Internet ain’t no good for me. They aren’t great in the flesh, chemistry can’t be faked, and only the booze can convince you to stick the tongue in.
Nup, I’d rather frig about with the agoraphobic who keeps offering me adult fun. He stays in his house, which means that I can leave.
How will this story end, I hear you cry? Her tangents are twisted and disgustable, and she’s clearly been reading Jeannette Winterson.
Today, I went to London for ‘work’. Which consisted of me nearly fucking a stationery representative over a desk, getting coke-high on coffee, telling various plump members of staff I loved them, and generally controlling the universe.
I feel good – borderline mental, but good.
I popped upstairs to find my beloved brummy pig-queen, the lift door opens and she walks right in! We agree to meet for ‘lunch’.
And we pop down to the river, the dirty old river, but it keeps on rolling.
Something is going on – there are vans parked either side of the cobbled walkway. I ask a man what’s going on and he says he’s busy, so in my new-found aggressive manner I tell him it would have taken as long just to tell me. Must stop watching people nutting each other on Shameless.
Anyhoo, we pop to an old haunt of mine – haunt because I have dumped several men there, and there’s a commotion outside. A film crew is busy setting up a scene in the outdoor seating area (sack the location scout), for a film called Take Me to the Greek, starring none other than the notorious Russell Brand!
And look, there he is, cocking his hips in front of me. The heart starts racing, so all that witchery by the window has paid off – I wish for sex, and the most talked about sex maniac appears before my very eyes! My pig-queen ex-boss stands shaking her head at me, ‘you’ve got a bit over-excited’. Oh yes I have. Imagine how no-strings this could be, and I’m not about to try and sell my story to Mr Morgan. Hell no.
I catch his eye, and he performs a peacockish mating dance for me, quivering his lips and his hips, raising his eyebrows. Before I know it, I have reached into my faux-designer handbag and snatched out an erotic calling card and am waving it at him suggestively. How about this for a lunch break?
Then he disappears on set. A craggy-toothed security guard stands gormlessly between the crowd and the brand. I give him the card and ask him to give it to Russell, meaning at an opportune moment, but he runs off there and then to purloin a piece of his manhood for me.
But he comes back, saying he only got as far as the PA. Hmmmmmmmm, reformed sex addict’s PA gets given a calling card from a random blonde. Let’s do a probability analysis. I decide not to, pat myself on the back for nearly doing well, and settle down to my fishfinger sandwich.
Work that afternoon flies by, shooting warning looks at the pig-queen not to once again reveal my outrageous behaviour to the solemn-faced housing executives churning away at their work stations.
I return to The Anchor for a second stalk-innings with me old faithful John of Tabard Square, I bump into little Amy Winehouse, my former gym fighting partner and good all-round pagan. She’d been texting me about seeing me and I’d evaded, but there she was, shouting out to me only because I’d been singing Furtado’s ‘I’m like a bird’ unawares.
‘I’m not important enough to you’, she said when I mumbled excuses of not ringing.
A few weeks ago I bumped into her whilst dribbling my way to the station after lovebox. It’s a small world, but this one makes it smaller. I knew the witching had begun.
Johnny and I take a seat on the patio and watch Brand filming. I try to block his shrieking voice from my head – this does not correlate with my hopes of outlandish acrobatic bonking, and eye him up continuously for half an hour. I leave to get my train, deciding he may have my calling card, and if I incessantly stalk him on twitter I could get a result.
Twas not the only witching I did today. My wife Loula, (travel and market wench), had been complaining of the same dilemma over the phone, ‘everything is a bit normal, where’s the witchery?’ And we knew we needed some, and she scored my head with a crystal and we stomped our way through the blues like unstoppable heathen-women.
Yes today is the day for witching, and witching I done good. Now I’ve just got to wait for that booty call..........................................
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