a gush of blood to the bed

‘I keep bleedin, keep keep bleedin’
Leona Lewis (well, some other out of work songwriter), 2007

The thing is, I’d like to say I’m a liberal-minded free-loving uber-modern girl who doesn’t mind her bloke fucking anything that moves, but that’s simply not the case.

He is so fucking fit: women, men, children and beasts throw themselves at his massive, flat feet. Yes, he has no soul, sorry, I meant insole, no, bridge. Anyway.

He has flat feet in common with my little brother. The one I brought up from birth. The one that was in the year above him in school. Yup. Changed his nappies.

So I don’t blame him for fucking other people, as long as that’s all it is. As long as I’m in his pecker order somewhere. It was the text methadone that got me going all schizy. Talking to all and sundry about absolute proliferations, and having no conclusion other than pain.

So I had to ‘talk’ to him. By text. I asked him straight.

‘My mind’s been all over the place, juts tell me if you’ve been screwing other people.’

‘I may have. Didn’t think it was a problem.’

What a beautiful reply. And it went on……I just had to let him know I was not the fun-loving cougar he had in mind. Or had pushed to the back of his mind. And there’s only a month till he drives a bulletproof truck through Chechyna and I move to London. So there’s a natural end……………..ooooooo that old trap, the ‘I’ll carry on cos it’ll end then anyway’, only to fucking find you’ve sold up and are living in Slough with nothing but a weight problem for company.

However, in all honesty, I don’t think his mind is wide enough to actually give a shit. He aims to please, and by god he achieves it, but he’s 21. And a man. Things are straight or bent, yes or no, there’s none of this moon-induced hippy shit that I’m full of in his world.

So we met for a ‘talking drink’. He’s done this before. Poor sod had prepared all of his ‘choose your own adventure’ endings (though he’s too young to have read them, he’d have been frigging off his tamagotchi). What if I say he can’t sleep with other people? What then?

But of course I didn’t make any demands on the poor lamb. Just spouted hungover ramblings at him till he was really confused. Which was far more enjoyable than giving him an ultimatum after which I’d surely lose.

‘I don’t get it. You need to translate it into man or something’.

Oh shit. That’s the best I’ve done in years. The last one hung himself. So that was easy.

So I try again to explain. My life is on an even plane, I’m a very happy person, I’m not used to there being someone else there, and my brain just went a bit mental.

There, now I’ve written it down it doesn’t really have much of an instruction.

‘what do you want me to do?’ He asks.

‘Nothing’, I answer. How sweet and pathetic is that?

But actually, what he can do, is behave himself slightly or I’ll get fucked off, and fuck me incredibly beautifully for as long as possible. I have mentioned whips, and he isn’t afraid to use them.

To god be the glory, great things he hath done.

Is there a cure for this paedophilia? Honestly, I thought I’d done them all, but this is a new category, and I’ve got a horrible feeling the next may swing the other way. Sugar daddy o.

Busloads of groaning hormone-fuelled college boys hoon past me and I elate, mixed race chavs call me sugar in the street. My ex boyfriend sent me a brilliant teenage blog containing the lithe, vulnerable fuckers. Ah! Whatever this is, cure me!

Love, said one friend. Oh get fucked, I have to zone out when he’s talking just to wait till he’s naked. He offered to meet me in the day on Saturday. Nice gesture, freak, but it ain’t near enough bed time. Which more or less sums up my text reply to him.

And the only thing that seems to have made me act like a teenager is the fact that in the six weeks I’ve known him, I’ve bled on him twice and narrowly escaped a third. Yup. Met him at the ‘end’ of my period, fucked him on day two three weeks later and ruined my bed, at which point he confessed I’d ruined his the first time. Then yesterday I imagined the talks could end up in forgiveness sex which is always nice.

Thank fuck for the bottle of wine, half of vodka and five sambuca shots I’d put away the day before with my best friend. And the three hours of mod dancing. Which had basically made me able to only dance and cycle, but not stand. I actually started walking backwards at one point on my way to meeting him. Was I walking back to happiness?

Woop by oh way-hay-hay.

He, on the other hand, had outdone me and been doing the good stuff till nine in the morning, then spent the day roaming the marina with an old tramp. Marvellous.

So neither of us was in a state to go to each others abodes, and now I’ve pinned him down on free dates for the next week when I shall have stopped menstruating. Hopefully.

Oh how we love Leona….x

cock rock

I’ve had all sorts of lovely dick -
Small ones that have done the trick
Big cocks that have started to drop
Tradesmens dicks that have finished me off
Two in the hand and one in the face
All fours in the garden of a stately place

My friend had sex and it made her cry
She got fisted while being lifted and it gave her piles
I stopped breathing once but he carried on
but at least he had a condom on

Cut cocks in Israel on the banks of the dead sea
Army boys cocks coming all over me
Old men’s cocks and young boys shanks
Joyless cocks - should have said no thanks

Pilots and painters and dealers and hicks
Licked Kiwis balls while they called me bitch
Transvestites and gays and women and strays
Pump and squirters never cease to amaze

French boys and models and men with no names
Been shat on by birds doing the walk of shame
Sucked off a bouncer in the front of his motor
Worn their string of pearls like a Gucci choker

Got my knickers ripped and found out through my mum
Got fucked up on a barge then got fucked up the bum
Had sex on my friend in the koh tao sea
It served him right for pissing on me

All these things are true, and all these things I like
You could say I was the world’s best bike
But I like your cock, and you know why?
Cos it’s on the end of you, but I know it’s mine.

I beg your pardon…..Go Cougars!

He’s sooooooooo mental. But he’s soooooooooooo cute.

Now there’s a new dilemma (or is it just an old one I’ve forgotten?)

The last one was pig ugly but spiritually vast. Wouldn’t commit – not even to texting me, but showed me a secure loving place where I could exist.

Boring.

So now, let’s see what the remedy is for that poison…..

Beautiful boy. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made me remark to my colleague:

“ Well he’s obviously a bit mental – well I know he’s a bit mental – cos it’s always either that or serial fucking monogamists that like me.”

To which she gave me a small teaching on self esteem.

“Yeah, but that’s what I always say – they must be mental if they like me……..”

Etc. Not realising how literal and grounded I was being. Sad when you know it’s not necessarily you they like, it’s just that they need someone. Back off sunshine.

He commits like a boy scout giving a blowie for a mars bar – oh sorry, was that consents? He texts me every waking minute – chirpy, youthful (ahem) delightful little quips that warm just more than the cockles. Yet he does not show me a secure loving place where I can exist.

No, I thought we were living in parallel – that’s as far as I’d got, and decided to call him my squeeze. What a lovely fucking squeeze he has….

And how funny when you let yourself start to believe in that other side – maybe this is something, maybe there are no rules - maybe I’ll never frickin eat again, that’s when it comes crashing down.

Well I’ve been on the flakes tonight, guys and gals, that’s for sure.

This blog entry was intended to be called any or all of the following:

• My boy lollipop
• I am a child
• You’re only as old as the boy you feel
• 21 again…..
• Age before beauty
• All the young dudes

It started a year ago. I met a young lad in a bar in town when I’d taken a married man to see an old flame’s band. Said young lad was working behind the bar. And fit. And young, again. Twenty years old.

So miss doley pants squeezed a few more red wines out of her tight purse (wink), and chatted his fucking face off all night.

Musician. Tick. Wanted me to see his band. Yes.

And for the next year we myspaced each other and he invited me to various gigs, all of which I couldn’t make cos of boxing, or Michael Jackson dancing at love box, or laying in a darkened room masturbating.

Then, eureka, he’s playing at my charity event. Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon. Let the boy cometh unto me.

And cometh he has being, sometimes a bit sporadically, every which way and loose. We’ve been gallivanting through London town with rock equipment in tow, gracing the seediest corners of Southwark I know.

I even let him into my spaceship, which is an honour. And by the way, he’s twenty one now and his voice has broken.

But at six this morning I get a text. He says he’s done something ‘silly’, might have ‘harmed’ himself and didn’t know who else to tell. I say what harm. He’s frigging OD’d on happy pills. Christ. What am I? Childline?

He calls me. I’m not impressed. He calls an ambulance, he has tests, he sees a psych nurse. Let’s hope there isn’t a knock at the door…..

So I spent the morning ripping up carpet with my dad. Hurting a bit. Then trying to work out why. Is it the emotional manipulation of involving me, is it that I’m hurt he wants to hurt himself, when he blatantly has got a good catch (this one isn’t so convincing), or is it cos I’ve bagged yet another freakin nutter?

You do the math.

When I texted my faithful John in London to tell him I was thinking of opening my own mental hospital, he pointed out that you’re not meant to sleep with your own patients. So that’s where I’ve been going wrong………………..

So today maybe I’m thinking I’m going back to being one of Beyonce’s single women. Hurrah, throw your fucking hands right at me.

And of course, when in the throes of love everything is poignant, let’s do that bipolar twist and have the falling out of love poignancy. Four emails in my inbox from dating websites saying they hadn’t seen me for a while. Cunts.

With pride I delete them, knowing soon my fate awaits……..

And old mister agoraphobic-pants texts me for some morning sex, and I tell him ‘I’m kind of seeing someone’. He tells me to get in touch when I’m not. I hope, with disbelief, that’s not now.

So, dear readers, now I go to bed, to have a massive fat great orgasm on my own. Look on the bright side, he timed his going moonie with my period.

And like the squirrel-woman I am, I leave you with a lyric by Doolittle:

“Never more shall we find you bright in the snow and wind.
The snow is melted, the snow is gone, and you are flown:
Like a bird out of our hand, like a light out of our heart, you are gone.”

Well it must be over – I’m writing about it……………….