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