The ex factor - featuring the ex men and the ex ex

What the holy moly has occurred?

Since I caterpaulted ‘all by myself’ to the world, every ex this inside of the M25 corridor and beyond has emerged from their hermit’s shell to show me their hairy underside.

In fact, there’s probably at least a two fist’s worth reading right now.

Hello boys.

Please don’t let this public airing deter you from your flailing plight.

I have found this rather curious. Since I’ve been spreading the word about this blog, the ex men have been forthcoming. It has crossed my deluded mind that it could be BECAUSE of the blog.

Have all of the men that passed me by, that I slung under the bridge, or that I thought I buried, finally GOT me? And now they want to get me?

Have they finally understood that the ‘closed book’, ‘tough bitch’ façade is actually the awesome front. And I don’t go out back, as you all know……..

That what there is to see here is a straightforward, impatient sex pest who wants not to be honoured, but obeyed and adored?

So I’ve got some men lined up on my bunsen burner. Burn, baby, burn, there ain’t no disco but I’ve got an inferno willing and able to be all-consuming. (cit. god)

Like a stack of dominos ready to floor.

Saving up my sexual energy until it burns so brightly that no odd-shaped phallus or peculiar accent will deter me from getting laid. Trying to build up an armour so that I don’t suddenly break down in the middle of an oral session, shouting GUTTED! GUTTED!

I thought I’d use afaux-holistic method to aid me in my quest.

In the corner of my bedroom, (the love corner according to old chinese masters),
is a small glass objet filled with rizlas. Very romantic, you might think.

And on these rizlas are written a series of names. I am ‘the collector’. I add to it daily. I walk about town stumbling into various sparks from the past, and something in them is drawn to my aching soul, and in return, they go in me sorbet pot. (Oh palate, be cleansed). I’ve taken care to ensure not EVERY cock out there goes in, as we don’t want to get an injury from the adage ‘be careful what you wish for’ camp, do we now?…..

The rizla chart, (in no particular order – not a chart really, is it?! Let’s do bullets instead):

• Neanderthal man.
• Ex-boyfriend from when I was 21. Still has own teeth. Hopefully still has the same genitals. Seen sniffing round me at my birthday party by cunning loiterer.
• Facebookers talking about bending me over, which include a now-married ex from my homeless days sending phwoarghs over the cyberwaves from new zealand, (thank you by the way), and the dutch tranny from india having a craic at a joke, (israeli men, hallelujah).
• The dealer from earlier this year. Stomping t’wards me in the street pointing in my oblivious face. Smackering my lips up and telling me I look good. I, completely bewildered after my ‘focussing’ meditation session, reacting by turning and making the universal sign of the ancient telephone and mouthing ‘call me’. Hideous, I must throw out those friends scripts. Has since texted me saying I need a spank. I do. Maybe not from him, though.
• Music producer. Groping.
• Film director. Staring.

And the newest entry, (who thank god, won’t be reading this YET), is possibly in at number one.

Walking over the railroad bridge, (oh PLEASE grant me an american-english license), hardcore and stacked in my fighting gear, I run smack bang into the cheeky playboy who used to front my brother’s band. His mate hides a DVD under his arm - ‘hot tub babes’.

The new specimen is sexy, shifty, has great presence, and would be an awesome and easy good lay I imagine. He sprogged one out with a Louise Redknapp looky-likey in her eternal days.

He kisses me, leaving cheap whore’s boudoir scent all over my soon-to-be-pumped body.

‘You look like you could cause some serious damage’, he says. That’s not the half of it, I think.

I say I’ll facebook him, and he yells his ridiculous lady-of-a-name across the bridge at me so I can look him up.

I facebook him. Apparently, he is looking for ‘random play’. Can do, my friend, can do.

And I have also been keeping up the home front with some new conscripts:

I have managed to command a whole bistro into a stunned and awesome silence by demanding that the barman pleasure me in some way, (red wine in a bloody mary?! I demand more) -: this shortly before conducting a war of credit cards belonging to two potential suitors, hands everywhere, (I forgot I had an arse for a few weeks).

We exited the bar three abreast, one man in each hand, but none in my bush.

I sleptwalked to co-op with no knickers on and got chatted up by a buff chav by chicken cottage. I was a beautiful sight to behold, apparently: hair unwashed for four days, mckenzie blim-burned baggies and flip-flops all on splendorous show. Whatever turns you on, honey. I’m yours.

But still I have ingested no cigar. And I want one, but I don’t want a half-smoked bum-end that’ll give me nothing but a clap-cough.

So I’m sticking to my latest mantra; ‘you only wank twice’.

And I’m hoping that I don’t get to the desperado point and sink a few mingers, but that I’ll come to my senses before they become inundated with mismatched hormones, and teabag a good ‘un instead…..

And if there be no horn of plenty, I’ll stick to my mantra till there is.

‘Oh the cum on the sheets is all mine, all mine, the cum on the sheets is all mine’.