Perfectly shameless

1. People of blogland, I hope that if it’s not the same thing for you, then it means that you’ve found something even better and I wouldn’t mind paying to know what it is; but to me sex is the most absorbing activity I have discovered in adulthood. I feel about it the same way I used to feel about building a house up in the chestnut tree or trying to get my younger, more vulnerable friends, naked and tie them to a pole then dance around them like a demented, starved cannibal. Or the way I used to feel about Lego, too, but that was more for the winter months. I could forget where I was, who I was and what I would have for dinner, or the fact that there’d be no dinner. And sex is like that; curiously, perhaps a bit disturbingly, it’s the only grown-up thing that can make me feel like an 8 year old. Naturally it wasn’t always like this: ignorance and lack of self-confidence had to be conquered, and that stomach sucked in, you know? Perhaps I had to hit thirty to come to the point where confidence and enthusiasm finally merge, and I realise I don’t have a stomach to suck in..so where’s my point.. where did I leave it.. oh here it is:

2. I finally know what I am doing and can utterly lose myself in it. I have punched the Shopkeeper in the face and while he’s recovering I am surrendering to unmitigated, all-consuming lust.

3. The multi-way, possibly opportunistic dating is still very much on. Each contender has been informed of the competition. Sometimes I feel bad…

4. Last weekend was a perfect example of my newly-acquired juggling skills. Last weekend was perfect. Trendy, grimy Shoreditch and Regent’s park in bloom; sun and murkiness; galleries and picnics, new bus routes and Camden Town beer gardens.

5. There is someone else I really, really would like to meet. This morning I got a message asking me out. Can you see my grin, bloglanders?

A bit of spy drama tonight

Let’s say, people of blogland, that a friend of yours has an email address.
Hypothetically.
Or, perhaps, a username on one of those chat boards stroke messaging places.
With, still purely hypothetically, a password reasonably, stupidly easy to figure out.
Let’s also say, still perfectly hypothetically, that this friend of yours, one day, realises that someone clearly has logged on as her.
Not once, not twice, but on a regular basis; and read her messages for at least the past two weeks.
That’s all purely hypothetical, of course.
Now, let’s say that this friend of yours, half freaked out, half high on an adrenaline rush, has four (hypothetical) suspects in mind.
All of whom are either/or 1) bored enough at work 2) curious enough by nature
3) possibly of a jealous disposition.

What do you think your purely hypothetical friend should do?

I’m going to slaughter the bastard.

Three days, two words: exhilarating, exhausting.
Might be back later, after I’ve slept.
People of blogland, I love you all.

Juggling

Well, if you just spent your time at home in front of the computer like a normal person you wouldn’t have all these problems – J

The man is right; life is starting to be complicated.
I’m juggling. It’s those date things.
Let’s take yesterday’s for instance, when I met a blonde from the internet. I’ll call her Date #3, because, people of blogland, I don’t tell you everything. So, we spent a day trawling round art galleries, drinking beer in Soho square with all the other summery queers, trawling around some more and when the rain started pouring ended up in the cinema. For the first hour she wouldn’t make eye contact, but displayed no sign of wanting to make her excuses and leave; still I couldn’t decide if she a) was finding me too fugly for word b) was just too shy and nervous to hold her own in a conversation c) had a problem with her eyes? As we were parting she blurted out ‘so do I get to see you again?’ and I had to smile. Should I agree to see again an arty, attractive but nervous girl who always keeps a bottle opener in her bag? I did. In fact I’m invited to her birthday party tomorrow.

Which is where things start to be muddled. What happens to Date #1 if I do bring the waterproof ponchos to tomorrow’s Date #3’s birthday picnic as I offered? Will I qualify as a shameless two-timer? What happens when Date #2 comes back from Italy and, full of hope and illusions, claims her slice of Quality time? How do I fit everyone in? Can I not just take what I like out of all three of them and create a fourth, perfect date, one that will make eye contact, like photography galleries, read books, speak with her hands, know how to cook, have a knowing smile and freckles, display glimpses of a sexy stomach and hold her own in a conversation, and carry a bottle opener in her bag?

Today, people of blogland, I shall do the gardening. Alone with the cat.

Third date and still no U-Haul

People of Blogland, what can I say, I’ve been too busy to blog. I’m a black sheep. The black sheep of Blogland. A renegade. A dissenter. A flake.
Now that we’ve go that out of the way, let me tell you what this black sheep has been up to.

1. Perhaps rather predictably, this corridor sex thing seems to have expanded to other areas of the house. My house. I do wish I had a proper couch, though. You just slip off this one if you’re not careful, and the floor is a bit hard.

2. I manage to silence the in-head shopkeeper for minutes at a time. Over my lover’s shoulder I can still see him, gagged, shake his head at my lust-driven behaviour.

3. The cat really, really likes her. To the point that he ignores me and goes to her instead.

4. The thing is, Blogland folks, I have another date lined up. On Saturday. With someone else. After how many dates with one person does it become morally wrong to have dinner with a stranger? Is there a Dating Etiquette somewhere I can refer to?

5. When the gag comes off, the shopkeeper sighs, and waves the List of Less Than Desirable Things at me. I wish he would go and sign a temporary contract somewhere.

6. I’m seriously underslept.

Second date and still no U-Haul

1.This is definitely the end of an 8-month hibernation, people of blogland. I thank Spring and its hormone-agitating influence, its light that wakes me up and its warmth that lures me out and gets me dates.. and follow-up dates, too.

2. Friday’s second date turned into an invitation to my part of London, very white and blonde and middle class, where very shorthaired, tattooed lesbians don’t exactly abound. We got some looks. I am not sure how I feel about that, besides wanting to glare back and ask ‘so, what? What do you want? A cookie?’

3. I wish I could switch off the little computing device in my head that adds up and subtracts, amazing eyes, but she smokes, and why does she have to like football? This, and that..There’s a tiny shopkeeper inside my head and I wish it would shut up. Still, the shopkeeper is rather lulled by her northern accent.

4. The cursor’s been blinking next to 4. for a few minutes and I can’t come up with the goods. So maybe I’ll mention the frantic mind-blowing earth-shattering sex in the corridor some other time.

Perverts.

Talk dirty to me or the kitty gets it

1. Situation:. Let’s say you’re all crushed out on some pretty lady.
2. Problem: she won’t return your affection, possibly throw out your flowers, hangs up on you, refuses to meet your parents or share your toothbrush.
3. Solution #1 : Stalking - so 2004, even though a restraining order is just another way to say I love you.
4. Solution #2 : a) kidnap her dogs b) demand sex as ransom.
5. She refuses? Compromise: demand phone sex as ransom.
6. Still won’t do it? Ok, then, fine, demand.. sex text messages as ransom.
7. Kick furniture, sulk , give up and return the dogs.

True story, people of blogland. Just not mine. I’m not all crushed out on anyone with a dog. A cat, she has.

Better rub me the right way

I’m aimless, for I don’t like waiting.
Well, a part of me enjoys being exquisitely tortured.
But after a while it’s just like the story of the genie in the bottle: at first, the genie who has been pushed in waits calmly for his master; but the master doesn’t come, so the genie gets increasingly more impatient and irate, and after a thousand years when the next random fisherman pulls out the stopper by mistake, the gene has become evil and all hell breaks loose.
Right?
So for the time being I’m being vacant, pissing about, waiting. I picked up the Primo Levi book I’m reading, then put it back; concentration camps don’t match my mood. I did some inane online quiz, then generated my Smurf name (it’s Queasy Smurf) . The mood is unmatched. Waiting. The part of me that enjoys being exquisitely tortured is getting more and more impatient. By Friday, all hell might break loose.

Roll on, Second Date. I need to know if I should book the U-Haul, you know?

Well, I did shake the tree

People of blogland, I don't know how else I can put this, but…I'm being courted.
Thanks to the technological age, I'm being courted from across London while I'm home, while I'm at work. I spent today's afternoon meeting with a surreptitious hand in my jacket pocket, poised over my mobile phone on 'vibrate'. Do you know how tricky it is to read text messages discreetly, especially when you're the one giving the presentation?
It's subtle, breezy; It's exactly tailored, and witty; but a courtship it is.
The cynic in me would like to discern in this only a sudden crystallisation of spring and hormones and base human aspirations; but the rest of me is letting me enjoy the whole thing, and glided all the way home singing a sultry little song.

;

An extremely brief date summary

I’m wearing my ‘I share a birthday with Jeffrey Damher’, she said. Your photos don’t do you justice, she said. I recognized you easily, still, shame you’re not wearing the peach frock you promised, she said. I was taught how to dance by a gay born again christian celibate priest, she said. You need your back done, you carry all you tension in your lower back; I know, I’m a massage therapist, and it’s not a line, she said. Well, it is a little bit of a line, she said.
What would you have done?
I had to lean over and kiss her, didn’t I.
I don’t know how I made the last tube home.

I wanted to call this post ' Spring's in my pants', but I am aware of how cheap and vulgar that makes me sound.

Now it’s time to go out and frolic in the sun. Still, Spring is in..