Not long to go

“People who are 'ready' give off a different vibe than people who aren't. Animals can smell fear; maybe that's it.The minute you become ready is the minute you stop dreaming. Suddenly it's no longer about 'becoming'. Suddenly it's about 'doing'.” – Hugh Macleod

On the phone to M earlier. I want M to send me a photo of M’s feet. I don’t know, perhaps it’s a foot fetish. Nice feet are a turn on and ugly feet are a definite turn off. In fact, ugly feet and I’d have to reconsider the relationship. Is that an odd thing to say? Having said this, toe sucking or indeed any-part-of-the-foot sucking is a no go. I like to look at nice feet, that’s all. And as M informs me, it’s the most common fetish of them all. That such a simple fetish could be more popular than wanting to have a gherkin stuck in each orifice has shocked me. What on earth are people thinking.

M was also mid-bake. A tart for a New Years Celebration. That’s the dish, not M. I called ten minutes prior to there being a fear that it all might split into a horrible chocolatey mess. I hope the tart turned out trumps M. Though, in my experience, not many people complain.

Yes. The door IS finally open, although this doesn’t mean any willy nilly can find its way in, so to speak. What have I been saying all along? Standards come before orgasms, before, now and in the future. Although, this new open door does fill me with a certain fizzing excitement. The kind you feel when you know Little Britain or Nigella are about to appear on the television. And before I forget, god forgive me, Nigella…Happy New Year Darling.

‘Why has the Dame got an infinite deadline?’ asked M towards the end of our conversation.
‘Hmm, because I don’t really care when I see it, as long as one day I do. Even if she’s fifty and it’s coming off in her hand.’
‘eww, that’s disgusting.’
‘eww, it is!’.

Be assured, The Dame’s fanny will one day find its way into my realm, and she won’t have even have a clue that it’s happened. Friendship is the only loophole I can think of to rape. Wouldn’t you agree?

Before that can happen, we need a hungry lesbian to gorge on the fanny. The Dame is being rather slow (might have used the expression pussy footing around had it not been for the million mental images it might conjure in one’s mind) at whoring herself out on the Internet. Nothing comes to those who wait, at least, not when it comes to the dating game.
‘You need to keep doing it. Not everybody will like you and not everyone who contacts you will you like. The trick is to keep sending off emails and something will come of them. The lesson to be learnt of course is that patience is required AFTER the emails have been sent and not before. It’s also a truth that certain dates won’t work out. It’s all a steep learning curve. Emailing, dating, kissing, groping, fucking, excursions to sainsburys, death. But you have to be in it to win it. And once you are, your cuddly toy won’t be far away, I can assure you.

With that in mind, I have devised an AD for The Dame. All she has to do is stick it in a temple of lesbian and watch as they buzz around it before 50 send her a response.

‘Do you want to ride the wave?

Hello there!
About me: I’m 23, attractive, confident and intelligent. The only snag is, my faith in womankind has, of late, been lost. With this in mind, I’m looking for somebody who’ll inspire, be inspired and resurrect my faith, so to speak. Having said that, if you don’t quite look like Jesus Christ, it won’t be held against you, I promise.
Would like to consider myself a cultured social butterfly. I enjoy literature, good food, good company (conversation ability is a prerequisite), theatre, the cinema as well as a quick pint down the local pub, or a night in watching friends (as I never tire of the repeats, EVER).

About you: Intelligent: because I enjoy meeting people I can learn from and admire.
Fun: because without this, life would be boring and so would you most probably.
Open minded: as I’m currently riding the wave of a relationship revolution. You must be willing to try different things. A closed mind simply won’t do.
Sexual ability, or at least, the willingness to try: there, I said it. It’s what I want. An interesting relationship with somebody who knows how to have good sex.

And in return for these qualities I will give you my time, loyalty and orgasms to write home about. I want somebody who is laid back and has a positive attitude to life. Riding the wave is so much better when there are two people doing it. Wouldn’t you agree?

If any of the above sounds interesting, please send me an email and we can have a chat.’

The quote at the top of the page made me think of the Dame. Animals can indeed smell fear. And you have nothing to be fearful about. Let’s go out there and find you what you’re looking for. I can’t imagine it being too far away.

Almost time

'So.....what are YOU doing this New Years Eve?'

Had my plans worked out, I'd have been in bed with Desdemona (minus any poking). It was going to be great. The best laid plans however....that's correct. Having said that, Desdemona and Othello, I want a full report on how the Soldiers/Nurses new years costume drama went. Desdemona, a full entry!

So, a friend and I have decided to frequent a local gay club (Street life, I believe it is called) tomorrow evening. A chance to eye up the local talent is always an opportunity embraced after all.

She's the sort of girl, this friend, who walks into a room and has men drool and dribble and lose masses of saliva without quite realising until they are too dehydrated to walk properly. Honestly, I have seldom come across a girl who gathers male attention, unintentionally, in such huge quantities. That theory about sex making you sexy, well, she's it personified. Oh what I'd do to ooze the confidence she does. And above all else, what this friend has is a real, uncomplicated 'I don't give a shit what anybody thinks of me' attitude. And, as long as in the process you don't hurt anybody, then what better quality could one ask for.

'It's only after you live selfishly, fucking around and having fun that you can appreciate it fully when the right person comes along. My boyfriend and I have been together for two years now and it's still as fresh as It was right at the beginning. I still have sleepless nights whenever I'm going to see him the next day. I don't even think about other people. I'm happy every second of every day it's not even funny' said she over dinner last night.

Normally, coming for anybody else, this sort of sentimental drivel would drive me a little potty, but this friend, she's different. She is the goddess of controlled love and infatuation and so clever and witty. For her to say this made me wonder if in fact, this perpetually excited orgasmic feeling might in fact be the possibility I never thought existed.

As the position stands, I'm too selfish at present to dedicate my soul and cock to one singular being. All I need is to fuck the itty bitty lust out of my system with a string of hot men and women and stew in the juices of my own self loving until I'm satisfied that there is no longer anything to feel resentful about, if I were to find somebody who I thought might fit the definition of 'long term proposition'.

So, with this in mind, and the fact that I'm no longer a merry virgin, but a merry non-virgin, I have to redefine my sexual objectives. And after much consideration, these are as follows:

1. Buy the sex toys I want and need. - within a month.
2. A threesome - with guys and girls who know exactly what they want between the sheets and aren't afraid to ask for it. - Two months.
3. A dominator who will push my head into the pillow, rip away each of my inhibitions and make me love every moment of my submission. - Three months.
4. Fuck a beautiful girl who is willing to guide and be guided. - Two months.
5. Fuck M. - Two years. Ugh. (you Cock Tease! you)
6. Visit a gay sauna and a swingers club. - Four months.
7. Get into tantric sex and control my cock by tying a spiritual leash around it. For he who can control his orgasm will benefit from the waves of pleasure that SO outweigh the wham bham spurt after which you feel like a lust-hater. - Three months.
8. Get a view and guided tour of The Dame's fanny. - some aims are eternal.

January Sale

Oh how I wish I were close enough to Soho this Christmas to take fullest advantage of the dildo buy one get one free offer, or even better, three cock rings for the price of two (and a packet of condoms as a promotional add on).

But I'm not. Shame on me. Nevermind, a quick last minute run around the London sex shops might still prove fruitful. Actually, coming to think of it, a porn sale would be right up my street, so to speak. Pornography can be so expensive. £22.99 for twenty orgasms, money well spent?

On the subject of orgasms, it occurred to me late last night, that they are one of a few things in life which guarantee happiness. No matter how grumpy one might be, or how pissed off with their partner for kissing the chav at the new exclusive club, an orgasm brings with it the ability to forget and to feel exhilarated, happy, even if only for a brief second. If we could have that orgasmic feeling without any need for physical exertion, i.e. if I could sell orgasms in a bottle, I'd charge 50p and still make a fortune.

Flipping back to the January sale, I have spent a tiny fortune on acquiring the boy-band-fuckable-fitted look. And I can slowly feel myself become one. And despite this I have many friends who have found zilch in among the stickered Xmas masses. Having said that, the boy-band-fuckable-fitted look hasn't come as cheap as one might have imagined, and as the position currently stands, I look a £1,000 and am probably worth -£567.50.

Mental Note: must save (or earn, in whichever way possible) enough money to continue living the life of a cultured social London butterfly the way I have been doing. Prostitution looks more and more appealing somehow. If the application process for escorting wasn't such a beast, I'd have made enough money to afford a flat and a rabbit (not the rampant variety I assure you).

The Organ Player

This is how it stands: I've known an Organ Player (and frequent church goer) for almost two years. The Internet has, over the years, facilitated many friendships of which this particular one is rather successful.

Met him for the first time yesterday, the town, Nottingham (although he himself is an Yorkshire man). Before you ask, yes I was disappointed, not a single cream cake or Yorkshire pudding in site. Pah.

Meeting somebody where the sole purpose of the union is to have sex would be a first for me. Others have merely been dates, the occasional drink or maybe even a boogie. It took me an hour to get to Nottingham. Not because it's particularly far away but because the planned engineering works, of which I was unaware, threw a spanner in the works, my works.

And now for the...

'Tell me something, what's your fantasy?' I asked, 'what would you like to do?'
'I don't know, anything. I'm easy' came his reply.

It's worth mentioning that I'd always known that the Organ player would let me do whatever I wanted with him. It had been understood that this meeting was to allow ME to explore in a comfortable environment with somebody I knew relatively well. Looking back, I wish he'd had a firmer idea of what he wanted, or at least a few suggestions to throw about in our sexual frenzy.

'Lie down and let me blindfold you' I demanded. Two seconds and there he was, at my mercy.
Surprisingly, I haven't yet found myself in a position where the man was completely submissive, completely willing to do whatever I wanted. I suppose I could have been an axe murderer. So you'll excuse me for spending a mini-second without a clue what to do with his phallus wrapped in his jeans.

Taking my tongue, I ran it over his lips. Carefully, I positioned my legs over his and felt his erection push through his jeans and into my thigh. As I undressed him, the need to kiss him grew stronger and stronger. In my experience (Ha!), kissing makes one greedy for more. Therefore, kisses without the promise of something further are a cock tease.

His cock bulged through his CK boxers (a common trend I'm coming to realise within the gay community). It was big, with an extra pink bell end, a piss hole big enough to push the end of my finger into and foreskin which left my mouth two seconds after the bell end did. Hairy balls and a firm sack finished off the package rather well. Tick.

As the kisses grew deeper and more fierce (I've decided kissing is better with tongues, for it yields great ammunition), It became a task to draw myself away and as i took him into my mouth it hit me: this the first ever blow job I've given. And the voice within (let's call her Ethel) screamed 'Make sure you're good.' This had me thinking. What, if any, standards could a virgin possibly set himself in the art of oral sex, other than to suck with varying rhythms? I tried, and I got better and better. Although, I should point out, having a cock inside your mouth is the strangest sensation. The taste is manly, and grungy. Not quite the taste of public urinal I'd always envisaged. Thank heavens.

'I want you to suck me off. I want to fuck your mouth'. As I guided his head down my chest and thrusted into his mouth I came to realise that, in fact, this was an amazing blow job I was receiving. When your body squirms and you can barely keep your eyes open, well, I've taken it as a good sign. The best blow jobs require the best tongue maneuvers. The wetter the better. And variation. Licking here, sucking there, taking in the shaft at different lengths. A synchronised blow job and hand job is, in fact, perfect, if done with the intentions of a master.

'Actually, I do have a fantasy. Let's take this to the shower' said the organ player. And as the water crashed over our naked bodies I felt myself slowly forget about the outside world. In that one moment I recall just the sex and nothing else.

Fingers up the bottom are also a new thing, despite my many threats to shove a courgette up there in preparation. If done properly, it can make your body quiver. Although, I would advise: Putting a carrot up your bottom further day by day, say over a week, would prepare you fully and really, It's not so bad, all said and done.

And then we went for dinner. A Mexican (Las Iguanas). He's a foodie you see, like moi. Always a great thing. This was then followed by a film. We saw 'Perfume' I was gripped and would recommend it, if only for the unexpected orgy right at the end!

Upon returning to our hotel room, the sex continued. Wanking and sucking and nibbling, bodies melding, heat forming, desire frothing. Another strange thing is this. Having somebody else wank your cock, when you've spent the entirety of your life perfecting your own hand strokes, can prove rather unusual and frustrating at first. The immediate reaction would be to say 'Here, let me do it'. But sex was never meant to be a selfish act, was it?

Also, It's such a weird thing to walk around the room naked, without a care in the world, whilst somebody else is there watching you. Sexual comfort is therefore, in my opinion, all that is required to lose inhibitions and shed insecurities. If he can see you walk around with a raging hard on, anybody can.

And finally, I poked him. What the Norwegian wouldn't let me do, the Organ Player happily did. Granted, not for long.

'I like the moments leading up to it, and after it, but just not during it.' Aww bless I thought, 'we don't have to if you don't want to. The last thing I want to do it hurt you'. He wouldn't have it, and, after putting on a condom like a pro, he guided me inside. The pain on his face was more than I could bare and it was over in minutes. Sex shouldn't be painful. Period.

The affair sexuale then ended with a mid morning wank, quick, efficient and damn horny. Needless to say, the cum stained sheets will give the cleaner something to talk about. Poor love.

I don't know whether there was any sexual chemistry. I think there was understanding, and carefulness. The one thing I could have done with was a certain amount of ferocity. The kind from which you never again emerge. It would also be quite nice for somebody other than the virgin to take control.

Having said that, I'm now open. the mission has been accomplished and I had a great time with a person I liked. The foundations have been laid and all that remains is to build, plaster and decorate.

Ho Ho Ho

Merry Christmas!

Why do we always eat so much? Why are twenty Yorkshire puddings never enough.

Okay, Yorkshire puddings don't go with turkey. Okay, they go with roast beef. Okay, I'm a Hindu and eating cow is forbidden. Okay, therefore we have Yorkshire pudding binges whenever we fancy, Christmas day being one of those occasions.

I have every faith each one of you will have either 1) received all you ever wanted 2)found the receipt at the bottom of the bag in case you didn't. When will old people realise that the woolen cardigan you loved aged 12 doesn't draw quite the same love aged 22?

'Oh! it's lovely! Just what I've always wanted.'

'And before you ask, no, he didn't come down the chimney. Nor did he fill up my stocking with cock rings and butt plugs quite the way I'd imagined. In fact, I'm starting to doubt whether he actually exists. And as for placing a carrot at the edge of the fireplace (just in case he decides to bring old Rudolph) well, Ugh.

Though, all in all, an exciting day of food and board games. I managed quite successfully to coerce a game of Monopoly AND Cluedo out of the younger cousins. And we ate so much, and continued to eat until about half an hour ago.

A Christmas mention must go to the Vicar of Dibley, hilarious (and the man, so dashing)! And Little Britain, perfect! The thing about the festive period is the abundance of lively programmes splattered across the television. And not a single James Bond movie in sight. Finally, living in this country doesn't seem so problematic.

And now to the sex.

A Christmas shag - Having devoured half a turkey and copious amounts of sprouts, my cock, I fear, wouldn't respond to Pamela Anderson spread over Christmas platter in the same way (if at all). How a stuffed turkey can be stuffed even further is beyond me. Although, in this world, there's always one woman who can fit just that extra bit in so that it comes tumbling out upon carving.

On a separate issue, anybody find a pound coin in their christmas pud? The thought did occur to me not so long before today to drop in a fruit flavoured extra durable condom, though I soon realsied people mightn't find it as funny as I.

So, back to the sex, although the festive season is upon us, I wonder just how many people have a necessary Christmas shag. In fact, I wonder just how many Christians will. Funny that, considering we're celebrating immaculate conception.

My personal erotic festive cheer, it has to be said, comes from the Mistletoe. Stick it in the air, up your bottom, and demand a kiss. Genius. If I were in London, I'd go to Heaven with a sprig of Mistletoe and come back ready for a threesome. I wonder if a star would lead the three wise men back to my bedroom. Or whether an Inn keeper might spare us a bed (king size) for the night.

No doubt we have a flurry of 'Heat' magazines to look forward to ('How to lose all the Christmas pounds in three days.' How to slip out unnoticed from a strangers bed, with whom you spent the night after the office party.' 'Thirty uses of a brussel sprout: two of which are guaranteed to turn him on'.) And besides this, we'll have Michelle McManus vowing to becoming the size 8 she never was. I know it's a terrible thing to be so opposed to obese women who make fake promises, but I can't stand her. She'll forever be the girl who won pop idol because she was fat. Forever. And well, where is she now? Sunk. Quite literally.

Norwegian

The Norwegian called. Yes, that blast from the past who wouldn't open up his hole for a stranger, that cock tease, that fuck De la mind.

It's almost like finding a cat turd behind your sofa, only you could have sworn you'd thrown it away only last week. How did it reappear. And, perhaps most importantly, how did a cat turd manage to make its way into a house without there being any cats?

'I thought I'd say Merry Christmas. I'm the much hated lying Norwegian' confessed he. He then talked about returning to Norway for Christmas, leaving his job and possible plans for never coming back. Christmas may have come early indeed.

So, after ten minutes of forced chatter, he came to the point:

'I was going to send you a Christmas card, I still might do if i get one in return.'
That's strange I thought, perhaps he means an e card. Maybe he's not a bastard after all.
'I can send you a Christmas card over the phone if you'd like'. There it was, the shovel with which to bury him, handed to me on a plate.
'Oh, when you say Christmas card, you mean a photo of my cock for you to jerk over. So that I can say 'Ho Ho Ho' and really mean it?'
'So, will you send me one. At the moment I'm in a very festive mood'.

For purposes of clarity I'll dissect what just happened. A Norwegian bloke called me up quite randomly after many weeks post argument to ask for, wait for it, a photo of my dick, so that he could, wait for it, jerk off. Needless to say, the conversation ended rather quickly afterward.

Ten minutes later: A text

'So, no Christmas Card then?' to which there was no reply.

Two hours later: A text

'If you have put my number up anywhere you are in serious trouble. As this is not legal.'

so of course, this morning, mad mad rush, woke up an hour earlier than planned and traipsed all the way into central London accompanied by a bag of business cards each with a copy of his number, a photo of a sultry lady and the words 'call me' on them.

And to think, had he not been so absurd, the love may have died, just never turned completely rotten.

Back on form

Ah. Exams over. Feeling slightly better. Chest infection almost cleared. I can almost hear the chime of Christmas bells..ding dong ding.

The thing about formal education, despite its enchanting lure to somebody like myself, is that it stays with you, all the time. Even out in Soho, there lingers a thought that you could instead be preparing for tomorrow's seminar.

Am at home for Christmas, with family (9 of them). Will no doubt spend the entirety of the break eating and gossiping, watching films and trying very hard to get my cousins to partake in a board game or five. Cluedo and Monopoly are a distinct favourite I'll admit. Though threatening my relatives with mince pie bruises isn't the most imaginative idea I suppose. Must spend time thinking of other potential bribes. Cluedo MUST not be left unplayed this year. Mrs Peacock has been left untouched for far too long dear readers.

Met up with the founder of the 'Heck Principal' (as described previously), last week. Let's call him Prospero. Now, Prospero is such a nice guy. The sort that is willing to give so much loyalty so freely in return for friendship. And he's gay. Although, going to a club and dragging a man home for sex is something he will never do. The reason is simple. 'I only sleep with friends' he said as I nearly spasmed whilst waiting for the tube home.

'Here's how it goes. I meet say 20 men, five of who I keep in touch with. Two of these will be life long friends and 1 I'll be intimate with.' Right. Curse the man who said sex was complicated. Agh, that would be me.

I don't think I could fuck any of my friends, for fear of quite literally fucking up the friendship. Penetrating known ground is always full of fear factors. What if we can't look each other in the eyes again? What's the use of friends you can't look directly at after all?

I could normally dismiss the comment Prospero made had it not been made with such conviction and ease. Are friends the only fucks really worth having? Is stranger sex no longer of any value? What about traditional electricity and groping as you hang off the disco ball?

Rant

Winter is a bitch. A heavy duty infection/food poisoning, has kept me inbetween the sheets this weekend when what i should have been doing was revising. Argh.

This is an apology for slacking on my entries as I try to heal, pass my exams and scurry off home for the xmas break. Once I'm there, i'll return to my daily spew forths. The thing about illness is that your friends often turn their noses up. My cock, the biggest friend of all, simply doesn't want to know. Puh.

Teacher

Great apologies for not writing anything earlier. Am trying desperately not to neglect the blog in face of impending exams. Puh.

So. Date with Teacher. Male. A head of year. On the fast - track.

‘I think you’re a really nice person’ he said, his eyes wandering (as they did for most of our date) in search of food. We were in West Hampstead. He wanted to eat Pitta bread and houmus like the girls on the table next to ours were.

The bar had just run out of hoummus. Unfortunately.

‘I’m so disappointed. The hoummus was just what I needed, I haven’t had lunch’ he said.
‘Well, why don’t you have something else instead?’ I persisted.
‘Well, yes but I wanted hoummus. In fact, they have a nice platter of cured meats which looks really nice but I’m not paying £7.00 for something that’s an appetizer.’
‘Okay’

Ten minutes later…

‘I’m really hungry. Shall I get something to eat? There’s some pasta at home, maybe I’ll have that. I really wanted that hoummus.’

Somebody get the boy a plate of houmuss I thought and went off to buy a round of gin and a Bloody Mary.

Further down the conversational path…

‘You’ve never had sex? Even with a woman? I’ve just never met anybody who was a complete virgin. I feel weird about it.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to teach somebody I guess.’

This is the Anal passage and this is the willy. If you put the willy inside the anal passage it might hurt, though shortly after you might feel gooooood. Inside the anal passage is something called the prostate gland. If you push against the prostate gland, the other man becomes very happy. If you hit the prostate gland enough times, white liquid comes out of the willy. Then you both turn over and fall asleep.

‘I think you’re a really nice person. Full of life. I just wish you weren’t a virgin’, he said, in between his hunger interludes.

I’ve always known the v badge might cause concern somewhere down the revolutionary road. Something tells me, if I wasn’t a virgin, I’d have had detention.

Lessons to be learnt: Eat food at lunchtime, if a cured meat platter looks appetising and you’re starving, get it. You’re a Head of Year. Not all virgins have to be taught what to put where. In fact, many virgins know much much more than people give them credit for.

And, just for your information, he ended up having an Indian takeaway. Funny that.

Hymn

Have only just returned from a Carol Service. No. Really. With C1 and C2. Does it make sense now?

The sort of service where they sing songs for the Lord, seen as we’re mere weeks before the all important ho ho ho. It surprises people that before this evening I’d never been to any such service.

'O Christmas tree O Christmas tree how lovely are your branches' didn’t feature on the hymn sheet (Pah!)

It was excellent. My dream of appearing on 'Songs of Praise' has come close to realisation. And the Stollen, mince pies and mulled wine (not so sure), which followed were utterly festive and delicious.

Never before had I felt the need to clamp down on my wandering mind. Appreciating the songs in the house of the Lord and trying to prevent my eyes from going over the various delicious people that were there (okay, so I saw two, but then I stopped). It was a detox if you will. And the best bit is yet to come.

I signed up for a course in ‘Christianity exploration’. What on earth would Mary Immaculate think?
Mental note: must de slut (a tad) before the first session.

A separate issue,

A date tomorrow night with a teacher. Revealing too much too soon might prove a tad detrimental, although I will say, I’ve always had a fantasy of fucking in the stock cupboard, up against the sugar paper, lust amongst the prit-sticks. Thinking.

The AD

Hello dearest slags,

Revision for exams is a bore. Yawn. Fitting in the odd Gumtree search, blog entry and revising (something I can do hardcore with there being little sexual gratification) is ample support for my theory that some men can multi-task. If you can eat a woman out whilst doing a headstand, does that count too?

So, it is with great caution I inform you all of the following:

The Gumtree AD has been successful. 10 Responses. 5 Days post-posting. Excited. If I were a woman I’d have moist undergarments.

Here is a selection of the varied range of responses the AD has yielded. Enjoy

No1. “hey mate.......you sound cool and I really want to make some good friends out of this site and of course have fun. and yeh free all evenings and some days too as I run my own business. building/refurbs company.....work mainly in london..but also some random places///so me always driving about and am a 28 yr old brit born sikh(indian) guy, enjoy travelling, going out for meal, just chatting and stuff and yeh some fun...I am well chilled out and relaxed...dont let things get me down..I like meeting random people ...I like different people...someone u can trust and just chill out with...I want to meeta nice honest guy who is good to be around...and someone who I can look out for etc...as one thing I hate is lies and liars... anyhow mate...you take care and if you want to, then add me to msn on”

Now, I did try. After a brief conversation on the love machine that is MSN Messenger, I was able to quickly decipher that the bloke wore a turban and had a beard. Now, as much as I have told myself repeatedly to look beyond the surface, sometimes it simply doesn’t happen. Further, the bloke took issue with the fact that I wouldn’t classify myself as attractive once he’d asked whether or not I was. It’s all in the eye of the beholder I held, and indeed it is. In fact, my silence would, in the Bloke’s mind, surely indicate a propensity to look like a cross bred Dame Edna Everage and rough Alsatian. Blocked and Deleted. P.S I really wasn’t looking for a chaperone or guardian angel. Somebody with a nice body and nice words would have proved sufficient.

No2. “You seem quite attractive and I like your type of personality. I'm 20. good shape. open-minded. funny and explorer...also good kisser lol”

Now, I did respond to each one although I remain baffled as to how somebody could gage both my physical attractiveness and the attractiveness of my personality through a written advertisement. Surely the point of an ad is to facilitate further getting-to-know-your-personailty-before-we-have-a-fumble. Surely.

No3. “Hi there Your advert is intriguing. I am British Pakistani, educated, simple and easy going person. I am new to this man to man thing and just trying to explore my sexuality. (words which made me type a response quicker than you can say come)

I have been with woman before but haven't tried with a man. So what’s up? How would you like to go about it. As I am interested to find someone who is willing to be used...who is ready to suck me slowly and deep throat, and if everything goes fine, let me fuck his ass. Being new to all this I am neither pushy (what a joker! I’m sure even as he thrusts his phallus down my throat he won’t think he’s being pushy. Smile) nor would like get pushed too.

Safe sex is the top priority. So if you think that you can be a good start or a good partner to start with why not get back to me and tell me a little more about yourself. And then we can either speak to each other on the phone or meet somewhere for a drink and will take it from there.

Oh by the way, I can accommodate as I live on my own around High St Ken, and I expect and assure discretion. Pic please Look forward to hear from you”

Did reply, though received nothing back. Time waster.

No4. Hi there, I'm (x) and I’m replying to your men seeking men ad. I'm a 38yr old versatile business man and I’m looking to meet a man that we could have some nice time together and possibly a relationship. Don’t have preference for age or nationality, just be a good guy. I like to be rimmed and switch positions. I'm a sex freak but not forgetting the bond that exists in a relationship. I want a trustworthy man that we could plan a future together (UGH!) and make both our dreamscome true. I want a man that I could be there for and would show me true love in return, a man that would understand that distance is not a barrier in a relationship as I often have to be away on business. I love sex a lot and have a lot of turn ons just mention it we could try it out I guess my only turn off is dishonesty. (I’m sure I didn’t ask for love and a secure future. Positive.) Pls get back and lets get acquainted, photo(s) would be appreciated.

No.5 “I am slimtallwhite male 27 y old with a 9inch kok my fone is xxxxxxxx”

When the response takes up one and a half lines and the person can’t even spell cock or insert spaces between the words I like to sit down and shed a tear as I mourn my loss of sanity (and his).

No6.“hi me Indian my name is (x) 27 m London very decent and caring. Currently working for accounting firm. plz do call me for more info about me on xxxxxxxx”

No7. “Hello Im 5.8ft, average/slim body, black short hair, brown eyes...... and yeah..... Im Indian.I’m very outgoing, laidback, intelligent, honest with a good sense of humor who knows how to have fun but yet take things seriously when need be.Living in a big city, which gives a lot of possibilities, but makes me blind of being myself also. I could do my best here, to be happy somehow, but otherwise I see people around, who are like me, people who they call friends, spend time together and make the best of their time...Get back if you think we can communicate with each other.”

Yes, we all want somebody with whom we can communicate and communication I did try with this fellow. And then he sent me a photo. I then stated in very plain English that he wasn’t exactly what I was looking for and that I’d like to meet and perhaps progress from there.

A text in the middle of the night woke me and this is how it read :
“ Hi Honesty is good!. Well… I don’t think there is any point meting since I’m not ‘your type’. It would not make sense to meet up as I am what I look like in my pic. Good luck 4 ur search anyways.” HMM. Some people just don’t seem to understand me do they??

No8. “Hay. check my my space out om http://www.myspace.com/joaofreitaspedro text me on xxxxxxxx”

This was more an advert than anything else. And yes, I did check it out. His friends may include Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie, but the Afro tells me to stay well away. When confronted with an afro and the prospect of sex, one must exercise due caution as to what may lie beneath.

No9.“(x)here, 28 Male London SW. I'm from Pakistan.I'm not openly BI.I'm not into PUB, Club or Saunas. Non-smoker andNon-Drinker.I'm discrete.”

What does the bloke actually do apart from lust over men? Pub club and sauna is where it’s at mate, somebody tell him.

Don't know about you, but I feel shattered.

Spurt (pun always intended)

Why do lovers insist of smooching on the escalators at tube stations in mid rush hour human traffic? I suppose it’s one of those questions that has no satisfactory answer. Yes, they’re in love (aww bless), yes, I should stop being such a prude (miserable sod), but I won’t! Yes, they’ve probably had morning sex before they even left the house, yes, the man probably came and has no right to an erection moments after his morning orgasm.

So there I was, running late this morning, only to be confronted by two yukky lovers who’s job in life, I was convinced, was to make me miss my morning seminar. Why does it take two people twice as long to walk from one end of the busy platform to the other? Why does love slow everything down. Longer kisses, longer spells of holding hands, longer time spent doing nothing in between the sheets. And this is what we’re all supposed to aspire to. Ugh. I don’t know.

And once I was travelling up the escalator, they decided to take up the left hand lane and form a lip union. Yes, that’s correct, blocking the left hand passage down the escalator in rush hour traffic. For those of you who live in London, you’ll appreciate my anger.

Rant over.

Now that I’ve swum over the initial ocean of long drooling lust that was last Saturday, I’m able to sit down and dissect the French couple and their relationship. This idea of sharing another man and spreading out the excitement for each party to the relationship to enjoy separately strikes me as being rather strange. For a couple who have claimed to have a threesome prior to our little flurry, the requirement of doing it where the other couldn’t see seems rather baffling.

As I discussed this with M earlier this evening, we were left with the question:

‘Were they secure enough to open their relationship and invite in a play boy in to spice things up, the way you might purchase a dildo, or a subscription to a porn network. Alternatively, were they greedy, hedonistic insecure people who understood each other’s cravings and wanted to cheat because neither felt satisfied with the other at that moment in time. And the formation of an open relationship is always such a tricky thing. Allowing your partner to do things which you can’t see, which you’ll know happen but which you’ll forbid yourself from discussing. It’s all play acting really, I’m lead to conclude. I think many people have open relationships as a way of testing the strength of their relationship, nothing else. Of course we all know, the blind man never sees, although he always feels, always knows.’

So, what do you readers think? Were they stupid or liberated? Will the relationship last. I have little doubt of its strength myself, of course, with the French men being so far away, I’ll probably never find out.

And whilst we’re on the subject of M, as you’re all undoubtedly aware, M is due to come to the big smoke for a flurry through the streets and boroughs in the name of Christmas shopping. Although, one would hope this was a secondary purpose to the visit. In our earlier conversation it transpired that M would quite like to hold my hand during this little flurry. Ha. Never. Why? Because holding hands is something those flowery couples do in Tescos (when they have a spare hand ). After all, this is precisely what ‘proper relationships’ are for; holding hands as you walk around Marks and Spencer.

So, let me get this right, M wants to hold my hand and sleep in my bed completely naked. And I’m supposed to be all embracing (in the emotional sense you understand). Although I hate this particular phrase, I can’t at this time conjure up a softer version. A cock tease. M is being a cock tease. Provocation surely should be a defence to rape one would hope. I have a feeling one is about to be tested to the brink of orgasm.

Ps Nigella Lawson (Foogasm (food induced orgasm) Goddess) has reappeared on BBC2 (not sure what renders her unworthy of Channel 4 this time around). And all of a sudden I feel as though I should cure my own salmon, prepare my own ham and fuck food (including the Christmas turkey) right up until the new year is here upon us. I’d marry her you see. Ms Lawson, Come Hither!

A 100 entries and still hard

First things first.

This is the 100th blog entry! A toast to the losing (and quickly) of inhibitions, the loosening of buttons and the unzipping of flies quicker than you can say come. May the next 100 be just if not more fruitful, filled with sexual promise, filthier and sexier than ever before.

A big thank you to all the people I write about. You know who you are. Thank you all for existing and being able to talk as openly as I am. A community has been formed.

Second things second.

The French fiddle over the weekend has wet my apetite for more. And as usual, like Adriana, I have to be proactive in my approach. The now twice weekly Gumtree hunt is yeilding a fresh array of results, although this time I thought I'd cast my net far and wide. I have posted an ad myself, to the effect:

"Hello you!

Simplicity is the key to these personal ads I’m positive, so here goes.

Intelligent, sexy, confident, Anglo-Indian post graduate student here, looking for somebody similar between the ages of 21 and 30 to embark on a sexual adventure. My own experience is limited and I’m ideally wanting somebody who has some prior experience. If you do not, you must at the least be willing to learn, and quick.

The fact of the matter is this: I have spent far too much time thinking about doing dirty things as opposed to actually doing them. In fact, I have gone as far as to write a blog about my journey of sexual awakening. I want to play out each and every fantasy that has plagued my mind for the last few years and turn them into a reality which I hope will be a liberating experience for us both. A quick suck outside waterloo station simply won’t wash.

Physical attributes: as these are vital, 5 ft 10, slender build, 30 inch waist, dark hair and eyes, well dressed. A Non smoker though I like the occasional cocktail or five. Other interests include watching quirky films and eating quirky food with often quirky people. Your kissing ability must be at least 7 out of 10 as a recent kiss with a French guy has raised the benchmark quite considerably.

You MUST be, interesting, sexy and open minded. I am looking to inspire and be inspired.
If any of the above sounds interesting or you feel you might be what I’m looking for and vice versa, please give me a shout and we can take things from there.

Dream, explore, discover (like the line, although sounds like a tag line for British Airways. Ugh.)

p.s owners of a butt plugs or cock rings will recieve priority replies."

let's see if this yeilds any results.

Third things third.

Christmas is finally here. In fact, who am I kidding, it's always here, even in July. Every man with grey hair, wearing a red jumper is Mr Claus. And every woman with a red nose and pigtails is Rudolph.

Under normal circumstances, as I'm sure you can imagine, i'd have a list of presents i'd wish to coerce out of Santa for the occasion, but this year it strikes me that everything I really want is readily available in the underground sex shops situated in Soho. Porn, butt plugs which look like lemon juicing devices (just like Desdemona's), a cock ring made of real soft letter and a hot french couple who'll be here to stay until i'm fucked out. Something tells me Santa is a prude. And as much as I enjoy giving old Snow White a sex life to talk about, Santa Claus is left well and truly alone (The Dame will be eternally thankful).

Snow White and Seven Dwarfs Chapter 2

‘The girl who cried come’

Three weeks into her marriage, Snow Patel sat opposite her mirror with a look of bewilderment on her face, a tear partially formed in the corner of her eye.

‘Mirror Mirror on the wall
Why am I in the midst of a sexual fall?
Though I love him so, my husband isn’t Brad Pitt
Three weeks in and I’m already having to fake it.’

To which the Mirror replied:

‘You are fair and beautiful and wise
So it comes as no surprise
That the vagina that you bare
Has given your husband a bit of a scare.
Penetration is oh so key
I should know, so just ask me
Find the g spot and off you go
Until then, he’ll have to make do with a show.’

It wasn’t so much that the Prince was a selfish lover. In fact, he thrusted into Snow with a lustful urgency that she could feel his desire ripple through her body. The problem lay in the fact that he was premature in his ejaculation. And men being men, once he had squirted his load, he was ready to fall into a deep sleep, leaving Snow with her fingers firmly rubbing her clit under the Laura Ashley Duvet. What would Mrs Ashley think?!

The first few times Snow rubbed herself during the sex and guided the Prince’s fingers to her soft centre before gently grinding in rhythm until she came. As the Prince grew more and more premature, she found herself trying harder to come at the same time as he did. And, like many girls, she found that a scream followed by an ooh aah yes was entirely convincing. It was true, sometimes she wasn’t thinking about sex even as she did it, instead she wondered what the Maid might cook for tomorrow’s supper. There was a lovely joint of lamb in the fridge.
And so it continued, night after night, having to rely on her clit to provide her with satisfactory relief whilst her husband took her from behind and popped his tube to the sounds of her fake orgasm.

It was strange but Snow refused to ask the Prince to finish her off. She found faking it was so much easier. And then she could finish herself off properly in her own good time. As long as the Prince came that was the most important thing. She was a giver was Snow. Until the Wicked Step Mother appeared in her dream and changed all that, that is…

‘Silly girl! How can you sit there and rub yourself to sleep. I’ve always thought you were too polite for your own good and although we’ll never get along, I can share some wise words of advice with you. Sex should be a two way thing. That’s right, you need to get off just as much as he does. For once in your life do something extraordinary and tell him that you’re not coming. Tell him that he needs to try harder.’

And she was gone. As quick as she had appeared. Snow woke that night in a cold sweat. A life full of forced orgasms was definitely not the way forward she concluded. And in the middle of the night as the Prince snored beside her she turned him over, woke him, and explained in the politest way she could that he wasn’t satisfying her.

‘What?!’ he screamed. ’You mean you’ve been lying all this while? I can’t believe you’d lie to me like that.’

The following four nights were tough on their relationship. Even though he tried so hard to make Snow come, something she appreciated, each time she came he refused to believe that she had. In fact, he insured she made at least three moaning sounds before he spewed his own cream. Snow Patel had become the girl who cried come too many times. And now, the world refused to believe her when she did and she was forced to have multiple orgasms, a mixture of fake and real ones in order to please her husband.

And just as she was beginning to feel the situation get better , the Prince received a letter requiring his services in battle against the neighbouring Kingdom.

As she kissed him farewell, the Prince promised to return a better lover.

Little did he know that as he strode into the early sunlight, a carriage parked up against the Castle next to theirs. And as he stepped outside of the carriage, Snow caught a glimpse of the most erotic man she had set eyes on.

Manage a Trois

It has always surprised me the way sometimes things pan out so differently to how you first might have imagined. When you start the evening off by meeting an Egyptian and end it sandwiched quite seductively between two beautiful French men, you know you’ve made it. At least, for now I have.

Let’s rewind. Although it may surprise some of you, my once so frequent raids through Gumtree have become very very infrequent. Too many men are simply looking for either spats of flowery love or a big bear daddy who’ll show them the way to leather county (and whip their asses in the process). So, it was after a great time that I checked out the new flurry of ads that had been posted. And I replied to one. And we met last night. He is an Egyptian: leaving behind the pyramids for Middlesbrough.

I’ve always considered myself brave for being able to meet random people without ever seeing a photo. There’s a part in us all that hopes that no news will be good news. That in fact, it is a Tom Cruise look alike that hides behind those words. And it has only recently occurred to me just how words and the internet can often create such a false sense of intimacy between people. Because fundamentally, more often than not, we’re so used to taking things at face value that we forget to ever look beyond the surface.

Having said that, the Egyptian wasn’t bad looking, if a little chavy. What he was however was shy and confused. He’d never explored the scene, nor had he ever, as he explained to me during the course of the night, been anywhere where everybody knew he was gay. I felt it was perhaps a little early in the day to spew forth my sexual revolutionary theory for fear of frightening him.

There was no chemistry between us at all. He was a nice guy looking for some friends who would show me gaydom. So I tried. And as we parted ways at 5am this morning, he said he’d had an excellent evening and a really good time. My mission was accomplished. And all it took was a trip to Rupert Street followed by a boogie on down at Heaven. I think I’ve well and truly broken him in.

As for me, the evening began in Rupert Street. Yes, it’s official, Rupert Street in Soho is the best place to find financially secure good looking white men. You heard it hear first.

So there we were having a drink, eyes washing over the scene for anybody who might come and declare his lust. The thing about gay men is that many of them feel perfectly able to go out alone without any fear of returning alone. This is because gay men know how to pull and many are super friendly. Whilst the Egyptian went to the loo I was approached by an Italian guy who invited me into his group as he thought I was there alone. It was at this point precisely that the evening started.

As it transpired, the Italian guy was playing host to a group of friends, two French guys ( a couple), one American theatre agent (and his boyfriend) and one Spanish slut. The French guys had caught my attention a while back and we had exchanged what was known as ’the look’ in the gay community. At least, I had with one of them who it later transpired was a doctor. His boyfriend was a civil engineer. Both were edible.

After two hours of flirting with the doctor, telling him and his partner in very blatant terms that I found them attractive and trying to make sense of the French accented conversation, we all decided to go to Heaven.

At this point the American, his boyfriend and the Spanish slut went home for what was quite clearly going to be a threesome. We all knew, from the very fact that that the slut had this tongue down each of their throats in turn throughout the course of much the night.

So, the Egyptian, myself, the Italian and the two French guys all went to Heaven. From this point on flirting became very easy, although this time it was me and the civil engineer.

My boyfriend and I were both saying that you’re cute. I’d have to speak with him about a possible threesome’ he said. ‘But I think you’re very hot anyways’. At this point his hands made their way slowly across my lower back. The best thing about a club where the music is incredibly loud is that you have to move up close to somebody in order to speak to them. And more times than not they won’t hear you the first time, so repeated action is required. Ha.

So, as we danced, I became so consumed by these men, call it controlled infatuation. And it was only a matter of time before the doctor asked me to ’show him where the toilets were’. Originality could help considerably in matters of lust one feels. So, as we made our way from the loos to the various dance floors his hands were firmly placed on my shoulders. I’m sure the smoke in these places is there to make sex appear almost cinematic. And cinematic it was.

‘Shall we go downstairs where you’re boyfriend’s probably waiting?’ I asked. The final word had yet to emerge from my mouth that his lips, soft and wet pressed down on mine. And that was it. The first kiss had been kissed. And I’m sure after a minute of trying to stay on his lips and off the rest of his face, I grew to be quite good, moving in time to the rhythm. And who can ever forget that clean taste of flesh. At the time I thought this was perhaps the most erotic moment of my life. Pressed up against a wall, house music pumping in the background., smoke circling us, lasers working their way down our bodies. Each person lost in their own globe of lust. Yep, Heaven is the place to be.

Later that evening.

Ever since that first kiss and semi grope, I’d had my eyes on the civil engineer. So when he asked me up to a different floor I was out before he’d had a chance to finish his sentence.

When you kiss somebody it can take a while for the mouth to fit the way it should. French guys are great kissers and they know how to use their tongues fantastically well. The kiss I had was how id imagined the best kiss to be, all consuming, greedy, lustful, resulting in a huge erection. Tick, Tick and Tick. It was delicious. Even better than the first one. That a tongue could taste so nice was something beyond my imagination. It was one of those moments in life where you think the world could end and you wouldn’t have a clue.

The fact that we then furrowed into each others jeans, hands frantically groping each others erect cocks seemed so natural. And we moved to three different places looking for greater darkness although I’m pretty sure a few people saw what we were doing. As I peered down, I could see his bell end blossom from inside his trousers. Never in my life has the desire to give somebody a blowjob been so great. But that was something even I didn’t have the guts to do. The kiss lasted the best part of half an hour and the grope just a little longer. And neither of us came, and as usual, I wasn’t bothered in the slightest. I felt satisfied.

Even Later that evening.

‘We’d love to have an experience with you. But we’re only here for a three days and living with friends. Also, there are no places here where we could go.’

As much as I love Heaven, I cursed the club for not having a bed in a darkened room. Oh, how I cursed them. There’s little doubt in my mind had there been any way for us to progress that evening we would have. And it would have been amazing. As I recall what happened last night, the same excitement fills my head. And last night something hit me. I have the levels of confidence now that I’d always craved. I could probably pull anybody I wanted if I tried hard enough. And I will. Last night was a taster of things to come.

Although, a part of me wonders just how perfect it would have been to lose my virginity in a threesome.

Ps. I have their numbers. French men are the way forward.

Spunk

There are two things in life I simply refuse to believe.:

1. That every man hasn’t tasted his own come (spunk/man juice/love liquid/male cream/squirty (made this one up myself), call It whatever you wish).
2. That every woman hasn’t dipped a finger inside the fleshy mound and had a little try-before-you buy inclination.

A few days ago, Desdemona and I chatted about this over the course of the slag meeting. She doesn’t agree.

All men, in her experience, have wanted to put up a fence between themselves and her after they’d come over her, or into her. What are men so afraid of? Perhaps men think tasting their own spunk might just tip them over into the gay category, god forbid. And not once does it cross their minds that it is in fact them producing what they won‘t taste. Ever heard of the butcher who won‘t eat his own steak? No. Neither have I. In fact, most people with their own vegetable patch won’t even step inside the vegetable section at Sainsburys. It’s their very own fuel in the bomb, the soft centre of the candy. Uh huh.

And most guys truly enjoy coming inside their partner. The spunk is a dribble of male authority. Nope, I still refuse to believe any men past the age of 17 haven’t tasted it. Curiosity over enjoyment, for it doesn’t really taste of much.

And to women. Females are so accustomed to hearing from an early age that their vagina is a glorified fish kebab, that I’m sure it takes little more than a few months post puberty for them to delve into the kebab shop. A clean pussy, a natural smelling pussy (Desdemona doesn’t particularly enjoy the soapy lux smell that can sometimes linger in the folds of a recently washed pussy.) can sometimes be all intoxicating.

Oh, the flavours I have yet to savour.

Conversations of a sexual nature.

Internet Friend (IF) - So how many hearts have u broken?

Me - none. Of course, I like to think I've broken at least 12 without knowing about it, and I like to think of them all being straight females. Ha!

IF - lol about the str8 females, why?

Me - Because i like to think that there are some people in this world to whom my sexuality will always remain a mystery. Because i like the idea of thus not becomming pigeon holed, and because i like the idea of appealing to both sexes.

IF - and number of sexual partners?

Me - Oh, one night-long fumble..no kissing, no cumming. And you?

IF - I don't count my conquests.

later that evening...

IF - I love sex

Me - well I’ve never had it

IF - I don’t have enuff, but I do enjoy it. Haven’t you? Why?

Me - because im a virgin, and i want to have sex with brad pitt and Aiswariya Rai before I do anybody else

IF - Oh I see

Me - In fact, they’re both coming over for christmas....

IF - u know.. I haven’t had full sex...

Me - define.

IF - Just a bit of everything that isn’t anal (receiving)

ME - so you’ve poked, but haven’t been poked yourself?

IF - I poke, and don’t get poked myself.

Me - there are too many pokers and not enough pokees, that’s the problem. and gay men live under the delusion 'ill only let the love of my life poke me' Give me a break!

If he's gentle, with a nice dick, and there's a condom, why not?

IF - wot r u? I’m guessing ur versatile or bottom, god I hate using those terms, they’re so seedy.

Me - I love seedy. Well I’m top, I’d prefer to fuck before I am fucked, although I won’t die unprodded, I can assure you.

Turning over

Once the sex is over, how long must you wait before turning over and falling asleep without it looking like you've just used your lover and now you're done?

Chances are that we all feel the same, that post-sex comfort is something we could all do without. That sometimes, post-fuck, one can feel sticky, tired and asexual.

And despite this, most lovers feel the obligation of a post-fuck cuddle (stroking of the hair inclusive). Perhaps a 'I'm shattered' quickly after the act is completed would ease things a little.

Then again, I suppose people today (yes, even Londoners) are polite enough to muster conversational butterflies and ease themselves into that sleep that way.

I've often wondered what it must feel like to wake up beside someone after a one-night stand and not know exactly what they do or who they are. Of course, night-before sex is often followed by morning-after sex, so the need for conversation is somewhat dissolved anyways.

When i sleep with somebody for the first time, I think I'll start the post-fuck conversation with 'oh, well that was good'. No?

Gili Gulu

All you can eat Sushi for £15. All you can have conversation. Priceless. Gili Gulu is the sort of restaurant that isn't that hot on service, isn't that hot on variety, but is filling and rather spacious. And let's not forget the reasonable price for sushi which can be so expensive otherwise.

Yes, another slag meeting with Desdemona and myself. It's always fun. We can talk about sex the way others talk about the weather, or what happened to Lindsay Lohan last week at X Awards. She never looks bad. How do people manage it in the winter? I'll never know.

Having a cock up your bottom makes you feel like going for a poo. Apparently. The fingers up my own bottom make me want to piss however. Either way, shoving objects up that particular orifice messes with your bowels. And, the revelation that women don't have a prostate gland begs the question:

why, when women get no pleasure from it, do they have anal sex?

Desdemona further divulged that she had yet to have a penetrative orgasm. AH! I couldn't believe it. That such a sexual goddess could spend life still searching for that G-spot! I asked whether she'd prodded around in pursuit of it, to which she replied in the affirmative.

Where on earth has her g spot gone? Do other women have similar problems. Is there any point fucking if it never makes you cum? Is the clit as far as men need go?

On the subject of fucking, M and I.

I've been trying to rape M over the phone (though, am almost near the end of trying, very near). And M is due to come down to London for a stint of Christmas shopping. Image: The two of us hauling bin liners filled with goods down oxford street during rush hour. Ecstatic! See the things I do for M. Anyways, more to the point, M doesn't like to wear clothes inn bed. M will be sleeping in my bed as I spread myself over the floor.

Is provocation a defence to rape?

Food

Text from Ophelia last week:

‘ thought you might like to know a colleague of mine @ lunch said to me u look like you’re making love to that pizza rather than eating it!’

Ophelia, you’ve been paid a compliment (in my view). Embrace it and keep seducing food the way you do. You are the only person I know apart from myself who can make food look sexy. We are a couple of food fucking foodies, and proud. Oh, and let’s not forget Ms Lawson herself, the Queen Seductress Of Gastronomy.

The ability to seduce food and eat a pizza the way you do is a skill let’s not forget. The true enjoyment of food comes with the ability to eat it whenever you like, which ever way you like. How many of us have taken a sandwich home (one that’s full of saucy substances) and eaten it without shame of the world once inside the four walls of your abode. Yes, me too. Eating like nobody is watching is an emancipating experience let’s not forget.

Further Ophelia poses the question:

‘Can food be seductive?’

Yes. Yes.! And sometimes, even if you’re eating something controversial, you can make it look sexy and highly appetising. But this doesn’t come naturally. Sonia form Eastenders doesn’t have the ability to make sucking an oyster look sexy, let alone anything else. You’ve got it Ophelia!

Good food coupled with good sex is perhaps all that my life requires for now. The sex bit is somewhat a figment of my imagination, although rather a striking figment it is, I assure you.

Whilst on the subject of food, Arthur is rather problematic in this department. Texture is a problem for Arthur. Raw fish is out of the question. And so are peas and grapes. Chicken breast and steak are the only things I can imagine him enjoying. Of course, it’s always nice getting stuck into a piece of well cooked meat. It’s just that sometimes in life, dipping your face in a plate of raw salmon hit’s the spot. My spot. In order to be an accomplished foodie, you need to embrace diversity. I can’t see any other way around it.

And now, to the sex:

Perhaps the colleague, whilst making his observation, was wishing that Ophelia was in fact seducing him/her. The sight of a mouth in motion and a wet tongue is often enough to drive the sexually deprived insane. And as he/she watched you seduce your slice I’m sure s/he couldn’t help but wonder how good you were in bed. Whether, in fact, you’re tongue moved quite as seductively over genitals as it did over the slice. Whether in fact, your lovers had similar degrees of fortune. Let’s just say I’m sure Ophelia probably knows how to apply to Pizza Principle in real life in-between-the-sheets situations.

Bon apetit.

Gay Friends

An inkling that you might be gay, or partially gay, and every ‘straight’ woman begins to suck on you like a leach. I can’t help but smile.

Why is it that straight women want gay friends? Or, ‘a gay friend’. Hands up gay men who’ve heard a straight woman wail ‘You can be my gay friend’. Just the way that dress she owns is ‘my little black dress’. Every woman wants one. Very few women actually have one.

When the ‘gay’ comes before the ‘friend’, the milk begins to bubble over (no, not that milk).

So, what exactly are the qualities of a ‘gay friend’ (you straight girls might like to help me out, because I’m having difficulty with this one):

Somebody who you can talk about sex with openly. You can say cunt and even cock(!) and they won’t be shocked or think you’re trying to hit on them. Okay, so the second part, maybe. But the first part – it may surprise some girls that a few gay guys are actually quite uptight and prudish about matters of the A. Yes, they are.
Somebody you can watch ‘sexually explicit’ films with at the cinema (by sexually explicit, I mean naked bodies and a bit of the odd hump hump on screen).
A fellow gossip/confident. You can bitch away about your female and male friends and he is likely to remain un-phased. He might even join in on the little cat venture. Some guy gays find this judgement quite baffling. Gay men aren’t all bitches. Some don’t have a bitchy bone in their body (note: bone, not boner).
Somebody you can go dancing with without feeling as though every man wants to push his finger deep onto your clitoris? Hmm. Sorry girls, every straight doesn’t fancy you. A select few might try and get their fingers in and those few might also be a little off their trolley.

And I won’t even begin to talk about the straight girl’s need to get all camp and queeny whilst chatting to her supposedly gay friend. Germaine Greer one minute, Dale Winton the next as soon as her friend comes along. Wrists are flying and voices are rising. Sigh.

Will straight women ever realise: gay guys are just as much competition if not more so than your female counterparts. Every guy you fancy, they’ve probably assessed their levels of fuckabilty twice over already. Gay guys are quick on the sexual rampage.

Straight girls feel judged by straight men. This is what it boils down to. Of course, gay men can be just as judgemental. Take out the sexuality and we are all the same really aren’t we? Yes, straight men don’t really know which shoes Mariah Carey wore to the MTV awards (no, neither do I).

What fun it would be if the gay friend wasn’t actually ‘gay’!

Love for sale - Cole Porter

I listened to Lady MacBeth as she opened up her vocal chords completely. You see, this friend of mine has a great voice. And as i listened to her rendition of this song, the thought occured to me that these lyrics were rather fine. The song is just as beautiful. Do have a listen when you get the chance, dear readers. Lady MacBeth, this one is for you.

Love for Sale - Cole Porter

When the only sound in the empty street,
Is the heavy tread of the heavy feet
That belong to a lonesome cop
I open shop.

When the moon so long has been gazing down
On the wayward ways of this wayward town.
That her smile becomes a smirk,
I go to work.

Love for sale,
Appetising young love for sale.
Love that's fresh and still unspoiled,
Love that's only slightly soiled,
Love for sale.

Who will buy?
Who would like to sample my supply?
Who's prepared to pay the price,
For a trip to paradise?
Love for sale.

Let the poets pipe of love
in their childish way,
I know every type of love
Better far than they.

If you want the thrill of love,
I've been through the mill of love;
Old love, new love
Every love but true love

Love for sale.
Appetising young love for sale.
If you want to buy my wares.
Follow me and climb the stairs
Love for sale.
Love for sale.

Let the poets pipe of love
in their childish way,
I know every type of love
Better far than they.

If you want the thrill of love,
I've been through the mill of love;
Old love, new love
Every love but true love.

Love for sale.
Appetising young love for sale.
If you want to buy my wares.
Follow me and climb the stairs
Love for sale.
Love for sale.
Love for sale.

Scanners

Cinema club last night (Belle de Bengal where were you?)

The thing about groups and communities (of any sort) is that you are able to meet people who share the same, often quirky, passions. Having friends who are just as weird about a certain thing as you are is often a highly liberating experience.

So, there we were, post-film, talking about what we’d just seen when I came across a lady. She has that fiery-art-teacher-used-to-be-a-hippy look. I love it. Have always loved women like that. Women who pave the road to creative salvation.

When asked what she did she said she’s an ex docu lady (I seem to be doing extraordinarily well on this count). And now she was taking up acting and writing ’seriously’.

Then she told me about this book she’d be reading. A book which was on the path of changing her life. Hmm. Too many books proclaim to do this. Change your life. And no, I don’t think many do. Some books you’ll come to love, others will make you think for months after you’ve flipped over the last page and others will stay on your bookshelf without ever being read, because something better always came along.

Now to this book:

In life, apparently, there are some people who have one goal. ‘I want to be an accountant‘ for example. And they will spend their entire life working towards that goal, achieving it and then spending their life still wanting to be an accounting. And then there are scanners (of which I am most definitely one). Scanners don’t feel satisfied just doing one thing in their life and want to try everything. Further, ambitious scanners want to be successful at everything they try. Everything. Sort of like me wanting to win the booker prize. Or the award for best orgasm giver 2007.

So, they’ve finally found a word to describe me. And it couldn’t really be a truer indication of who I am. Try everything, be good at everything. Life is too short to give solely to one thing. Of course, the biggest question of all I ask myself on a daily basis is ‘What shall I do when I want to do everything’.

This theory applies to work and play equally. There are a million holes that could be filled. A trillion. So you have to be selective. Which holes are worthy. Which holes won’t you survive without filling? Short listing all the way. Too much scattered ambition can lead to you feeling unsatisfied all the time with each of your endeavours. Take the best things and keep at them. And plan. Planning is the only way of making sure it all gets done.

On that note. I have two months in which to lose the virginity if I want to fulfil the promise. Must put this at the top of my list. May the scanning (of the other sort) continue. Now.

Classroom

Here's the trouble.

If you're in the same class as somebody you'd quite like to fuck, so many of us, it seems, would shy away. That's correct. Rid our mind quickly of the idea, or perhaps one toe curling orgasm for...What?

Why don't people mix business with pleasure. And why does business usually always come first? Sometimes finding the perfect orgasm is far harder a task than securing that perfect job. And despite this, so many of us will do this quite happily, without even a second thought.

Back to the issue in question, why?

Because if then we decide not to pursue a full blown relationship, we risk having to sit through an entire year of discomfort as the other person sits in our class.

Because, if you decide to become buddies de fuck, then you risk an entire year of thinking of that classmate in entirely sexual terms. And that's going to be a distraction. Cocks do get in the way of concentration when your mind deserves to be elsewhere.

Also, if that person is a bad fuck, you're going to want to tell your friends and it WILL come out. Sexual inability always does in the end. And so, not only do you have to pretend to still like them as a person and not be bothered about your fake orgasm(s) - if you can pull off more than one then hats off to you. But, you have to refrain from telling those closest to you who just happen to be your classmates.

And despite all of the above (and the understanding that sex doubles the complication) I remain puzzled as to why people are so quick to dismiss opportunities once they arise. Surely it's possible to have no strings sex with a classmate. After the initial look of inside-information-wink-wink, you can trust that the secret is in fact safe. That you of all people can pull off such a relationship and still get top marks. Because you're clever. Aren't you? And who knows, it could become a regular thing in between revision sessions.

The biggest risk of all is that they might be a terrible fuck.

Balancing sex and life is perhaps the most difficult thing for us to do.

If only it were as simple as waiting until after school. Education runs forever when you're inside the cycle.

Spurt (pun always intended)

Things Not to do on a Saturday afternoon whilst living in London:

Go long-black-winter-coat-hunting on Oxford Street five weeks before Christmas. And, if you must, then go as early as possible. In at 9am, out at 11am. I'm sure you all know this is true enough, though I feel it's one of those facts of life that everybody could benefit from hearing every now and again, just in case it slipped their mind the way it did mine.

A further note: if you do see a coat you like, but they haven't got your exact size (because after all you were never a happy medium), don't go to a line of other shops looking for that exact shame coat because none will have it. You might like to convince yourself they will, but I'm telling you they won't. Change what you're looking for, or go back when it's less manic and try to find the one in your size.

Friday night : feeling fluey I was glad to be at home and slept my way through the entire evening in the warmth of my single bed. Sometimes it can be nice to just do nothing and have no desire of pulling, going out drinking, or anything of that sort. Just eat food, listen to music and sleep. The influenza does seem to have come to a semi-halt. A few more days and I'll be back to the bubbly self. Fear not.

Last night: a reunion of sorts with the London Bridge Drugs Circuit. It's always nice to see them, and the conversations can always take us on down interesting roads, no fear of that. Though, I wonder whether my anal sex dissection (conversation that is) might have been more appropriate anywhere else but in a public house. Not that people seemed to notice. Although, the girl in the group seemed to blush which always worries me. If people can do it why are you scared of talking about in public? I've come to the conclusion, perhaps being overtly sexual in terms of conversation is something I need to calm. People's eyes seem to dart from side to side at the mere mention of anal probing.

Arthur can't seem to understand why I have this need to over analyse everything. Hmm, perhaps it's so that I can get it out from cluttering my mind. Move the rubbish that lies at the foot of your car and you can get a move on. That's the easiest way I can put it. I love thinking about and I love talking about it, but it needs to spew forth when I'm with people who like talking about just as much.

A rant: Haven't been able to go the Erotica 2006! Sigh. Things just seem to go wrong at the last second. Never mind, next year. The trick to going is buying the tickets well in advance, once the money has gone, the time seems to emerge from nowhere.

Facebook

It has been said too often for me to remain silent.
C1 wants me to join Facebook. Cordelia also wants me to join Facebook. In fact, it appears the entire universe is on a mission to have me sign up to that whore endorsement campaign.

‘Why don’t you join face book? You’ve SIMPLY GOT to join it, it’s awesome, it’s amazing’ said C1 with that look of puppy bitch bewilderment. She actually felt sorry for me. That I hadn’t yet stumbled on the virtues of having my best photo online for the world and his mistress to see.

She looked at me the way one might look at their sister upon hearing that Rackhams won’t refund that dreadful dress she bought without their permission.

Upon giving her my look of great pity beyond relief C1 continued to glare. If you’re going to offer me pity, why can’t it be accompanied by you signing yourself up to Facebook? Sort of look.
Of late, it has been featuring in my sleep. Facebook, Facebook, Facebook, said a thousand times over by the girls I often hear ogling over it during the day.

Cordelia (now this does surprise me) offered a slightly different take on matters: ’It’s private so that only your friends can see your photos and nobody else.’ Cordelia quite clearly forgot the likelihood of anybody in this world viewing face book for their own private pleasures. It’s normally done with a group of perving men or ladies flicking between a thousand screens, pointing out who looks fit and who doesn’t. And just when you thought your life couldn’t possibly get any worse, it transpires that the whole world is somehow related and that life is, after all, one big episode of Eastenders.

‘You mean, you’re his friend too?’ a girl jumped up and down on her chair causing the silent study area in the library to undergo a sudden change of meaning.
So yes, his friend is also your friend and his sister in fact knows the ’fittest girl on the whole of Facebook’. So now, you know that guy who she thinks is really hot, well you can go and harm him and have the girl all to yourself. Wicked!

And let’s not forget, it’s all photos! For people to judge. Good looking, not good looking, ugly, in need of a chemical facial peel urgently. Facebook is a perving facility. It’s no wonder the perv gang at uni have all signed up. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if they were in fact the founding fathers.

And to think, all of the people who ridicule this blog for being too open and explicit. Ha. I bet you’re all on Facebook aren’t you?

Points

I was snubbed by the lady who sits behind checkout No. 4 in the Sainsburys near where I live. The reason for her dismissal-cum-disapproval ? Not possessing a Nectar Card.

She wasn’t seething malice or anything. She simply gave me one of those what’s-the-point-of-not-having one-when-everyone-in-the-universe-does? The fact that I haven’t a nectar to my name means that I can be dismissed without so much as a smile. And, there was none of this ’Would you like to apply for one?’ either. She made her mind up far far too quickly about me.

Mental note: MUST apply for Nectar Card and return to Checkout 4 where I will use it first. The reason I don’t have one is because I’ve always used my mother’s. And now that I’m living alone I saw little point in obtaining one myself. But it’s true, they save you money and free shopping once every few months is something we could all do with.

Whilst I was off travelling I collected frequent flier miles. A very good initiative and now I can fly for free to certain places. Double points on four Muller fruit corners never rocked my boat in quite the same way, not to say that they aren’t delicious. And then there remains that lifelong mystery: can you buy that yoghurt without the fruit on the side?

Reverting back to the points issue, why oh why hasn’t anybody thought up frequent fucker miles yet? It would seem a logical conclusion to draw. Provide ten good orgasms and have the eleventh one on us. Oral sex (double points this week), rimming and inserting fingers up the bottom are triple!, normal sex is pointed according to the number of deep exhalations which occur from start to finish. Who knows, some of us might obtain a free orgasm (without having to provide one ourselves) after just five good humps. This would be both an incentive to lead wholesome sex lives and keep those of us who are good at it getting more and more. If there’s one thing sex doesn’t like, it’s complacency. ‘Okay, so you knew how to make me come three weeks ago, but my vagina has developed. It requires more now.’

So, perhaps this is something I should initiate. Frequent fucker miles. Apply online. Buy heart monitoring equipment. And when you’re done, swipe away. Now, the best thing about this idea is that both boys and girls have their very own swipe machines. Mental note: always keep a spare wet wipe just in case..you know.

And as for added extras. Lubricant and condoms (double points). Dildos and Strap-ons - 2000 miles. You should note, miles refers to how close to heaven you’re likely to get at the end of all this. I only wish there were points available for willingness to try and levels of passion. A commercial objective for the future I suppose.

Mistress

Lots of men have affairs. It takes a different sort of man however to acquire and maintain a mistress.

By mistress I mean a woman who knows that it is her sole purpose to provide the man with sexual gratification and to fill up his voids with love, on demand.

In order to have a mistress, the man must also be married. A mistress who hasn't the competition of a wife is more of a girlfriend, or a fancy bit on the side. A mistress is a second wife. A mistress is the free spirit you wish your wife was.

I once heard a story about a man who had a wife, children and a mistress. Each knew of the other, and as there was no divorce on the cards or children threatening murder, each accepted it. This had me thinking.

Why would somebody do it? What might possess a woman to open her eyes to competition and to embrace it, to accept it without so much as a question why? Of course, every woman wants to know why her husband can't be faithful to her. Every woman wants to know why, when she can give birth to his children, she doesn't deserve his love for as long as she lives.

The story I'm referring to had full acceptance. The father had a mistress who he'd known for a number of years. Weekends away would be spent with his mistress and the family would know precisely where he was and what he was doing. The reason the wife said nothing was probably as she was thankful knowing that whatever her husband was doing, he was at least safe. Once she had made it past the hurdle of fury and resentment, she saw it for what is was. Something over which she had little control. She always knew he would never leave her, for she was the one who woke up early in the morning so that he was fed and watered before he went off to work. The mistress would do no such thing. That's the thing about being a mistress, you can take complete charge. You're at the top of the hierarchy from day one. Of course, a long term mistress seems to fluctuate between love and lust quite rapidly. There must have been a day when she either wished that the man in question would leave her alone or that he would leave his wife and become hers forever.

Mistresses are clever women of course, and they all fear the same thing. If he could have a mistress with her, he can have a mistress with me. Mistresses never want to be the wife hanging by. Once a man has had the joy of a mistress, it's almost as though he can't do without one. It's as though he needs two points of view over his life. And choice, the man feels he deserves a choice.

So, why doesn't the wife leave him? Why doesn't she try to find somebody who'll be faithful to her?

1. She no longer trusts men.
2. For the children (no matter how old they might be)
3. Because sometimes it's better to be secure in the knowledge of where your husband is going, rather than cut yourself up wondering which bitch he's screwing this time. Consistency can make infidelity seem so much nicer. Not nicer, sorry, more acceptable.

And I can't help but wonder, is a life in the shadow of a mistress really a life worth anything? When you hand over your joy and sanity to a woman more powerful than you ever were, is it like offering her a pistol and opening up your blouse to reveal a target. Or are you simply taking a loan out and paying interest for all of eternity?

Spurt (pun always intended)

Apologies for the recent delays in my entries. The truth is, I'm rather unwell. Influenza is a ghastly thing! Spent all of yesterday and the majority of today sleeping. My body is aching, there's a ball of phlegm in my body that needs clearing, head is pounding and cock is really disinterested. Ugh. And perhaps the worst thing of all, I was feeling incredibly horny yesterday. The bug seems to have run away with my testosterone.

I should ask for M's forgiveness. Ever since our vow of non-sexual obedience, I've become obsessed. Obsessed with getting M to spread their legs. Getting M to have that awesome sex we once bound ourselves too. M simply doesn't want to know! I've taken it upon myself to break M's composure in the face of this adversity, though I know it'll be difficult if not impossible. Of late I have spent many hours considering whether there are any loop holes to our no sex policy. 'what if I wank whilst we're talking, without me ever telling you?' Ha. Utter desperation.

Silly

Okay, I've been bad. I telephoned the Norwegien guy. I don't know why. I arranged to meet him on Wednesday. I don't know why. I've probably put myself into a hole from which I shall never emerge. I don't know why. I don't want to meet him anymore. I think I'll cancel. But what's the excuse? Because it's not what I wanted? Big sigh.

The sequence

Those of you who read this, please please do me a favour.

Put the following in order of sequence. By sequence, I mean, you're personal preference. What should happen first and what should happen last. Post your sequence under the 'comments' section at the bottom of this entry with a full and frank reason why you've chosen the order you have:

1. Take your lips and lick around your partner's tongue before you kiss them deeply and push your tongue as far back as it'll go.

2. Perform oral sex with such class and style that your partner's legs curl over and body begins to spasm. The girl squirts a miniature fountain and the boy spray paints the ceiling (or floor).

3. Guide your partner's fingers over your cunt/cock so that he she can get a feel for who you truly are.

4. Lick up every last drop of cunt juice/spunk and guide it, using your tongue over your partner's body until you reach their mouth after which the juices mingle mid-tongue-thrash.

5. Meet his/her mother for fish fingers and baked beans.

6. Insert a body part into one of their orifices and keep pounding/pushing until they climax and for a moment, you catch a glimpse of heaven in their eyes.

7. Ask them to call you.

8. Put on a condom or pop a pill (lesbians excluded from this category).

9. Kiss them gently. If it never happens again, you won't be too disappointed.

10. Undress them using your teeth alone.

I look forward to your responses. A few of the best ones will be placed on the main page in a few days.

Slag Meeting (Friday 10th November 2006)

There should have been four, instead there were two. The Dame and Desdemona couldn't make the slag meeting. It could have been even greater than it was. Though, great it did end up being.
Ophelia and I started the meeting in a cocktail bar. Two Raspberry Caiparinhas, one Strawberry Daiquiri and one Moscow Mule later ( two for one, delicious) we went in search of a Belgian restaurant, Belgos. A rustic restaurant, chips galore, mussels and over 80 varieties of beer. I've always been surprised by people who drink beer through choice, the vile concoction it is. It was for this reason that I was surprised at just how delicious the strawberry and passion fruit flavored beers tasted. For those of you who are due to go to this restaurant, try them.

During the meeting Ophelia expressed her surprise over the Snow White story. The Dame seems also to be somewhat perplexed by it:

'When you're a child, the story is magical and uncomplicated. Then you bring sex into the equation and it becomes complicated.'

Okay, sex is complicated, yes it is. And hats off to the whores who have diplomas in no strings sex. I intend on getting a diploma myself eventually. Another evening class to add to the list of a thousand. I do however continue to believe that not all sex has within it the power to overcomplicate so as to remove the 'magic' from the story, as The Dame was suggesting.
In my opinion, sex injected a bit of much needed va va voom into a story that had existing magical foundations. Magical plus sex equates to greater magic. At least, this is what I've always thought.

And, let's face it, Snow's life was never uncomplicated. A step mother, jealousy, vanity, poisonous apples, seven dwarfs each with separate character traits, and let's not forget that horrid ending, when the dwarfs are left behind for a hunky prince. Tall over Short, beauty over ugly, wealth over poverty. Quite frankly, discrimination of the sickest form. You'd imagine, from a list of seven, she could have found happiness with at least one. Then again, I suppose there remains a Snow White inside us all. Judgmental. Who'd have a dwarf when you could have a Prince. Only those who see beyond the obivous. And there aren't many of those. I hope I can work myself up to the position where a dwarf with a cracking personality would do. At the moment, I can't see far beyond the royalty.

Worry not, the Snow White story is here to stay. I'd always known (and it surprises me that others do not), that 'Happily ever after' doesn't really exist if we take a good fuck out of the question. Perfection does include good wholesome sex. The people who are irked by Snow White having sex, I can't help but wonder; is the narrow mindedness seeping through? Do you think of sex as dirty, a de-purifier? If so, shame on you.

On an entirely separate note,

Am at home over the weekend. Three reasons why home is a good place to be:
1. I can eat whatever I like and every type of food I enjoy is within a three mile radius.
2. I can wear ancient clothes and prance around.
3. I can breathe more easily. This is something difficult to explain. This isn't the same as freedom you realise. The ability to exhale and the notion of freedom are entirely separate.

My father has decided to chop down an apple tree and a fern, both of which have been in garden since we moved in many years ago. All this in preparation for a potential conservatory. Meanwhile I feel as though i've lost two siblings. All I have now is a pear tree. The thing is, i'm somebody who appreciates organic things. And, anybody with a vegetable patch can have a place under my duvet, no problem. The natural cycle is something I love. The purity of it. Untouched. Virgins are organic too you know. And let's not forget the multi -purpose functioning of a carrot. Feed and be fed. This alone is enough to have the government advocate everybody to build their own vegetable patch.

Hi ho hi ho, it's off to work we go.

Snow White

Some of you have expressed shock and surprise at my re-telling of Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs. It's almost as though you weren't aware of Snow's sex life. Of course, I've known all along.

This is precisely what the words 'happily ever after' refer to. A rampant and satisfying sex life. Don't tell me you thought she was celibate? A virgin eats a poisonous apple. A virgin suffers a near death experience. A virgin wakes up to find a Prince buy her side. A virgin suddenly realises that importance of living. A virgin marries as quickly as possible in order to obtain complete sexual emancipation. Marriage is required so as not to offend her Uncle, the Pope. Snow spent her entire life thinking of others, and it is only now that she is faced with a life that seems so precious that she decides to take it completely into her own hands.

Bravo!

The Dame

It's only right and proper that I inform you all of The Dame's date tonight in what seems like an eternity of almost four years. Sorry, she'll chastise me for saying that it was anything more than a 'friendly informal chat'. Although, I do hope she has her fingers in a pie tonight.

The lady The Dame is meeting comes from an online background and they seem to have hit if off rather well. Similar interests, that lesbian idiosyncrasy, a love of food and good conversation. Gents cross those balls, and ladies, tie a knot with those lady lips. This is a cause for celebration. The Dame's emancipation is well on it's way. We have both tread carefully onto the first rung of our sexual revolutionary ladder. And there remains this feeling, as though we're both finally levitating.

Marie Antoinette

''Let them eat cake, and let them spread it over their phallus' and lady gardens for all to enjoy.'' (Okay, so I made the last bit up). Marie Antoinette is rather a delightful film (up until the end, where we are thrown out of her world abruptly and without reason).

It's sort of like a lady. Beautiful and charming to look at. Fills you with promise and then loses steam towards the end. Women are known for not being able to fulfill the promise of their good looks, but this one (the film) does so quite literally.

It could have been such a great film about a woman who really is quite intriguing. But it wasn't. Because the director cut the damn thing too short without any explanation. Yes, I wanted to see her hang, and I wanted to know exactly why she did. Yes she was married to quite obviously a gay man who wouldn't fuck her. And yes, she drunk lots of champagne and ate the most delightful cakes as a result of her rejection, but what was she truly feeling. That's what I wanted to know and this is what was missing.

Go and watch it make up your own minds, but for such a good director, this was a film that didn't live up to her promises. I feel let down.