Cock Ring

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Role play

Would you rather have wild sex with somebody you were deeply in love with, or wild sex with a complete stranger?

Those of you who read this entry, I would like an answer to the above question with full and frank (as always) reasons why.

It's inspired by a film I watched last night, 'Sex and Lucia'. It was complicated, and beautiful, much like sex itself. And although the answer might seem so obvious I really don't think it is.

I suppose there's just a certain ferocity, a certain danger that you just don't get with a loved one. Love tends to mellow the experience..doesn't it?

So, wild sex.

Role plays are the new Anal or so i'm led to believe. You know the sort of thing. Meeting your girlfriend in a bar and acting as though you're seeing her for the first time (Let's forget that you were totally bladdered and high on dope the first time you actually saw her, and couldn't recall her name the morning after). Buying her a drink and just before you leave, giving her your number. Or, if you're not playing the game properly, asking the girl back for coffee.

And then, you have (or try to have) sex which replicates your first time. Let's face facts. In order to gain any sort of success this way, you require a boundless imagination which will push to the back of your mind all those irritating things your girlfriend does in the normal scheme of things. Push away the thoughts of her hairy legs which she'll have shaved for this special occassion. Push away the stubble under her armpits for that too will be gone tonight. Enjoy. It's suprising what lengths people will go to for a date of this sort. Cleaning and plucking, wiping and shaving as though they have been doing it every day. I wonder why people become complacent once they've attained the security of a relationship. It's almost as though you forget what it was that got you into the position you are today.

A lesson to be learnt: Never bite the hand that feeds you. Never leave unshaven the legs that helped you pull.

And ofcourse boys are just as bad. The farting and burping will suddenly begin to sprout from the most unlikely places. And the security of a relationship will open up a gas chamber you tried so hard to steer clear of. Why can't he control it the way he used to. I hate burping and farting myself. Too posh for all of that. But then, i'm not just a normal boy am I?

Back to roleplaying...we can have Barbie and Ken or just Barbie. We could have Superman and Wonderwoman (though women, please please, be very careful to ensure that a camel toe doesn't form in the hotpants. There's nothing quite as off putting as a clump of vagina knotted up in lycra. It could almost pass for a love handle. The general rule is, tuck away the camel toe, or tuck away the outfit. For purposes of clarity, it's NEVER permissible to have a front latch.

And..let's see how many people email me seeking clarity on what a camel toe is.

In a conversation with the two Christian girls earlier this evening one of them suggested.

'Sex is all about eternal unity. Every person you have sex with forms an eternal bond with you. One night stands go against the whole purpose of sex. To create and enhance a bond of love between two people.'

Is'nt this similar to what i've been saying all along? Minus the words eternal and create..?

Blessings

The careers advisor (yes readers, even I have to visit those people occassionally) offered me some words of wisdom. What an intelligent lady she is.

'Each rejection is a blessing in disguise.'

Yes, it is. It really is. Each time somebody says no, and sometimes when you want it so badly, you never quite get over feeling utter rejection. But rejection is all a part of the learning curve. And success is never ever far away.

Just imagine, that job you might have wanted, had you been offered it, you would have been working you long and hard, awful hours with a bunch of asexual ponies. Somebody might have filed a sexual harrassment suit against you, made your life hell (well...almost)

And it's the exact same for relationships. If every person you'd tried to pull said yes, you'd be a happy bunny, but you'd probably have a few stalkers too, and maybe an STD or five. So, it's a good thing to try as long as you don't expect to succeed each and every time. There is fruit even in failure afterall.

Moving on...

I have made two new friends. Two religious christian girls. Not quite sure how i attracted them, but...
No sex before marriage (ugh),
and only relationships with fellow strict christians (yikes).
The Da Vinci code is wrong (ugh),
Bible school (sexy).

It seems like the Lord has it in for me. I've done a full circle. The virgin became a whore who then became a virgin. And did I mention, next week I'm marrying a nun.

In all fairness, what we have here are two girls who don't crave sex the way I do. They never feel as though they're about to burst the next time anybody good looking pops onto the tele. The are goddesses of control. And I still maintain that control is a bloody good thing.

So, as we were speaking over lunch, an image of myself a few years back flashed in front of my eyes. Was it really so bad to wear virginity as a badge of pride? no, it wasn't. At times, my self belief saved me. Virginity was my saviour. It's funny how the creator can also be the destroyer. But then, if the creator can't destroy, who on earth can?

What would it mean to be asexual. To not think about sex every two hours? Would I be happier chappy without the possibilty of sex? Absolutely not. I'm far past the breaking point. And I'm having too much of a good time. The thing about sex is that it's fun. You lose yourself for a brief trickle of time. And if life were one big orgasm, I think I'd be afraid to die.

I suppose the lesson I've learnt about myself, is that i'm now at the point where a thousands nuns could light candles and chant hymns around me until the neighbourhood watch had them arrested. And i'd still be just as eager to have at myself once I got back from the police station.

Delicious

Late lunch with Ophelia. Well, garlic pizza bread, topped with Rosemary and Mozzarella, a diet coke (Ophelia) and a Bloody Mary (who do you think?). So, it amounted to more of a nibble/conversation quickie. Always good. Talking and eating.

Food is where Ophelia and I merge into one. We adore it. Our tastebuds tend to work overtime all the time. Workaholics through and through. And, when we're together, food becomes all the more sophisticated. It's almost as though food gets an injection of suave whenever Ophelia and I step foot inside a restaurant. And she will fully support this I'm sure.

Another thing about being adamant in eating only the best food means that we know what's good and what really isn't. And this is precisely the reason why I asked Ophelia what she thought of the taste of the male phallus (spoken as though women might actually have one too).

And then we digressed. Whipped cream smothered penises, trimmed, clean, perfect penises.

I mean, I've yet to try one myself and rest assured that it is on my list of things to try before the night is out (the eternal night, you understand, which amounts to my life). But I have little desire to lose a few ribs in order to be able to taste my own. But I imagine it would taste sour. Slightly acidic, incredibly masculine and full or aroma. And I would imagine a clean phallus would be a beauty to suck on. Clean and tasty. Like food that's been well prepared, taken time over.

'I like the taste. It tastes like the underside of a battery. You should try it (the battery).'
'Perhaps I will...'

Desdemona on a previous occassion also admitted to enjoying the taste. Though she was rather unimagintive in her description. 'It tastes like flesh'. Then again, a fleshaholic might beg to differ. Flesh can make your mouth water more than anything else. It can bring out your carniverous tendancies at the drop of a hat (or trousers) and you could be forgiven for wanting to take a bite. But you must never never do that. Because, she who bites, gets dumped and receives a slap around the face. I'm only being honest. Only bite when you are sure the victim will gain pleasure from it.

For me, it has always been about the shape. The head like a pink bell hanging off a christmas tree. Filled with lust, bobbing up and down, fa la la la la la la la la. And a mushroom, a long stalked mushroom, ready to be plucked. It's just so much cleaner and prettier than the female flower. As much as i'd love to delve in and devour it, it reminds me of a swamp. Somewhere you might find the Lochness monster lurking. And the ones with a greater deal of hair can look, well, like something from the Aliens Quadrilogy. There's simply too much to it. You probably recall (and I most certainly do) that art teacher who kept harping on about your painting being 'too busy'. That there was too much going on, that it distracted her attention.

And, in all honesty, I suppose I too am afraid of the unknown. For the vagina can hide millions of secrets whereas the penis is out there in it's full glory, everything confessed. So many holes, so much depth. So much ambiguity, so many layers. I think it'll take some getting used to. That's all. It's not inviting...that's it! The Vagina is uninviting despite having many doors. And the cock, well it resembles a door handle. And we all want to know what's behind a closed door, don't we?

Culture

When there isn't one person to whom you can dedicate your time and money, reach out and dedicate it to many.

The thing about being single is that you can dip your hand in so many pools of water, some cold, some boiling, some luke warm. You can go wherever you like, with whomever you like, and do whatever you like and there isn't that constant nagging wrapping itself around your head singing 'where have you been? I missed you'

And so, three weeks into the London Experience, I have found myself a cinema club and a book club. I have wedded myself to culture. And culture certainly won't mind if i'm too drunk to rise to the occassion. And tonight, after returning from our first outing, I have come to realise the importance of being amongst people who are just as creative, just as open. It's a breath of fresh air. To understand and be understood. And the mix, the mix of people is fantastic. People who you might dismiss under ordinary circumstances talking about the very things that turn you on. It's an orgy of minds. Sort of.

And we went to see a film called 'The Queen'. It was funny, clever and very insightful. Because deep inside, we all want to know what Her Majesty wears to bed. The nickname given to her by Prince Phillip. What she really thought of Diana. And even though it is a work of fiction, you come out feeling like you've just met her, just had tea with her. And there's still so much more you want to know. Why couldn't you have asked when you had the chance?

So, dear readers, let that be on your list of films to devour. 'The Queen'. Helen Mirren..Marvellous!

And what else have I been up to?

Well, the weekend was spent with the parents, eating and gossiping. And little else. Spoke with M. We discussed what we might do the first time we meet.

'How would you like me to make you come the first time?'
'Tie me up and suck me off'. It came out without so much as a thought. To have someone gobble you up and use the softest wettest part of their anatomy to bring you pleasure, is surely the most desireable thing.

And once i'd said it, I couldn't help but wonder whether something a little more adventurous should be considered. Afterall, M and I have waited years for this moment. And i'll be damned if it amounts to anything less than spectacular. But then, that's always been me. Wanting to do things bigger, better, more successfully than everybody else. Bigger doesn't always mean better afterall. Actually, I take it all back. Size is most important, I don't know what came over me.

When you have something to offer, isn't it vital that the thing has a presence? That it can be felt and seen. I think so. What's the use of a cock that can't seem to hit the right spot (or any spot)? Where there is size, there is potential, there is flavour. And flavour is so important. Of paramount importance!

And imagination. Small imaginations will take you nowhere. You need an elasticated mind. Like M and I. Last week, we fucked in a lift in Harrods. On a Sunday night, stuck between floors as the store was closed for the weekend. The white fountains over the gold..ah...bliss. And don't let's get too hung up over the minute details. Harrods probably doesn't close at six, and would never leave shoppers stuck in a lift mid floor. But the orgasm sure made me wish they would. And let's not forget M's virtual flat. We headed straight for the bedroom at the end of the corridor. I think the next time we speak, we can go to the kicthen. I might even read Delia's recipe for smoked salmon and asparagus quiche as M undresses.

Right, feel a little tired now. In need of some sleep. A long day tomorrow. Must catch up on the work I'm missing. Those with top organisational skills and self discipline make the best fucks after all.

How to be a merry virgin Part 2

The thing about virginity is that it grows like an apple.

When you're younger and spunking still feels naughty, the apple is small, crisp and sour. Those of us who decide to let somebody take a bite at this early stage lose our apple completely within the next year. And if you don't, then it continues to grow, the skin forms, the fruit is sweetened, the taste is sharper.

Now, I'm at the stage where the apple has been fully ripe for a number of months. And yes, it's sitting in my fruit bowl still in it's tesco wrapping. Now, I know full well that the apple would probably taste delicious if anybody were to take a bite. I also know that apples can last for a very long time without so much a bruise. And then one day will come when the inside is rotten and the apple needs to be thrown away. Ofcourse this will never happen to me. I won't let it.
What's important is that the eater of the apple should be hungry, starving even, before they can have a taste of the Granny Smith. For this is the sole reason farmers nuture their crop, so that it reaches full potential and can be enjoyed by somebody to the fullest.

This isn't just an apple. This is a smooth, crisp, delicious, virgin apple.

Some virgins will tell you that the greatest assets they possess are control and choice. They choose who comes in and control what they do once they've made it past the bouncers. Sort of like the manager of a swanky cocktail lounge.

'When you pop that cherry (though I never quite liked that phrase, the blood can be too unsettling), what do you want to happen' ? I asked another of our kind over the weekend.

'Oh, just, you know, do it, and then I won't feel so bad about doing it again and again and I'll be like everyone else and it won't be an issue'

'But what exactly is it that you want to do?'

'Do you mean tying him up and stuff?'

'No, I meant, whenever you've thought about the first time you have sex, what sexual things would turn you on the most?'

'Well, the first time has to be simple. I just want it to be over and unpainful. I haven't met anybody who enjoyed it the first time. Apparently it's an acquired taste'

'You mean, like beer?'

'Yeah, I guess I do.'

'I certainly hope not, I can't ever imagine liking the taste of that vile crop juice.'

'Oh dear.'

'Okay, so let's move past the popping. You've been popped and now you're a sexpert. You can do it with whomever you like, wherever you like at whatever time (apart from between 5 and 6 because ofcourse your time will be dedicated to Richard and Judy, which is quite understandable). So, tell me, in the future, what kinds of sexual things would you like to do if there were no boundries?'

'Umm, piss on someone perhaps, tie them up and whip their sorry little ass until it was bleeding, almost. Maybe make them lie down as I straddled their face with my pussy, so that they could'nt breathe. Oh god, maybe if I almost killed them. Oh god.'

'Wonderful! And tell me, why can't you do these things the first time you have sex?'

'Because virgins are meant to be stupid, unaware, naive dainty little flowers. And what I described was a slag.'

'Oh no, definitely not. The slaggy virgin is the epitomy of greatness. It means your virginity is truly in your hands. A weapon of mass destruction. You could do anything you wanted with it. Anything!'

'But then he wouldn't believe I was a virgin.'

'And is it important that he does?'

'Yes ofcourse. He need to know what he's getting. That he's special.'

'And pissing over him, making him come over and over until his bell end is about to split open and die, won't?'

'Hmm, I s'pose you have a point.'

'Good girl. Now, about the pissing...'

And that was the conversation. You see, virgins feel they owe the world something. They feel they have to fit a certain stereotype, but it's utter tosh. You don't owe anybody anything. You owe it yourself to have the best screw imaginable the first time you do it and every time after that. As a virgin you learn to build up so much control, so much, too much, so that every subsequent fuck is probably just as good, or even better than the previous. And ofcourse, you'll miss those virgins days and there will come a time when you can leave your cock alone and feel nothing, just watch it sleep. The thing about sex had too early in life is that it becomes routine, loses it's halo, just like the weekly shop at Waitrose. And then, one day in the future, you'll walk around the aisles and you'll come to realise that all you really needed was cheese. And the man at the corner shop opposite you sells cheese. So why did you even bother getting in the car?

Anyways, so Desdemona said something interesting over the first supper a few days back. I had just finished discussing what M and I had done the night before. We had sex in a lift at Harrods, stuck midfloor, on a sunday once everybody had gone home.

'I really hope you're not disappointed when you meet M. You're imagination and the sex must be so good, but I think, once you meet M, you'll probably never go back to having phone sex. And it'll fizzle out because nothing really compares to the imagination.'

Desdemona dearest, I truly believe the first time M and I have sex, it'll be a mind blowing easy experience. The most frightening thing will be when M leaves and we have to settle back into the routine that has taken form over a number of years. M is out of my hands and probably always will be and I have accepted this. So what's wrong with letting out the juice that's built up so rapidly over time. Fireworks are still considered beautiful even once the sparkles of ash disappear into the ground. Everybody will still go home and comment on how wonderful they were.

The First Supper

Thank you Lord for what we are about to receive.
For the lovely food, company and conversation.
Thank you for enabling us to speak the truth and unburden our minds with those closest to us.
Thank you for opening us up to the possibilities of the universe and for setting us free within ourselves.
Amen

There's something interesting about meeting your friend's boyfriend for the first time. It's somewhat more interesting when the boyfriend is trying to learn about his girlfriend through you. And even more interesting when a) he thinks you may infact be attracted to his girlfriend and b) has come to realise that you probably know more about his girlfriends deeper thinking than he does.

So there we were, Myself, Desdemona and Othello. And it was great. Eating fish and talking fish.

Othello is the sort of guy who, if you saw behind a bar, might make me you wonder what he's like between the sheets. You know precisely what i'm talking about. The kind of person who looks quiet from the outside, but who you might be forgiven for thinking was a vulture in the bedroom. I think what we have in fact is a vulture in the making. I think what impressed me most was that he could handle Desdemona rather well (or atleast give the impression that he could). Now Desdemona is by no means the easiest girlfriend to have. She is greedy and hungry and there is a constant current pulsing through her body. So Othello seems to found a wave of calm in amongst the tsunami that is Desdemona.

'I don't like looking into his eyes when we're having sex' proclaimed Desdemona as she tore open her calamari with the end of a fork. I tried to explain (and I did a lot of this: sounding like a sexual therapist...yikes! A Virginal Sexual Therapist. Can't even begin to imagine what a dangerous thing that might be!), that perhaps the reason she refused to look into his eyes was for fear of what he might see when she was at her perhaps most vulnerable state. And she agreed. In fact, she knew full well why she didn't enjoy the fixture of the eyes mid-hump. And this had me thinking. A book i'm currently devouring puts it rather well..

'It was never just sex. Even the fastest, dirtiest, most impersonal screw was about more than sex. It was about connection. It was about looking at another human being and seeing your own lonliness and neediness reflected back. It was recognising that together you had the power to temporarily banish that sense of isolation. It was about experiencing what it was to be human at the most basest, most instinctive level. How could that be described as just anything?'

-Taming the Beast by Emily Maguire.

Perhaps this explains why Desdemona thinks of all sex as 'fucking' whereas Othello prefers there to be a clear distinction between that and 'making love'. Words aren't like water. They won't wash away the dirt of what you're doing. Calling something love doesn't make it cleaner. Does it?

Perhaps Desdemona isn't, as her sexual cravings and eagerness to talk about might suggest, as confident as she sometimes comes across. Maybe the hidden self is somebody quite different. Maybe. And this is where you need to understand just how alike Desdemona and I are. Our physical cravings are out there for public consumption. We can talk the talk and if we had to, walk the walk, but refuse to let anybody pierce out veil. The plastic bag wrapped to tightly around our hearts. And it's sad, I suppose. But it makes me feel better that a fellow plastic slag (rhymes with bag) exists. Ofcourse, you realise what this may mean. The moment someone fucks our heart, we'll have made it. It'll be there with the best things of this world. We'll spring open like a whore in the box. Only to never quite fit back in.

I feel as though this evening I've found something out about Desdemona that she didn't really want me to know. Almost like a sexual secret she promised herself never to divulge. And it's out there. And it would be so easy to reach up and pluck the fruit from the tree. It's just that as I reach out, It seems to be moving further away.

There was rather a lot of arguing this evening between Othello and Desdemona. It was the sort of sexual frustation that bubbles to the surface every three weeks and stays there a while before overflowing. But it's what they wanted. They wanted to be honest and they were. And, as we all know, the sex that comes after a fire is often magical, heaven touching, toe curling. And i'm sure, as dedicated a fan of this blog as Desdemona is, she won't read this until the morning. For right now, or in a wee while, she'll be having the orgasm of her dreams. And in that moment, when nothing and everything happens, lies her happiness. There. Like a ring of water on a coffee table.

Taking

The next time I sleep with someone, I want to take everything.

I want to tie them up using a pair of battered old stockings. I want to tie their hands firmly to the bedposts, and their legs. And I want to see them, up close and personal.

I want to have the vagina spread open, completely at my mercy. Wet, swelling, the lips bright pink, beads of moisture creeping up and over, making my mouth water. I want the pussy to talk to me. I want it to moan and groan, beg to be eaten. Just imagine. It's there, in front of your eyes. Three inches from your tongue. And she can see you there, crouching between her legs. And look into her eyes. Lost. In that moment. The sex happens in that look.

Longing; it's such a wonderful thing.

And if it's a cock, then I want to see it wave in the air. I want him to tense the muscle at the base of his phallus so that his dick dances in the air. I want to see it swell, big and long, a weapon of mass destruction. And my lips are there, so close. Close enough for him to thrust and get it in in one go. Millimetres. But he won't. He's not like that. He's merely a giver. The point of ultimate gratification comes when you feel like, if you don't suck his brains out, the dick might extend and push itself into your mouth. The dick wants you more than you want it. Wouldn't that please you?

And then i'd eat the meat the way you might eat a chicken royal after two weeks of starvation. Gobble it up. I would love to give this to a straight man. To think you could sew a seed of curiousity. And then, water it (once every couple of weeks) and watch it grow into a full blown tree.

And when they couldn't hold it any longer i'd make them stop. Just like that.

And then, the journey would begin once again.

Tomorrows Shopping list:

1) Battered stockings from Oxfam.
2) Four-poster bed
3) Two lovers
4) Lube
5) 1 ton of lust (Buy one get one free at Waitrose)

Right, off to devour M. Feel horny all of a sudden. Can't help but wonder why.

M and I

Me: 'So, would you say that your boyfriend is the dominant one in your relationship?'
M: 'Yes'
Me: 'and do you think this is why you are the dominant one in our relationship?'
M: 'I don't think so. I don't think it's deliberate.'
Me: 'Do you think you try and exert the power you want in our relationship as a result of not having that power in your other relationship. It's the perfect way in which a submissive can become a dominatrix.'
M: 'Not sure, but I doubt it.

Now, despite M arguing against this assertion I think it's true. I noticed it without M ever saying that M's boyfriend was the dominant power in the relationship.

So, after all said and done, we're back to the issues of power and control. Why can't sex be uncomplicated. Why can't be just be secure within ourselves without wanting to make our lover feel smaller? Don't get me wrong, fetishes are one thing, but all this subconcious power-playing is a seperate planet altogether.

M: 'I don't really discuss what my boyfriend and I get up to with you, partly because I don't think you'd be interested (which whore ISN'T interested in sex?) and partly because I don't think you'd like it (that's more like it). But, last time he was down, we had the house to ourselves and he was tied up the whole day. Literally, tied to a bed, spread eagled, all day. And I would occasionally play with him and then wonder on downstairs.'

Now, readers, what do we think? Wouldn't you be fuming by the end of this? A whole day tied naked to a bed. Having to piss (that's correct) on yourself. I'd be so angry. Red and bothered.

M: 'Well he was. And later when I untied him we had the hottest, roughest sex.'

Quite erotic. But it made me wonder.

Me: Do you think if we stopped talking, you would miss it? Especially considering you don't really need anything in terms of extra sexual satisfaction. Do you think you would be bothered? I mean, perhaps you like the idea of us, but don't really need it?'

M: That's an interesting question.

And indeed it is an interesting question. But, as I made M aware, if we were to end, I would miss the conversation, the friendship much more than the hot sex. And that's the truth.

And this is how M divulged a sexual secret. And I think I felt hurt. Not because I was jealous. Well, maybe just a pin prick. And I hate myself for it.

Girlfriends

Reader,

The following poem has touched me. The Dame pointed it out over the weekend and I love it.

Girlfriends

That hot September night, we slept in a single bed,
naked, and on our frail bodies the sweat
cooled and renewed itself. I reached out my arms
and you, hands on my breasts, kissed me. Evening of amber.

Our nightgowns lay on the floor where you fell to your knees
and became ferocious, pressed your head to my stomach,
your mouth to the red gold, the pink shadows; except
I did not see it like this at the time, but arched

my back and squeezed water from the sultry air
with my fists. Also I remembered hearing, clearly
but distantly, a siren some streets away — de

da de da de da — which mingled with my own
absurd cries, so that I looked up, even then,
to see my fingers counting themselves, dancing.

-Carol Ann Duffy

This one is for The Dame, Ophelia and Desdemona.

G-A-Y

Can't work em out, can't walk away
try desperately to think of the politest way to say
just get out ma face, just leave me alone
and no you can't have ma number, cos I lost ma phone...

-Miss Lilly Allen

No. 1
'Hi, are you single?'
'Yeah'
'And are you looking?'
'Umm, I am, but I'm straight'

I like to think of this rejector as a closeted gay man who doesn't quite realise just yet how gay he is and how much he actually wants me, that's all.

No. 2
'Hi are you single?'
'Kinda'
'What does that mean?'
'It means I am now, but I won't be once I get home'
'Can I give you my number?'
'Sure'

I like to think of this as an exciting possibility. The Home Wrecker in me came out in full force. And I didn't regret it even once. What exactly did he mean by 'I am now'? I suppose he wanted me to unzip and lay myself down in the middle of the dancefloor before I reached up and tugged at his fly. But I would never do such a thing, not in the middle of a dancefloor anyways.

No. 3
'Hello, can I just ask, are you single?'
'Yeah'
'Looking?'
'III'mm open to everything' (spoken with utter gay pride and conviction)
'I see, well let me give you my number. And where are you from?'
'Canada'.

So there we have it dear readers. I slagged my number out not once but twice.
And no responses yet. I think their phones must have stopped working. Argh the unreliability of telephone networks in ths day and age!

So, last night we drunk and boogied and drunk some more and boogied and then we all huddled together in a semi orgy as Lilly Allen came onto the stage and performed five songs. She came on holding a can of beer in her hand and a fag (the tobacco stick ofcourse). And as she sang her songs she puffed away mid verse. And she was dressed like a christmas fairy-gone wrong. Difficult to describe, easy to chuckle at. All in all she was fantastic. Lively, unapologetic, tacky princess, pretty, with a nice voice, very nice. She could have people dancing to the story of a trip to the toilet if she wanted. And it would be great. I think she defines just what melody is all about. Quirky, witty and boogieish.

The exact moment I came to realise just what a great night last night was, however, when, at 5 am I sat on the curb opposite G-A-Y, eating a slice of pizza and salty chips and watched as The Dame rather innocently accused a 65 year old homeless women of being a crack whore.

'I'm going to see if I can buy her some food, atleast that way I know the money is going to good use' came The Dame's initial declaration.
And as I contemplated what she had said, she walked over and perched herself over the homeless lady.
'Do you want me to buy you some food?'
'No, but 50 p would be helpful so that I can have a coffee when I feel like one'
'Are you sure you won't spend the 50p on drugs?'

And then it started. The shouting and pointing as the homeless lady declared that The Dame should be killed. Ha Ha. Ha Ha. Doesn't the Dame realise the price of a syringe? 50p might get you a permanent marker (must make mental note to ask Arthur for further advice on this matter).

And then we sat on the bus which seemed to take forever getting us anywhere near my boudoir. And then we slept. For five hours.

To be perfectly honest with you dear readers, I feel gayed out. As though somebody has put it up my bottom and it's come out of my mouth. I think it's time for a woman, for a bit of ying and yang. For something unusual and interesting. So the gay chapter is closed for now. And we can resume once my crack has healed (emotionally speaking ofcourse)

woman manly, man womanly

'It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly.'

-Virginia Woolfe.

As she wrote these words I wonder what ran through Virginia's mind. Is there a suggestion that we can never feel complete, whole, satisified with just our sex? Is she suggesting that relying solely on our sex can be dangerous, even fatal, to our satisfaction as humans? Perhaps what she wants to say is that narrow mindedness is lethal, the edge of a blade millimetres from your skin.

What she is infact doing with the above words, is pioneering what has now become my revolution. A search for something more than myself, something greater. Somebody defined only by the traits we as indivuals possess. We have to make best use of ourselves in order to find that person deep inside. Perhaps if you've ever seen the film 'Saw' you might understand what i'm trying to explain. The concept that you have to use your own body to free yourself, even though it may involve a great deal of pain and anxiety.

Afterall, appreciation of the greatest happiness can only come when you've suffered the greatest sadness.

The fundamental thing here however is the ability to see yourself for what you truly are. A possessor of the mind, a mistress of your being and the master, able to mould and dissect, cut off the bits that get in the way. And heal. After each slice that comes off, there must be time left to heal. Only then will the skin stretch, harder, firmer, encompassing. And even the deepest of wounds are healed in this way.

Sexual awakening is in many ways similar to self harm. The cutting of the exterior to relieve the interior. Every time you sleep with somebody through lust alone, it's the output of your sexual frusation, like blood emerging from your veins. The internal sadness seeps out in your ejaculation. Ofcourse, touching heaven is impossible. It's always far easier to put your hand in the fire of hell, but touching heaven, that only comes with practice. A true sexual being can touch heaven through control and avoid desperation at all costs. I believe this is what sexual awakening boils down to. Would you agree?

Gejection

The Dame and I are going to G-A-Y (the club) in central London tomorrow night. Lilly Allen will be performing. The polluted genius will be wonderful to watch I'm sure.

What it must be to feel as unapologetic as she, about her life, about who she is. A great role model, somebody with utter conviction.

So, earlier today I was given the task of purchasing tickets for this event. And yes, I wondered up and down Old Compton Street (where G-A-Y the bar is located) before I spotted it, luminous, bright, and surprisingly, full of attractive people. I suppose the Lord has heard my plea and banished all the plus 50, tank-top wearing, wrinkly sexpots from the world! Fantastic!

As I asked a guy behind the bar (and there were lots of guys), he smiled, rather obviously taking a shine to the visionary (afterall, who can blame him..?) and went to the back to fish out the tickets. In the space of what must have been two minutes another guy thought it would be appropriate to inform me that they don't normally sell tickets to those who aren't 'regulars'.

Let me get this straight. So, I have to be a regular attendee of GAY to be entitled to tickets (which I'm paying for).

What clearly frustated the man further was my enquiring as to the whereabouts of the actual club. He looked at me with those beady gay eyes, as though my gay betrayal had made its way deep into his soul. This guy was really offended.

'We certainly don't sell tickets to strangers who don't even know where the club is.'
'Come on mate' was th only response I could muster. Maybe I should have flirted at this point, but I was tired. A quick kiss may have worked wonders. I might even have obtained free entry!

And so, this is how I was welcomed into the gay community. Charming. And tomorrow evening, if I don't get atleast 12 phone numbers in my back pocket, I shall be lodging an official complaint against the Gay Bureau of Discrimination. I simply won't be rejected by the Gay Community. They want me and they know it.

Right, I'm shattered. Will Write something tomorrow during the day. Hope all the readers are doing well, ploughing through sex and substance quicker than you can say cum. I'm glad to hear it.

The human swipe machine: please enter your pin.

"I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy."

-Tom Clancy

Some boys dream of becoming firemen. Others dream of nothing more than fighting in the army. And then there are those who grow up late and decide it’d be fun to train as a rent boy. Oh, looks like it’s just me then.

In all honesty, I think more men then will ever let on would love to be paid for sex. The boy who gets paid for sex is similar to the girl who gets paid to model. It’s a confirmation of your ability, your looks, your confidence. Somebody is willing to give you their hard earned cash. Take it. But give me yourself for the night.

And to have that power. To be good enough to get paid for something that comes so naturally. Why on earth would people strive for a job in HR or Market Research when you have something this delicious.

And, if I have to delve into the economics of it all, there is very little setting up cost, none in fact (minus a bottle of lube and a stack of condoms). And the profit margin is huge. Huge enough to fit in a few more appointments I’m sure.

And men love the control. They love it. Whenever they sleep with their girlfriends (or boyfriends), the moment the dick is inside the hole, they lose all sight of the person belonging to the hole. And I would argue this to my grave. The only thing that keeps them errect is the thought of all the possible damage their phallus could be doing. Most guys can’t get over the sight of their own cock mid penetration as it slips in and out, smoothly, gently. No wonder so many guys like the doggy school of thought. It offers them everything masculinity is about. A strong hold over a weak female. She can’t see you, she is merely a pawn in the game, taking everything you give her. And enjoying it.

The second best time comes with each orgasm. Men wouldn’t have half as much pleasure during sex if they thought their cum wasn’t due to explode and fill up someone else’s hole. It’s the thought of dirtying someone’s body with your muck that turns most guys on. And how many guys are there who would actually prefer the partner to spit. Hands up! No one? Just as I thought.

But what exactly has made us so power hungry. Why have we confused mutual stimulation with hierarchical empowerment? Is it possibly to do with the insecurities we as men are facing in an ever growing flower power, girl world environment. Does penetration of the vagina equate to the penetration of a manless world. Are women the new men?

So, back to the issue of prostitution. If you’re the man who is paid for sex, you will regain some of that power for the women paying you are quite clearly in need. And you are the offeror of the solution. Her happiness is in your hands, in your cock, in your balls. It’s all there. You just have to use it.

Anybody still dreaming of being a fireman?

Slags Anonymous

Whenever I go out for for dinner, or drinks, I normally have little idea what topics might be up for discussion. The weather, the price of Sainsbury's potato salad and work or study are usually the hottest contenders.

Whenever I go out with the Slags I always know which sphere of life our conversations are likely to spin in. And predictability, consistancy, I have come to realise, can be a wonderful thing.

Sex, sex and more sex. It's the formation of the group, the unwinding of us as individuals. Desdemona put it raher well:

'The reason I can talk so openly here is because I don't do it anywhere else. Here, I can get it all out of my system, cock vagina, balls, lube.' (again, the last bit is mine). And this is not to say Desdemona has difficulty speaking about..you know...to other people. But merely that we have reached a certain level of comfort where nothing contains the power to shock (well, almost. Desdemona knows precisely what it is that I'm refering to).

I must confess, I feel exactly the same. I am fully aware that our conversations would make even the most sexually liberated of people blush. They really are that open. We talk about sex the way other people talk about the mad peak-hour rush in the underground. The difference is, we could talk and talk forever, and there would always be a different hole left to fill. And then another, and another.

For purposes of clarity I will now describe the term slag for those of you who haven't quite understood. Desdemona and I are pure slags. Our mind is consumed by sex. We crave experience and are striving to achieve a different state of happiness altogether through our minds and bodies.

When people describe others as slags, It's spoken as a result of pure and evil jealousy.
'She slept with him, she's such a slag. She's had more boyfriends than I've had hot dinners' or something along these lines.
What that person really wants to say is this
'She has such a great sex life, i'm utterly fed up of going home to the same person or having to use my fingers while she has somebody do it for her'. I wish they would just say it. Making yourself feel better by making other people look bad is child's play. And children are never slags in the best sense of the word. You have to be in top form to be a slag.

So those of you who think I'm somehow degrading myself by using this term, think again. I don't mean this in a glib way. I mean, we are overtly sexual beings, we are proud and we are sexy. We are slags.

Right, now that that's clear, we can move onwards.

Ophelia on the other hand isn't quite a slag. She is an unslag, the rare breed that ticks inside and doesnt ever need to have the monthly public orgasm the way myself and Desdemona do. It doesn't mean she is less sexual, in fact, it could mean the exact opposite. Only Ophelia can say 'But I think I can get ANY man to marry me' with a straight face and get away with it. But, as the milk of her sexuality curdles over inside her mind, you'd never quite know it had. For Desdemona and myself, the wet patches surrounding us would be visible for days.

The way I deal with certain issues is to put them out there. And even if nobody can assist you in finding an explanation, you can atleast laugh at them, or cry, or cum. The same applies to sex.
Certain people are innately satisified and never need to say a word.

Oh yes, and as we delved into a delicious paella, I was asserted to the fact that only men have a prostate gland. I had no idea. Not an incling. Now that's pure virginity for you, tighter than a knot.

It's made me wonder, it's almost as though men were designed to take it up their bottom.

How to be a merry virgin Part 1

Sometimes when you're walking down the street, you'll come across one. When you park your trolley next to the cured meats deli counter in Waitrose one might be standing directly next to you. Whatever happens, you mustn't worry, for he is just like you. He too is one of them.

Often you'll be asked about the number of relationships you've been in, or be asked to describe your ex. Panic not, merely look the enquirer straight in the eye and tell them that you have never been in a relationship because you have waited for that special one. Fear not, they'll love it. They might even congratulate you on your ability to keep it inside your trousers. A common phrase used in this situation is 'Oh, that's great, I really wish I had waited'.

Ignore this, for given a choice between a hot orgasm and 22 years of sexlessness, we all know which one they would choose.

Merry virgins learn to accept that nobody truly understands them the way other virgins do. So, next time you see one in the cinema (and you WILL know. If you look carefully enough and switch the V-dar on that is), return a smile and even offer to pay for the popcorn if it'll help. For you may never know when another virgin might be required.

When you're in a group of people who are non-virgins, or even worse still, with their partner, you mustn't feel like a gooseberry. They invited you out for a reason and when they have an argument you'll realise just what a virtue you are holding in those boxers (though many virgins tend to stick to briefs, keeping it locked away for security reaons).

And the worst thing you experience as a virgin are the countless friends who come seeking advice once they've had an argument with their lover. It's rather a simple equation: Lover seeking advice + virgin = crap advice. (Don't know why they bother)

What you have is freedom and every once a while you will go out on the town and meet someone and get chatting and click and it's that simple. You don't need to feel guilty for the girlfriend waiting at home, you don't need to care about what boundaries surround you, because, bar the virginity, there are none.

And during the late life of a virgin you will come to see your virginity as the biggest burden that exists. Take a step back and think. If you were like your friends, going from one lover to another, would you be as controlled, as happy, as curious, as excited? The answer is no. And then, switch on Pamela, or Ron and give yourself to yourself. Afterall, you can't really know what you're missing if you've never had it.

mmmm

It happens every once in a while.

The London Underground is a smoky flesh fountain between the hours of 17.00 and 18.00. Sometimes you find yourself so close to someone it might equate to rape, if you weren't enjoying it so much. And once in a while you'll find your legs placed between another fellow passenger's. And as the smell of perspiration, Channel No5, and Wrigley's Extra clog up your nostrils, you look into each other's eyes and the tip of your cock begins to swell. And if nobody else was stood around you (even though they might not blink an eyelid), you could have each other in that moment. You could devour the other person completely. And all you can smell is their flesh, that tired, hungry flesh. It's enough to drive you crazy. And then you hear it:

'Please mind the gap'

and it's gone. She's taken your orgasm and run with it, far far away. And there's no point reporting it, for people will think you're mad. Now why did she do that?

Spoke with M last night. Had been absolutely ages since we last....you know.
Was great, needless to say.

As you know, M and I have never physically met. We havent touched each other once, or seen each other in the flesh. And despite this, we've known each other for 6 years, and we are close. Perhaps closer than ever.

And the sex still simmers and froths up to the top of the saucepan each time I hear M's voice. Even now, after six years.

Yesterday after I replaced the reciever, I thought about M. Six years, so much could happen in that time. You could have six children. A child can transform in that time. A couple might wed after being together for six years. You might open a brothel in that time and it may even be declared bankrupt even before the time is up.

And I've changed. M has been witness to the transformation. The opening. But one thing remains certain. The sexual hunger for each other, M and I, never ceases to exist. It's always there, even though we know the other has been with another person. It shines like a light. Blinding.

How unlikely that must be. To long for somebody, to feel like they've been there all along, when you came, when you fell asleep. And when you wake, it's just you in the bed. But you could have sworn somebody else was there the night before.

Ah, it's all getting a bit too Mills and Boon for my dear self.

M is due over for Christmas shopping/fucking (of the real sort), or so I'm led to believe. Mind you, M is a person of their word and I have little doubt that I will soon feel the words, feel them fully.

The biggest fear is this. Once the flesh is united, does the telepathy cease to exist. Does the longing fuel our relationship. When we meet, will it be fireworks? A few beautiful bursts and then nothing. What would I do?

The Dame dissected

‘I like bisexuals, but I couldn’t eat a whole one’

-The Dame

If I were a whore (and believe me, I’m trying), I would have The Dame as my Pimp. She would know exactly how to run a friendly brothel and wouldn’t dare put her mugs on my commission. She would cancel appointments as soon as I said I wasn’t feeling up to it, and she would have a client base that filled up 7 maybe 8 A4 Lever Arch files. This I know because she is a great people person. And she is nice. It’s such a simple quality, yet there are very few nice people in this world. Hats off to The Nice Dame.

And we would happily run our enterprise from a refurbished stable (I cannot say another word). A good brothel owner needs to know sex and needs to know people and how to best put these two together at a profit and The Dame, despite a current celibacy of 3 years, is the perfect pimp.
And, let’s face it, she is on the revolution with myself, and it’s not going to be long at all before we have a full blown pan sexual orgy in Hyde Park. Worry not dear reader, tickets will be available from this very site in due course.

The only problem with The Dame is her sometimes lack of self appreciation. Modesty and insecurity will not get you into many panties, maybe two, because in today’s flesh market, nobody wants to work through issues, nobody is nice, as I mentioned before, so we have to succumb. We are good and we have to know it. And there is nothing wrong in this. Nothing whatsoever. At this stage in the revolution, we know exactly what we want. Next comes getting it. And our standards mustn’t slip.

The thing about standards is that they are like the best jewels you’ve ever received. You hide them away under many layers so that your maid (and I’ll have one of those too one day be assured) can’t lay her grubby hands on them. And rightly so, because these are all you will have when everything else is gone (the standards I‘m talking about). It’s okay to be a whore, but it’s of paramount importance that you are a whore with high expectations. Because we, The Dame and I, have a choice. We are spreading our legs for ourselves and nobody else. Not because we have to, but because we want to. Because this will please us.

And now to the issue of bisexuality. What a silly term for denial. Openness on the other hand is better, so much better.

The Dame is infatuated by a closeted lesbian. We can call her Crackalicious for she is a) into illegal substances and b) in possession of a crack (quite simply). Now, is It because she is closeted that The Dame likes her so, or is it because she is a lesbian? Of course, Crackalicious might suggest that she was bisexual, but being able to spread your legs for a man doesn’t really amount to bisexuality in my eyes. It’s more about the person you wish you were with during the sex.

Now, Crackalicious seems to enjoy playing mind games with The Dame. She probably has an idea of The Dame’s attraction and insists on testing it time and again. Yes, dear reader, she is one of THOSE. And The Dame deserves much better than a closeted confused boiler of the bunny. So I have decided to assist The Dame in her pursuit for finger licking female action. Tomorrow I shall create a personal ad for The Dame. And if we give ourselves two weeks in which to achieve the goal, it’s reasonable time, wouldn’t you agree?
I’m sure it can be done. Positive.

And I’m not talking about meeting some leathered up bondage queen behind a kebab shop late one night. I’m talking about finding The Dame a proper lover. A speaker of Vagina.
It’s high time she went from the frying pan into the fire. And yes, dear Dame, eating a whole lesbian WILL give you indigestion.

Kama Sutra

Honey-sweetened milk in which the testicles of a ram or a goat have been simmered has the effect, when drunk,of making a man as powerful as a bull.

The yolk of a single sparrow's egg stirred into rice pudding that has been thickened with cream,wild-honey and "ghee" (clarified butter)has the same invigorating effect for giving one woman the strength of a thousand.

-Teachings of the Kama Sutra

And for the complete translation of the Kama Sutra click here (and believe me, it's worth every second) http://www.csd.uch.gr/~chrysos/kamasutra.html

Right, now that that's over.

So, I woke up incredibly late this morning. Not quite sure what happened. 11.45. I feel repulsed at myself for succumbing to dreams. Kensington really is a lovely area (that's where I live by the way). A world of bright paris hiltons strutting about. An array of mouth watering restaurants and shops, probably the worst sex lives imaginable. It's strange, but i'm pretty sure that those with the money to buy fuschia vibrators, limited edition porn (including, i might add, a leather bound version of Play boy), leather strap-ons and brass handcuffs probably never would. And what a shame that is.

And then I spent five hours studying the law of businesses. Don't get me wrong, I did it properly, for this is precisely the sort of information that will come in useful once i'm an official brothel owner. I wonder what it would say in the Memorandum of Association.

Back to the Kama Sutra. Something you should know is that I am Anglo-Indian. So this would explain the Kama-connection. I don't know exactly why you should know this, but you should. And no, that doesn't mean I'm turned on by licking a vindaloo off a vagina (or penis). In fact, I've never even tried a vindaloo..ha....chicken tikka masala? I hear you ask...well....perhaps;)

The Kama Sutra is the art of love, the art of sex, and describes just exactly where to put every part of your body in order to experience the best orgasms imagineable. Now, once you read what it has to say, you would be forgiven for wishing you had once been a ballerina. This sort of flexibily comes only from years of yoga and the limbo. So don't be upset, wipe away those tears and sign up to yoga classes right away. The biggest shame of all however comes in my inability to find any decent indian porn anywhere. And if what I have seen (very very little) is anything to go by, trembling, fleshy, ooeeey indian ladies should be avoided at all costs. It's just so nice to see a porn star who looks like they enjoy taking it up the bottom.

What do we think of porn. I have yet to watch porn with other people in the room. It icks me right off. Why is this? Because i'm afraid of my phallus? Because i've just not met the right person? or is it because it really is a dirty unflattering thing to do? This one is definately on my list of things to try.

So, getting back to the subject, I would be more than willing to undertake an A-Level in tantric sex, as long as I was awarded a certificate upon completion. What makes me laugh is the sense of equality that is pushed through the Kama Sutra when indian culture as a whole is far from being equalist. And let me think, how many indian women would receive divorce letters in the post if they, the night before, croached over their husbands in a Yugmapada pose and expected him to do the same.

I wonder if being Indian has made any difference to my sexuality. I dare say it might. It's like a tightly wound bandage being unravelled slowly. The tiger inside has been there for many many years.

The journey

Back before midnight and witness to a good night out. Good food, good company and good conversation. And having it all there just makes me realise how priveleged I am and how hard it is to have these three things simultaneously.

The Living room is stylish, reasonably priced, and well taken care of. And Desdemona wasted little time in asking me about and deciphering the sexual encounter I had with my Brixton randomer.

Ultimately i think sex is something which isn't easily described. Partly because you lose sense of yourself whilst having it and partly because it's something that seems to splash about like water, nor here nor there...your emotions, your bodily fluids, your thoughts, absolutely everything.

And apparently, according to Desdemona and her friend (who greeted me so kindly with a fashion kiss that there should have been no need for me to ask what she did) I am still very much able to call myself a virgin, although I would prefer the term semi-virgin. You see, dear reader, virginity has never been an issue of penetration for me. I'm an OED rebel and proud! In fact, it has always been about that sexual tingly feeling, that frothing desire that pulses through you like a bolt of electrcity, that gets you excited, so excited. What does it matter whether your cock is inside a hole?

Desdemona rather merrily suggested 'In my eyes, you could be sixty and have given a million blowjobs and still call yourself a virgin.' In this particualr scenario, the question appears to be whatever it was that stopped the 60 year old 'virgin' from getting down and dirty so that all of her holes (including her mouth) were filled.

Another observation I have made is this: It's so easy to get people talking about sex. Too easy. Some people find my sexual openess difficult and unusual to deal with at the start but, as with tonight and the fashion friend, women will talk their sex lives into the air as soon as the seedling is sown.

'I've never had what I would describe as 'great' sex' said the Fashion friend. What a brave woman she is to be able to admit this, and to a man. What surprised me further was the way she described exactly what she liked to do and be done to her. Where the fingers are best placed, why swallowing is always the best way.

DESDEMONA
''I have never spat out his come once, in all my years of blowing. Not once. It's so rude to spit. I mean, where do you spit, where do you put it? It's rude. And it doesn't taste of much really anyways.'

I can see her point: I mean it's all protein and once it's been inside your mouth, there seems little point in spitting it out when it could slide down your throat so easily.

Both girls enjoyed giving blowjobs and liked the taste of a penis. So, I'm left feeling that the fashion friend has all the potential and more to have a bomb of a sex life. To have orgasm after orgasm of toe curling sex. And let's hope she does, because this girl knows what she likes, what to do and what she likes to be done to her.

And once I told them that I had remained more or less errect during my sexual encounter a few days past, they were shocked. And thinking about it, so am I. In honesty I'm frightened of the orgasm, that feeling of Asexual repulsion that sweeps through my body as soon as I've ejaculated. And also, whilst i was with the man, i did'nt feel a need to orgasm. No desire whatsoever. i was pleased to just be there, to learn the control, to enjoy it for what it was, for truly being on the journey without forever seeking the destination. And I am inclined to believe that this is what sex is all about. The journey.

The Living Room

Howdy!

I smell nice today. Have given up Issey Miyake for a spot of Avon Linen and bedroom spray...ha! I wonder if Desdemona will notice/comment on this somewhat unusual scent.

I'm meeting her for the first time since returning from my travels, and what an exciting night this promises to be. A slag reuinion is much called for. It's a shame the Ophelia and The Dame couldn't be around.

The Dame, or so I'm led to believe, is frequenting G.A.Y (the apparently hip and happening gay club) this evening with one of those unsure closeted lesbian head f*cks who she feel drawn to and intrigued by. Dame! if you are reading this, beware the curse of the closeted lesbian. Some lesbians hold enough power to draw the free spirits back into their closet with them and no, the closet isn't a sexual hideaway.

So, Desdemona and I are visiting the living room (http://www.thelivingroomw1.co.uk ) which is situated just off Regent Street. A Plush venue for a couple of plush slags...ahh!

Sex will undoubtedly be the only topic of discussion, sex and all things related. We might even order some food midway..who knows?

Right, I'm expecting her to call in a moment so must dash immediately, now, this instance.

Expect a full report tomorrow upon my return.

Bye.

Research and (Anal)ysis

Dear Reader,

Spent a lot of today researching (now you know just how seriously I take our relationship).

Yesterday I came across a personel ad in www.gumtree.com . Let's stick to the gay theme. If the following ad is anything to go by, I think some gay men seem to be having the horniest time of their life.

Let me explain..

So we all know about role playing, and I'm sure many of you my dear readers have played doctors and nurses. After all, which nurse doesnt like a good old spanking with a stethoscope? But the following advertisements show us that some people are incredibly seedy in the mind. And sex for them is so thought out, so complex (and rightly so). Let's go on a journey to discover what these men truly want, let's scrape back the words and reveal the filth.

''Gay strict and active professional looking for a live-in houseboy for Bethnal Green (travel zone 2) - become a part of this unusual household.
YOU GET: room, board, pocket money
I GET: housework done; shopping taken care of - trips to Tesco Sainbury''s Lidl and Netto;
Perhaps I get a bit more than that by of FUN!
Would suit foreign student learning english maybe - as would allow plenty of free time.
Sissy boy''s more than welcome to apply!
Apply by e-mail with full details including picture(s)(if possible)''

First and foremost, what exactly is a 'Gay strict and active professional'? Is it a gay man who also works? A gay man who is a complete woman-hater who is very horny? A wealthy rent boy with a wife and 2.4 children?

'Looking for a live-in houseboy' - this bit is pretty clear. 'Become a part of this unusual household' does this indicate more than one person who would derive pleasure from having a live in houseboy? Maybe it's a family of sexual beasts who wants a sex slave?

And the successful applicant will get 'a room, board and pocket money' How much pocket money? That's what i'd like to know. Would it buy the boy a happy meal? and would they let him keep the toy?

'I get shopping done' . My oh my, this man certainly shops til he drops and must find it thrilling walking through four supermarkets comparing prices before he comes home and takes out his frustations on the poor live-in houseboy! My advice to this fellow is to go to Lidl, as it's cheaper every time. And it's foriegn, just like the houseboy will be. There's nothing like sticking to a theme. Another observation: this man can't be very wealthy as wealthy folk are unlikely to know what Lidl is especially when Waitrose is so nearby. So there's the live-in houseboy's dreams of decent pocket money down the drain.

And now for the sex: 'Maybe i get more than that by way of fun'
I wish these sexual advertisements would be a bit more clear. It's like the job description from hell - 'you may be required to undertake other duties also'. Is the guy expected to surrender completely. Does he want a submissive? Or does he want a whore who will obey ever order? I suddenly start to wonder what the wage for this might be? And also, I can see the pocket money rising higher and higher.

'Would suit foreign student learning English maybe- as will have lots of free time.' So, let's thing, shopping in four supermarkets, cleaning the house, looking after the unusual household, surrending to a household full of sexual urges (not sure about this bit) and learning English as a foreign language too. Can't see there being too much free time remaining can you?

'Sissy boys more than welcome to apply'
What exactly is a sissy boy? I won't even try to dissect this one. It's below me.

And ofcourse, this is an application process let's not forget. I will tell you just how tedious and boring applications for jobs are. And now look, we have to apply even if all we want is to have our end away. Whatever next, a psychometric and numerical reasoning exercise? On a serious note however, I wonder exactly how this man intends on short listing. If you are the person who created this piece of art, please forward on all details.

So let's summarise.

A man is looking for a sissy boy who will be a whore in every possible way for him and his family for a room, food and pocket money. The guy must provide fun as and when required and shouldn't speak a word of english though be willing to try. Even I can teach you how to say the words 'yes' 'good' 'harder' 'coming'. And let's not forget the shopping (in four supermarkets).

So, any offers?

Filling the void

Hul!

Ideally, this entry should come before 'Last night' as this happened prior to that. But I'm sure you are able to understand, dear reader, the gravity of what happened last night and why it had to exist before this.

Much of yesterday evening was spent with what I have named 'The London Bridge Drugs Circuit'. This fine organisation, of which I am now an associate member contains Arthur, university friend and drugs conniseur and his brother and his brother's girlfriend together with a few other nameless controlled drug takers.

When I told you earlier that I was a virgin, I meant it in the sincerest way. I have never even smoked weed. And as for other drugs, I rarely get past distinguishing between which ones you eat, which you one snort, which ones you inject and which ones you spray over your genitals. But that's another issue completely. Totally different.

Arthur and I discussed sex, his ex(s) and his inability to control his phallus. What interests me most about Arthur is the control he has over the women (both past and present) in his life. It's a skill, surely a skill to be able to make women crave you even after they've spent months apart from you. But why do these women do it? What makes a woman surrender her soul at the blink of an eye? What makes a woman want to satisify somebody who has left an emotional void within her. Instead of cementing up the crater, why does the woman take out her pickaxe and begin to demolish.

I suppose the truth of the matter is that some people are happiest when they are miserable. And in the meantime Arthur is left with a whole host of edible women who line up one after the other offering themselves. It's admirable. I wish I had that. The abilty to always find something whenever I grope the air.

Arthur is also very unapologetic for the way he behaves, another admirable quality. Afterall it's so easy to regret. But what does it mean to regret when you have the intention all along of being unregretful.

And so, as the relationship talk came to an end (Arthur has a steady partner at the moment, it's probably worth mentioning), we were joined by the other members of the LBDC. And cocaine was the topic of discussion. When you spend much of your life with people who are as virginal as yourself, you can lose site of the things that go on all else where in the world. And it's a difficult thing accepting that you are a virgin in a world of whores.

So, when was the first time you tried any drug? I asked.
'When I was 14'
'When I was 15'
'When I was 14'

When I was 14 my idea of drugs was buying an asprin at the local pharmacy. How could i have missed out on so much and not have a clue?

Unlike sex, drugs is something I doubt i'll ever try for fear of succumbing to a power much greater than myself. Even Arthur has agreed that he'd rather give up the drugs than give up the sex. What does that say? Probably that Arthur is in someway addicted to both sex and drugs. Addicted to life almost. And surely that's a good thing. To live like there really was no tomorrow.

'It makes an otherwise boring life quite exciting' came a response to the question why?. Whatever happened to taking pottery classes I ask, whatever happened? Whatever happened to stamp collection.

This drugs issue has made me wonder what it really means to crave something that will make your life shine even in the darkest moments. Taking drugs is like life-hopping, you strut from one to another and back again. And then eventaully you're lost.

Despite everything Arthur is, something inside me can't help but wonder, inside every drug taker, is there a person we have yet to discover...

Last night

What makes a person come back from a hard day's work, tired, glad to be home, only to frantically pack up their night bag at around 23.45, because some stranger has asked them over to his house (which he has all to himself) to 'watch a DVD' and have an experience.

I have no idea.

But I did it. It happened last night. And, dear reader, as I write this to you, It still hasn't penetrated my skin, the thought of what I have done...

In the middle of the night, I caught a tube to Brixton and spent the night with a total stranger whose views on sex and sexuality frustated me. His asserted that sexuality is a complete result of conditioning, that he was 'curious', (that silly word that gay boys use these days to disguise that male yearning deep within), and that he wanted close male companionship. As the rigours of our debate rose higher and became heated, I suddenly felt myself become aroused. It was the idea of the spontaneity, not the man himself that opened up something inside me that I know has been locked up for years. He was an attractive man, though far from what I would describe as a stud. But, and most importantly, what this man lacked in physicality he made up for in power and sexual prowess. As he took me upstairs to 'sleep' his words managed to arouse the living daylights out of me. And no matter how I tried to fight it off, how I tried to supress the errection, there it was, long and turgid, ready and waiting. For what though?

Initially as he lay on the bed I hovered around refusing to lay beside him, unsure of where I was or what I was doing or why. We talked about sex the way only two strangers can, with an unashamed fluidity. He insisted he wasn't gay and that every man (and readers, what do you think of this?) is 'curious'.

Curious about what though? I asked over and over. About the pinnacle of male sexuality, the COCK?. Perhaps he wanted to feel a cock other than his own. Perhaps he wondered what it might be like to be physically close to a man, to test himself against the lust, to see whether he really was curious or whether this curiousity had suddenly become certainty. Maybe he wanted to learn how to control desire (what a sad thing that would be if it were true).

What this man did was test me, over and over. He made me lie down beside him, he tugged at my tshirt, he undid my belt, pulled off my socks, flattened by bent knees which tried so hard to supress an errection. He wondered whether my inhibitions were an indication of my own curiousity, or complete hetrosexuality. He fucked my brain, the way it's supposed to be fucked. Deep and hard.

He insisted we spent the night on the same bed, though neither of us were ever completely naked. He pulled me closer to him than anybody ever has, so that our flesh became one and as the night progressed we became enveloped in a kind of misty lustful haze that was hard to break out from. Neither of us slept a wink, and the time seemed to evaporate so quickly, so quietly as our hands delved into the crevices of our innate desires. And for those hours I seemed to forget that I existed, that I was once a virgin craving something similar to what I was recieving. And we never kissed and I never came (although he did).

I came to London as the second step towards discovering the eternal freedom that exists in one's mind. And yesterday night, or this morning, as I made my way home on the underground, something inside me clicked.

As I opened the door to my room, I ran straight for the mirror. I expected to see something change. But, as we all know, dear reader, nothing ever changes, not really. We just learn to open our eyes a little more.

Sex with the ex

Once upon a time, in a village far away there lived a girl. She was fair and beautiful and men from regions far and wide would gallop down to see her as she skipped along the dainty meadows that lined the edges of her house.

As with all things beautiful, the girl too became possessed. She became possessed by a man who cared for her and made her feel good and beautiful and everytime they made love it was nice. Now Desdemona was also truthful and intelligent (yes, dear reader, people like this do exist). But the thing that made Desdemona the most beautiful girl of all was her experience. She had slept with several boys over the years and recently, in a conversation with myself, she admitted that despite having a new possessor, it was in fact her previous boyfriend with whom she had had the greatest sexual encounters, even once they had broken up.

I asked her whether people compare the various relationships they've had in terms of the sex and without so much as a flinch she replied in the positive. 'Everyone does, said she, and those who say they don't are liars. If one doesnt compare and contrast how can one learn and improve. How can one whore themselves correctly, so that they shine in the flesh market?' (okay, she didn't say the last bit, that was my doing completely)

I asked her further what it was about her previous lover that made the previous ones fade somewhat inbetween the sheets. And this is where her story began...

'My ex and I went out one night and came back with two lesbians' (The Dame should be smiling at the mention of those particular creatures). As the lesbians and I made love (in what would have been, in my opinion, enough to turn George Micheal into the Pope), with my Ex watching, I was turned on and out completely. From the excitment in Desdemona's voice it made me wonder whether there was more to this femme experience than met the eye. And there it was...

'Upon our return, my Ex and I had the best sex EVER. Now, for somebody so attractive, so experienced, this is quite a revelation. Desdemona became greedy, wanting more and more, her soul was suitable overflowed with lust and desire and suddenly somebody had pulled a brick from the dam. Upon asking Desdemona what turned her on more, the lesbians, or the seduction, via the lesbians, of her now Ex, she replied it was both. Now dear reader, if you've been paying attention to the blog, it will come as no surprise that Desdemona is my new role model.

Further, It was almost as though this one act of sexual awakening completely melted any other sexual inhibtions Desdemona may have had. The awakening that took place that night was to form an uncontrollable link between her past and her present, so much so, that once her Ex was given the title, she still went back for what was some of the most exhilirating sex she'd ever had.

Now, as I have stated previously, real pleasure is in giving pleasure. Desdemona is testament that those who give pleasure will recieve pleasure and recieve it she did, good and proper.

As the sex gets filthier and filthier with the shreds of your inhibitions flaking away into the sewer, there will be a point when the sewer overflows. And this, dear readers, is the definition of sexual awakening.

Needless to say, Desdemona lived happily ever after (until the two lesbians reappear). And I, like all other men and women, await the day when the dragon is unleashed from Desdemona. What a lucky man the current suitor is.

Single is the new double

First and foremost, I must apologise for being slack. The truth is, packing and packing and more packing! And I have now moved into a new flat here in London.

And no matter how old I am, everytime my parents move away from my front door having dropped me off in some unknown destination, there is a lump in my throat and tears at the back of my eyes. It makes me realise just how close we are, to feel it each and every time.

See, even whores have emotions..

Enough!

Single is the new double. I think this applies to relationships, to beds and most importantly to virgins ( and how to be a merry one)

My current room has a single bed. I would love to bring someone back here. Whereas the double and kingsize beds in the world are appealing to the eyes, the grand open space, where you could hump for hours on end in every position imaginable...the single bed forces proximity. The double bed forces, in comparison, seperation. If you are in love and in a full blown relationship, the double might be the way forward,( for purposes of hygiene alone). But, what about those of us who are craving sex, sex that is to hot and sticky and mind boggling...the single bed is the only way. When you get into a single bed, you are suddenly granted a right to hold the person beside you, to touch them (for there is no other place for those fingers to go) and to initiate sex whenever you pretty much want to. In a double bed, once you part after having made love, you move across the barrier to the sex-is-over-until-later mode. When your desires involve more than sex, find yourself a nice double. But for those of you (and i know there are some) who would never dream of bringing back a partner for fear of your single bed...let me tell you this. Whatever are you thinking??

Off we go

We have accomodation. Not only that, accomodation in a rather posh area of West London.

And so, the journey truly begins.

I usually feel tired when i've been out in the capital. But today I came to realise, that London, for all the hustle and bustle, for all the buzz and the people swarming around, frantic, rapid, overlowing, can make you feel so lonely. It's the sort of place where you are constantly in the midst of other people and despite this you may never make eye contact. And lonliness is one of the most frightening things in the world (alongside the vision of Pam(ela) sucking off the punk rocker Tom(my) as he drove down what may have been a terribly busy motorway). Yes reader, you've seen it too.

And so, as of this Sunday my blog will come direct from the Capital. The epicentre of my revolution, the place where people carry an inability to give a shit and a place where this is perhaps its greatest virtue.

But that tingling feeling inside will keep me going, for now, I belong to nobody, merely to myself and I shall do what I like, with whomever I like. It feels great to be able to say that. To not give a bleedin damn about the others. And I hope this feeling lasts forever.

Flashback

Yesterday, the girl, myself and our friend went for an all-u-can-eat chinese buffet lunch. But, dear reader, you mustn't confuse this with the pokey corner takeaway that does two noodles and soup for £3.50, for what we ate was three courses of variety. And as we munched on the sesame chicken and dim sum, I posed the questions:

'Why do some people want to settle down whilst in their early twenties? What does it mean to 'settle down' and why do so many people stay in a relationship once the honeymoon is over. Don't we, as humans, have a right to an eternal honeymoon period?'

Think about these questions dear reader and send me a message with your comments.

Right now I feel exhausted, am going to bed and will see if I can answer these questions tomorrow. Answer them the way only a merry virgin could. Ta Ta.